One-Shot Collection | Patrick Bateman

Painkiller

SUMMARY: Even when hospitalized, you can't resist being all over Patrick, like he's some sort of magnet that draws you in. Patrick likes to think of himself as heartless, but the truth is, he can't resist you either, especially when you give him doe eyes and begs prettily.

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The doctor said you'd have to stay in hospital for at least a week, and your mood was getting worse, but you tried to pretend you were fine, as if it could work and Bateman wouldn't read you like an open book.

"You're probably very happy to have some time off from me," you said once Patrick came close to your hospital bed and trailed his hand along the metal rail. "I was so scared I was going to lose the baby." You sobbed and turned away from him, hiding your face in the pillow.

Patrick's face remained impassive as he stood by your bedside, his eyes fixed on your trembling form. Your words pierced through the layers of his detached facade, striking a chord within him that even he struggled to fully comprehend.

His hand hesitated for a moment before reaching out and gently resting on your shoulder, offering what little comfort he could muster. The weight of your vulnerability settled heavily upon him, stirring emotions that threatened to crack the carefully constructed shell he hid behind.

"I... I didn't want anything bad to happen either," Bateman managed to choke out, his voice laced with an unfamiliar tenderness. He took a small step closer, his fingers tracing soothing circles on your back as you buried your face in the pillow.

The sight of your tears tugged at something deep within Patrick — a longing for connection and understanding that had long been suppressed beneath layers of violence and detachment. In this moment, faced with your raw vulnerability, it was impossible for him to ignore the fragile thread that connected both of you.

Gently turning you towards him so your eyes met once more, Patrick fought against the turmoil raging inside him. It was foreign territory — an uncharted landscape where vulnerability dared to exist alongside his darkness.

"(Y/n), you need to rest," was all he managed to mutter, his large palm kept stroking your shoulder. "When you wake up, I'll be here."

Bateman didn't need much persuading as you drifted off to sleep, and after that he sat on the couch next to your bed, watching your chest rise and fall. It was a very short time before you suddenly began to whimper in your dream, calling for him.

Patrick's eyes were glued to your form as he watched you start to writhe around the bed in your dream. The usual steely gaze in his eyes softened, momentarily replaced by a flicker of worry. As you began to whimper in your sleep, his heart clenched tightly.

It was a strange sensation, an unsettling mix of annoyance and, inexplicably, concern. His devil-may-care demeanor slipped as his brows furrowed in a rare sign of worry. The distinct call of his name shot through him, jolting him out of his observations.

"Fuck." Bateman muttered under his breath as he quickly rose to his feet.

It was disconcerting, to say the least.

With an odd sense of urgency, he made his way to the side of your bed. Standing there, he watched your pitifully distressed expression in your sleep, his mind grappling with what he should do.

"I'm here, (y/n)," he finally muttered softly, as if hoping his words could offer you some solace. Patrick reluctantly reached out to touch you, his hand hovering over your body for a moment before finally resting gently over yours. His thumb moved in careful circles over your skin, attempting to provide an unfamiliar comfort.