Patterson's Night Out Part One (Patterson x Reader)
Summary: Patterson finds out some things about herself; Tasha is quick to shove her in the proverbial lion's den.
Words: 3261
Warnings: Language, mentions of sex (no actual smut in this part), butch!reader, implied taller!reader
A/N: First time writing for Patterson. I'm proud of myself. This is a Blindspot story. No regrets. Ashley Johnson could steal my soul and I'd say thank you. No notes.
-X-
The lab was quiet after hours with only the sound of Patterson’s machines occasionally humming as one thing or another processed. She’d been staring at the same line of code for the last twenty minutes without really seeing it anymore, her coffee having long since gone cold.
Tasha leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her friend with growing concern. Patterson had been off all week—distracted, forgetful, dropping things. Unusual for someone who could recite pi to an unreasonable number of digits while simultaneously decrypting government files.
"You're going to burn a hole through that screen," Tasha said.
Patterson jumped slightly, swiveling her chair around. Her expression was strange, almost guilty, like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't. She opened her mouth, then closed it like she was trying to force words to the surface, before opening her mouth again.
"I need to tell you something," Patterson finally exhaled, the words tumbling out in a rush. "And I need you to not make it a whole thing, okay? Just... listen."
Tasha raised an eyebrow but nodded, pushing off the doorframe to step further into the lab.
Patterson took a breath. "I think I like women."
The words lingered between them for a moment, like Patterson was bracing for them to transform into a bomb or a demon or… a woman. Tasha's face didn't change, her expression blank as ever.
"Okay," Tasha said slowly. "And?"
"And? And?" Patterson let out a nervous laugh, running both hands through her hair. "Tasha, I've been straight my whole life. I've dated men. I've slept with men. And then last week my car started making that weird noise again, so I took it to the shop, and there was this woman there—new mechanic, I'd never seen her before—and she was..."
Patterson's hands moved vaguely in front of her, as if trying to materialize an image without needing to explain.
"She was so tall," Patterson continued, her voice going slightly breathless. "And her arms were all... muscles, and she was wearing this tank top with grease stains, and she had this hair—dark, kind of shaggy, pushed back—and she was so confident, just walking around like she owned the place. And she smiled at me and said 'What's wrong with your girl?' meaning my car, but my brain just—"
She made a small explosion gesture near her temple.
"Tasha, I thought about her bending me over the hood of my car for three days straight. In the shop. With everyone watching. I thought about her hands and her voice and the way she called me 'sweetheart' when she handed me my keys and I almost dropped them because my hands were shaking. I have a type, apparently. A very specific type. And it's tall, confident, butch women who could absolutely rail me stupid and then maybe hold me after? Is that too much to ask? It might be too much to ask. I don't know the protocol here. Do I need to buy a flannel? Get a cat? Start listening to Tegan and Sara?"
Tasha was grinning now as Patterson’s rambles tapered off; a wide, delighted grin that made Patterson's stomach flip with anxiety.
"Okay, we're going out tonight," Tasha announced.
"What?"
"You heard me." Tasha pulled out her phone, already typing. "There's a place in Chelsea. Good crowd. Mixed, but plenty of women who fit your very specific type. I'm texting Reade that we're not coming in tomorrow. You're getting laid instead."
"I didn't say I wanted—" Patterson started, but Tasha held up a hand.
"You've been thinking about a mechanic bending you over a car for three days. You haven't slept. You forgot to eat lunch twice this week. You need this. We're going."
Patterson's protests died in her throat. Part of her—the part that was sensible, logical, risk-averse—wanted to argue. But a larger part, the part that had been replaying that mechanic's smile on a loop for days, was already wondering what she'd wear.
-X-
Two hours later, Patterson stood outside the club, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. The bass from inside thumped through the walls, and the line stretched down the block—women in leather, in flannel, in dresses that left nothing to the imagination. Patterson felt suddenly, painfully aware of her own outfit: a simple black top and jeans, something she’d definitely wear to work… or a library…
"Relax," Tasha said, nudging her. "You look fine. Better than fine. You look like a hot nerd who doesn't know she's hot. That's a whole thing."
"That's not a thing."
"It's absolutely a thing. Come on."
They bypassed the line—Tasha knew someone, apparently—and stepped inside. The air was thick with heat and perfume and the intense energy of a hundred people looking for connections or one-night stands. Colored lights swept across the dance floor, illuminating moving bodies, raised glasses, and so many women that were definitely Patterson’s type.
Patterson's eyes scanned the crowd, her brain doing what it always did: analyzing, categorizing, searching for patterns. Women dancing together. Women at tables with drinks. Women at the bar, leaning in close to talk—
And then she saw you.
Standing by the bar, drink in hand as you studied the throngs of women like you were searching for your own nightly fun.
Patterson's mouth went dry.
"Tasha," she breathed, not looking away. "Tasha, oh my god."
Tasha followed her gaze and let out a low whistle. "Okay. I see you have good taste."
"She's..." Patterson couldn't finish the sentence. Her brain had short-circuited somewhere around "tall" and "arms" and "looks like she could bench-press me for fun”.
"Go talk to her," Tasha said.
Patterson's head snapped toward her friend, eyes wide with horror. "What? No. No way. She's—look at her. She's probably here with someone. Or waiting for someone. Or way out of my league. She's in a league I don't even have clearance for, Tasha. I'm a lab tech who named her microscope. She's going to take one look at me and think 'pathetic nerd' and then I'll have to move to another city and change my name—"
"Patterson." Tasha grabbed her shoulders, turning her so they were face to face. "You are a genius. You're funny. You're kind. You're genuinely hot when you stop hiding behind oversized nerd shirts. And you are not going to stand here and talk yourself out of this because you're scared. You think she's attractive? Go tell her. Use your words. You have a lot of them."
Patterson let out a shaky breath, glancing back toward the bar.
"What would I even say?" Patterson asked. "Hi, I'm Patterson, I have approximately zero game and I've never hit on a woman before but you look like you could destroy me in the best way and I'm very interested in that?"
"That's actually not bad," Tasha said, grinning. "Maybe leave out the 'destroy me' part until at least the second drink."
Patterson's hands were trembling. She shoved them in her pockets, took another breath, and looked back towards you—
Freezing when she locked eyes with you. You, who were definitely staring back at her with an appreciative smirk, your gaze roaming lazily over her as you took a slow swig of your drink.
Heat flooded Patterson's face, then dropped lower, settling warm and insistent in her stomach.
"Oh my god," Patterson whispered. "She's looking at me. Tasha, she's looking at me."
"I see that." Tasha's voice was smug. "Go."
"What do I do with my hands?"
"Nothing weird."
"That's not helpful!"
Tasha gave her a gentle shove forward, and Patterson stumbled half a step before catching herself. She shot a panicked look back at her friend, but Tasha just made a shooing motion, looking thoroughly entertained.
Patterson approached the bar, hyper-aware of every movement her body was making, wondering if she looked as strange as she felt or if she was just acting like she was about to commit a crime instead of, y’know, talking to a hot woman at a bar. She stopped next to you, close enough to speak over the music but not close enough to be intrusive, and promptly forgot every word in the English language.
"Hi," Patterson managed. Then, because apparently she couldn't stop herself: "I don't usually do this. Any of this. I'm not—I mean, I'm new at this. The whole—" She gestured vaguely at you, then at herself, then at the general concept of the universe. "I came here with my friend, well, she's more like my coworker but we're also friends, and she said I needed to get—" Patterson caught herself just before saying laid in front of a stranger, "—out more. So. Here I am. Out."
She was rambling.
She knew she was rambling.
She couldn't stop.
"...you're very cute. Did you realize in that whole introduction, you never actually said your name?" you teased softly, extending your hand. "I'm (Y/N). And who might you be, beautiful rambling stranger?”
She stared at your extended hand like it might bite her, then seemed to remember how basic human interaction worked and grabbed it, her grip firmer than you expected, palm soft and warm in yours.
"Patterson," she said. "My name. It's Patterson. I have a first name but I don't—it's complicated. Family thing. Not interesting. You don't want to hear about it." She was still shaking your hand, she realized abruptly, and yanked it back like she'd touched a hot stove. "Sorry. I'm being weird. You didn't sign up for weird."
She was so utterly panicked and it was adorable. You were used to seeing newly founded “baby gays” but there was something about this woman that made you want to stay instead of run for the hills.
"I should also mention," she continued, apparently unable to tolerate silence long enough for you to respond, "that I've never done this before. The…coming up to someone at a bar thing. Or the…other thing. The women thing. I'm very new to the women thing. Not new to women as a concept, I've met women before, I am a woman, but the being attracted to them is—this is recent information. My friend Tasha said I needed to, and I'm quoting here, 'get out of my head and into someone's bed,' which was very forward of her, but she's not wrong that I've been—" She stopped abruptly, pressing her lips together. "I'm doing it again. The rambling. I'm sorry. You can tell me to stop. Please tell me to stop."
She looked genuinely pained, like she was trapped inside her own mouth and couldn't find the exit.
“Ah, so is that what this is, sweetheart? You want to come home with me?” you smirked, arching a brow high as you sipped your drink. You were content to watch this woman babble for hours. It was undeniably attractive and she was absolutely your type, so… why not?
Patterson made a sound reminiscent of a teakettle about to boil over that was absolutely not dignified. Her face went from pink to full crimson, the blush spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the collar of her black top.
"I didn't—that's not—" she sputtered before exhaling, seemingly having some kind of internal crisis that played out visibly across her features. "Okay, yes. Maybe. Yes. I mean—look at you. You're..." She gestured at you, a sweeping motion that encompassed your entire existence. "You're you. And I'm me. And I've been thinking about—you know what, I'm just going to be honest because apparently I have no filter tonight—women like you. For a while. Specifically. Very specifically."
She glanced back toward where Tasha had been standing, but her friend had conveniently disappeared into the crowd, leaving Patterson stranded without backup.
"My friend brought me here because I may have... mentioned an incident," Patterson continued, the words tumbling out faster now. "With a mechanic. Who looked like you. Sort of. Same… energy. And I've been thinking about it. A lot. Too much, probably. And then I saw you from across the room and my brain just went completely offline, which is saying something because my brain is usually very online, it's one of my defining characteristics, and—" she bit her lip, hard, clearly trying to physically stop herself from talking.
"Sorry. You asked a simple question and I gave you my entire sexual awakening in a run-on… monologue." She met your eyes, something flickering beneath the nerves: curiosity, want, a spark of boldness she seemed surprised to find in herself. "What I'm trying to say is... yes. The answer is yes. To your question."
“You have a type,” you echoed, not even trying to hide your amusement at this point. “Well, now that you've given me part of the sexual awakening... what happened in this... incident of yours? Color me intrigued.”
There was very little doubt in your mind that you weren’t going to try and get this woman’s number before the end of the night, but she’d mentioned an awakening and well… now you were very curious what had given this gorgeous woman such a visceral reality shift.
"You want to know what—" Patterson let out a slightly hysterical laugh, eyes wide and shining with panic. "Okay. Sure. Why not. I've already told you my name, my sexual history—or lack thereof with women—and my deep insecurity about my rambling problem. What's one more embarrassing confession between strangers at a bar?"
She leaned against the bar slightly, her fingers drumming nervously on the surface.
"So my car started making this noise—like a grinding, but also a whining? I know that sounds like I'm describing a bad date, but it was genuinely concerning. I took it to the shop I always go to, and usually there's this older guy, Rick, super nice, very professional, fixes everything in like an hour. But Rick wasn't there. She was."
Patterson's voice dropped slightly, getting quieter, a faraway look in her eyes.
"She was under the hood of this ancient Mustang, and when she came up for air, she had grease on her jaw and her tank top was… anyway! She wiped her hands on this rag, looked at me, and just... smiled. And I forgot how to speak English. I forgot my own name. I might have forgotten how to breathe." She took a breath, her cheeks still burning. "She asked what was wrong with my car, and I said something completely unintelligible, and she just—she called me 'sweetheart' when she handed me my keys, and I went home and thought about her bending me over the hood of my car for three days straight. In the shop.”
You tilted your head, eyes bright as you bit back a smile. The rambling? Adorable. Knowing she just admitted she wanted to be bent over the hood of a car to a stranger? The sexiest thing you’d ever heard. Seeing the way she was so red you were certain you could fry an egg on her cheeks? Fucking priceless.
"Ah, well, I fear I am not a mechanic but I do work in construction, if that helps," you offered with a chuckle, signaling the bartender to refill Patterson’s drink.
"So you—manual labor. Heavy lifting. Building things with your hands." Her gaze dropped, just for a second, to your arms. Then she seemed to realize what she was doing and snapped her eyes back up to your face, her blush returning full force.
"That's. Yes. That helps. That's very—" She cleared her throat. "Relevant information. Thank you for sharing."
She picked up the glass and took a sip, then immediately regretted it as the burn hit her throat. Her face scrunched in a way that was probably supposed to be composed but landed somewhere closer to ‘oh my God, I want to kiss your face’ cute.
"So," she said, recovering barely, "you come here often? That's a real question, not a line, I genuinely don't know how any of this works. Is this a regular spot for you? Do you—do people just—" She gestured vaguely at the crowd. "I'm trying to understand the protocol. Tasha said there was a protocol? She didn't explain it. She just shoved me in your direction and disappeared. Which feels like a betrayal, honestly, because now I'm standing here trying to figure out if there's a... a process. Do I buy you a drink next? Do we dance? Is there a signal I'm supposed to give?”
“I’m pretty sure there’s no protocol, sweetheart. I think your friend was just fucking with you.” You set your drink aside, leaning against the bar as you studied her thoughtfully. “We can dance if you’d like. Or we can talk. I’m enjoying the company… a lot. Though if you prefer to dance, this song is pretty good…”
"No, no, talking is good," she answered quickly. "Talking I can do. I'm doing a lot of it, actually. Probably too much. You keep being patient with me and I'm going to talk until one of us passes away."
She winced at her own words, but there was something shifting in her posture; the nervousness was still present, but underneath it, a growing determination. She'd come here for a reason. Tasha hadn't dragged her out just to stand at a bar and ramble at a beautiful woman until last call.
"You said you're enjoying the company," Patterson continued, her voice steadying slightly. "Is that—is that true? Because I know what I look like. I know what I sound like. I'm a disaster. I once got so focused on a code I forgot my own birthday. I’ve named all my microscopes. I'm not—I'm not smooth, or cool, or any of the things that someone like you probably goes for."
She set her glass down on the bar, turning to face you more fully.
"But you keep looking at me like—like you're actually interested. And I don't know what to do with that. Because my brain keeps waiting for the catch. The moment where you realize I'm too weird, or too intense, and you politely excuse yourself to go find someone who knows how to flirt without having a minor crisis."
Her eyes searched your face, cataloguing every micro-shift in your expression like she was waiting to see the mask crack into pieces.
"So if you're just being nice, you can tell me. I'll survive. I've survived worse. Probably. But if you're actually—"
Your hand lifted, cradling her jaw as you cut off the panicked babbling. “Easy, beautiful. I meant it. I like talking to you. You're kind of fucking adorable and you're very much my type so just... breathe. There's no other shoe about to drop.”
The moment your hand touched her jaw, every thought in her head seemed to evaporate. Her eyes went wide, her lips parting slightly, and for the first time since she'd stumbled up to you, she was completely, utterly silent.
Her skin was warm under your palm, and you could feel the slight tremor running through her, a full-body shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature in the club. And when your thumb brushed her bottom lip, there was a moment you thought you could see her mind blue-screening.
"I—I want—" The words spilled out before she could catch them. "Do you want to fuck me in the restroom?"
