You were involved in a case.
Specifically, a Red John case.
It was done behind Patrick’s back. That wasn’t the best idea, but it was the only option.
The bullpen was eerily quiet when you walked in.
It felt too still, too focused.
Patrick sat on his leather couch, not looking up as you approached.
"You went behind my back," he said quietly, with his hand on his chin.
You froze, surprised he knew. "How did you know?” you asked softly, tilting your head.
"It doesn't matter how I know; what matters is that you did," he interrupted, his voice steady but tense.
You opened your mouth, but he lifted his hand slightly to stop you.
"You made a decision," he continued, pacing once then stopping, as if every movement needed to be controlled. "About a Red John case, without telling me."
The name hung in the air differently when he said it. He looked up and stared directly at you. Not playful, not curious, just assessing.
"You knew I wouldn’t let you," he added quietly. You shifted slightly. "I didn't have time to argue—"
"That’s not the point," he replied, his voice sharp. Not loud, just pointy. "The point is you decided I didn’t need to know."
The silence deepened.
He exhaled through his nose, almost like he was trying to stifle laughter without humor.
"That’s always how it starts," he said more quietly. "People think they can handle it alone. That they can step into this and step back out unchanged."
A few seconds passed.
Then his voice dropped even lower.
"You don't understand who you're dealing with."
You swallowed. "I do understand, Patrick, I—"
He interrupted your sentence.
"No," his voice was firm. "You don't."
He raked his hand through his hair once and then stopped pacing, as if he was forcing himself to stay still.
"This isn’t just another case," he continued, quieter again but strained. "This is what I’ve been circling for years. This is what I lost my wife and child to. This is what I can’t get wrong."
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, calmness slipped enough to reveal what lay underneath.
"I am not losing anyone else," he said.
His words lingered a moment too long.
Not dramatic, just heavy.
"You know I'm a capable agent, Patrick."
You argued, crossing your arms.
"That’s not what this is about," he said, but it didn't sound convincing. It felt more like something he needed to believe.
You took a careful step forward. "It kind of is."
"You think I'm not capable enough to handle Red John."
That made him look at you again.
Quickly.
Too quickly.
"That’s not what I said," he replied quietly.
"It’s what you meant."
That tightened something in his expression.
He turned slightly away, pacing one slow step like he was forcing himself not to react too fast.
"No," he said. "What I meant is that you’re standing too close to something that doesn’t care how capable you are."
You shook your head slightly. "That sounds exactly like you don’t think I can handle it."
His jaw flexed.
When he spoke again, the calmness was thinner.
"You’re not listening," he said.
"I am listening. You just don’t like my answer."
That hit harder than you expected.
His eyes flicked back to you immediately.
Sharp now.
"No," he said, voice tightening. "I don’t like the risk you’re taking."
You stepped forward. "Same thing."
That was when the control cracked.
Not fully—Patrick didn’t explode easily—but enough for the shift to be unmistakable.
"You think this is about your ability?" he snapped, louder than before.
The room fell quiet in a different way now.
More charged.
More real.
His voice dropped again, but it was strained.
"This is about what this thing does to people who get involved without understanding what it costs."
A beat.
He dragged his hand through his hair, paced once, and then stopped like even movement was too much.
"You don’t get it," he said again, quieter but more urgent now. "You think being smart means you’re safe."
"I never said I was safe," you replied.
"That’s the problem," he shot back immediately. "You’re acting like you are."
Silence.
Then he looked at you directly.
And for the first time, the edge in him wasn’t just anger.
It was fear spilling through.
"I’ve seen what happens when people get close to this," he said, slower now. "I’ve seen what it takes from them."
His voice dropped even further.
"And I am not watching it take you too."
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then your voice came out quieter than before.
"You don’t get to decide I can’t handle it."
Patrick exhaled, almost a laugh but without humor.
"I’m not saying you can’t handle it," he said, softer now, stripped down. "I’m saying it doesn’t matter how capable you are."
"That’s what you’re not hearing."
Silence again.
Then something changed in him.
The anger faded—not into calm, but into something heavier.
Tired.
Frayed.
Like the control he’d been forcing for years was finally slipping at the edges.
He looked at you properly now.
And for the first time in the argument, he didn’t look like a consultant.
He looked like someone scared.
"I’ve already lost the most important people to him," he said, voice quieter. "I don’t... I can’t do that again."
The honesty hit harder than anything else.
The room felt too big and too small at the same time.
You took a step forward.
Then another.
Patrick didn’t stop you.
Didn’t joke.
Didn’t analyze.
Just watched you like he was unsure of what you would do next.
"You’re not alone in this," you said.
That did it.
Something in his expression broke—not dramatically, just enough for the walls to finally give way.
He exhaled shakily, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours without noticing.
Then he stepped forward too.
It wasn’t graceful.
It wasn’t planned.
It was just instinct.
He pulled you into a hug like he needed to make sure you were real.
Not tight in a controlled way.
Tight in a relaxed way.
Like fear finally found a place to go.
For a moment, he didn’t speak.
Just breathed.
Then, quieter than everything before:
"Don’t do that again," he muttered, almost into your shoulder. "Don’t make me think I lost you."
His hands loosened slightly but didn’t let go completely.
Like he was still afraid the moment would vanish if he stopped holding on.
