haaii I would like to know how you think Patrick would have behaved if the Reader's parents didn't like him, god
OMG WHY DIDNâT I NOTICE THAT I HAD RECEIVED THIS ONEEE
masterlist Ë⥠đ Ë â.á
not quite to their taste.
it starts like a normal night.
or rather, as normal as patrick allows it to be.
the dinner had been planned for weeks. you were careful in your preparations, walking the tightrope between appeasing your family and reassuring patrick that this wasnât a trapâthat you just wanted the two sides of your life to meet. he said yes with a quiet, clipped smile that didnât reach his eyes. âsure. if they matter to you, then i should see what iâm dealing with.â
you told him that sounded cold. he told you he was being realistic.
patrick arrives twenty minutes early, wearing his most timeless armani, bearing wine that costs more than your parentsâ monthly mortgage. he rehearses his charm in the car, fakes a quick yawn to widen his eyes in the mirrorâhe knows how to weaponize charisma. heâs done it his whole life.
but the second he steps through the door, he knows. he feels it. they donât like him.
they donât trust the pristine suit or the over-practiced smile. he sees it in your fatherâs handshakeâtoo firm, too assessing. in your motherâs eyesâpolite, but scanning, like sheâs searching for cracks in the finish.
and worst of all: in you, who are tense in the shoulders, your voice slightly too bright. he wonders if you knew theyâd dislike him, if youâd hoped to soften the fall. he doesnât say anything.
he doesnât need to. he files the thought away. silently. resentfully.
heâs not used to rejection. especially not from people he doesnât consider his equals.
the dinner is tight-lipped, full of offhand questions that double as warnings.
your father asks about patrickâs job with a measured tone, fishing for ego. patrick responds with cool detachmentââmergers and acquisitions. wall streetâ (fortunately, not murders and executions.)
your mother inquires about his childhood and upbringing, smiling when she says, âyou seem soâŠparticular, patrick.â
he knows what she means. he can hear the judgment sharpen beneath the silverware.
he keeps smiling, keeps the performance tight and professional. but inside, heâs boiling.
theyâre reading him like heâs cheap fiction.
it bruises something deep in himâbecause patrick bateman is used to being admired, envied, feared. but now he feels managed. assessed.
and worst of allâunwanted.
your father calls him âa bit polished, maybe too practiced.â your mother says, âyou must be used to a very different kind of woman, patrick.â
thatâs when he realizes: this is war by manners.
what patrick wonât say out loudâbut will write in the back of his mind like a to-do list.
he wonât explode. he doesnât allow himself that.
he smiles, excuses himself to the bathroom halfway through, stares into the mirror and tells himself heâs better than this. better than them.
he does deep breathing exercises. calms the racing need for retaliation.
but under the surface, the list is already forming:
- find out who your father works for.
- trace your motherâs wine club or charity networks.
- understand their routine, their pressure points.
- calculate how long it would take to make them apologize.
- wonder whether youâd still love him after they mysteriously came around.
he would never hurt themâhe assures himself of that. he would do it just for you.
but he might make their lives so subtly uncomfortable that they start to question their own dislike. it would be psychological. elegant. bloodless.
he wants to ask you, when youâre alone later: âwhy didnât you defend me more?â
but instead, he just holds your waist tighter on the way out. and says, âletâs never do that again, pumpkin.ââ
what he really fears: that you might believe them.
more than the insult, more than the bruised egoâwhat truly haunts him is the possibility that you might agree with them.
that some small, quiet part of you also thinks heâs not fit to love.
he watches your face as you say goodbye to your parents, studies you like a painting.
do you still look proud to be with him?
do you look like youâre making excuses in your head?
that night, he doesnât sleep. he stares at the ceiling, wondering if youâll wake up one day and start seeing him through their eyes.
and that thoughtâthat unbearable possibilityâmakes him want to burn the entire evening from memory.
makes him want to burn the entire evening from memory.
what if your parents see right through patrick and suspect heâs a serial killer?
under their roof, under suspicion.
it starts small. it always does.
the dinner was supposed to be performative, a civil affair: drinks at seven, dinner at eight, patrick bringing an expensive, emotionally meaningless bottle of wine, dressed like the cover of GQ.
but the temperature in the room doesnât match the setting.
your father is too quiet. your motherâs questions are more pointed. thereâs a kind of sidelong studying happening at the table that not even patrickâs narcissism can ignore.
and then your father says something offhand, too casual to be a coincidence:
âyouâve probably seen the headlines latelyâabout that missing woman near sutton place.â
and the room stills. not completely, but just enough. you almost drop your fork. fuck.
patrick knows what it is immediately.
this isnât conversation. itâs a test.
heâs used to being judged, but not unmasked.
patrick has heard people imply things before. heâs used to fear dressed up as envy.
thereâs something behind your motherâs eyesâa spark of intuition, that quiet inner voice women tend to have when something doesnât feel safe. she doesnât say it outright, but patrick can tell.
the way she stiffens when he touches your hand or when he looks at you.
the way your fatherâs eyes follow the lines of his knuckles, as if cataloguing whether theyâve done damage.
the joke about the american psycho nickname someone once gave him in college, which your dad brings up with a too-tight smile.
they are circling him like sharks.
and for the first time in years, patrick feels something close to fear.
not the fear of exposureâhe knows how to clean a scene, how to remove traces.
no. this is the fear of being seen.
because if they knowâeven a littleâwhat does that mean for you?
control becomes a performance he canât afford to mess up.
his posture becomes hyper-correct.
every breath timed. every answer rehearsed before he speaks.
he pulls from magazines, from interviews heâs memorized, from polite ivy league conversationâanything that will cloak him in credibility.
he mentions yale, his golf handicap, charity auctions.
he tells a charming anecdote about a business dinner with donald trump that didnât happen or that time when he met ivana trump at the same restaurant (he was having dinner with paul allen just before killing him.)
and when your mother leans in and says, âyou know, you have thisâŠstillness about you. itâs unsettling.â
he smiles with precision and says, âstillness is underrated.â
your mother does not smile back.
heâll stay composed in the moment. too composed.
but once you leave their house, and you fall asleep that night, heâll pace the penthouse barefoot, his teeth clenched and eyes glassy.
heâll start checking the locks twice. heâll throw away the polaroids you took that night when you arenât looking.
heâll ask questions like: âdid they talk about me when i went to the bathroom?â
and then: âdo you think theyâd call the police?â
then, quieter: âwhat do you know about what they know?â
or: âno, they have no proof, it canât be.â
he doesnât say it outright, but thereâs something dangerous in him now. he feels cornered.
and a cornered animal doesnât retreat. it calculates.
what he thinks about doingâand why he doesnât do it (yet).
part of him imagines what it would take to make your parents vanish.
a gas leak. a break-in. a car accident. many natural âaccidentsâ can happen.
something poetic. tragic. something that leaves you untouched.
because if he hurts them, you will know.
even if he stages it perfectly, something in you will break. and he doesnât want you broken. he wants you attached.
he wants you to look him in the eye and still see something lovable.
so instead, he tells you one nightâsoftly, too softlyââyou know they donât like me. i think theyâre afraid of me.â
he waits for your reaction.
and when you answer with: âthey donât know you like i do.â he files that away as evidence. not of safety.
and that, for now, is enough to keep everyone alive.
