Of Water Bottles and Bloody Footprints.
A.N/ Okay, so this was written a while ago and very late at night. I wasn't going to post this because, well, it doesn't make a lot of sense but, well, I sort of hope it makes a little sense. If you can't tell this is me trying to get inside Patrick's head.
They used to be so very different.
He lived life in grey, no matter how bright he smiled his colors were never solid and there were no definite lines. He walked along the knife edge of right and wrong. Balancing precariously on the tightrope, pretending and convincing he was stable with a sharp word and quick wit. But in reality he wavered and slipped more times that he cared to count.
His failures often cost him everything.
She used to be the stark opposite of him. She'd had a clear moral of what she deemed black and white, the lines so clearly etched into stone that he used to find joy in trying to smudge her colors. So strong willed and stubborn, she was the safety net when he fell. Always there to catch and support, the promises of being there never wearing thin.
He'd disappeared, she'd waited. Every time – no matter how long. He wrote and he prayed. Despite his blatant disregard for anything holy, he reached for anyone – the universe, to the stars and sky that blanketed them both that she was still listening. The relief had been all-consuming, the vice that was fisted around his heart and lungs dissipated all at once, a sudden drop, when he realised she was. Nearly losing her had forced his hand, and he'd had to cross those lines again to keep her. He did, but nearly at the loss of everything. Including her.
But as time wore on it was he who had stained those perfectly carved lines of hers. The lines wearing away and gaps becoming visible as she struggled with balancing the weight of him. In her desperation to fix and nurture she had forgotten to watch herself while she strenuously tried to etch his lines into stone. And he'd unknowingly dragged her over with him.
This was his fault. They'd agreed to his plan, his confident self-assured smile. The bloody footprint was smudged, the edges undefined, and it was mocking him. She was in danger. On the run from the people on her side, and from the people she was with. Utterly alone. And it was his blurred lines that she'd only managed to carve into the weather weary sandstone, that had caused it. It was his unsteady wavering on that tightrope.
But he knew her, knew how her head worked and how her thoughts were often thoroughly thought through. Every angle assessed and judged before she made a move. Impulsive she was rarely. He knew that the footprint wasn't a mistake, she hadn't slipped up, and she understood that he'd understand. Despite everything she was still trusting, believing in him to find her. He owed it to her, to prove that she was right and her trust was not misplaced in some fool who couldn't manage to stay on one side of the line.
He knew there'd be protests. Calls out on his behaviour. He was still walking that fine line, and she knew that. He'd do anything to find her, and she'd do anything to find him – even if it meant knowing the line would become increasingly blurred for the both of them.
The water bottles were a peace offering, that way they'd have something to follow. But he wasn't waiting around for their orders, agreements and dodging around the issues until everything fitted into nice little boxes on the right side of the line. She had reached out, and he was damn well going to prove to his woman that he could find her.
However unsteady he was on that tightrope, and no matter how many gaps were worn into her lines; he'd always find her. She kept him sane, and he helped her balance. Teaching her that maybe tightropes weren't the worst thing in the world because – he found her. Danger still looming, their lines threatening to disappear forever; but still after everything he'd found her. Alone, and shaken, but alive. Utterly, beautifully, and breathtakingly alive.
Eventually he had her wrapped in his arms, engulfed and desperate to pull her into him. The lines between them will continue to erase. He'd fight, and struggle, and their lines would ever become more jaded, their colors blurring and whirling into one which they couldn't identify. But it didn't matter, none of it mattered, not if it kept her alive.
Lines were better drawn into sandstone anyway.
Thanks for reading my first venture into The Mentalist fanfiction world. Review and let me know if it made any sense at all. Thank you!