Work Text:
He didn’t remember exactly what happened last night, but fuck, he must have gotten absolutely wasted.
Paul woke up in some living room, wondering if he had slept with someone last night. He would have remembered something like that, right? The last thing he remembered was…
Halberstram. He remembered having dinner with Marcus Halberstram. They’d gone out for dinner, and he had gone back to Halberstram’s apartment. He was fine, he decided, and sat up. His body felt unnaturally light, but he blamed that on his hangover. Usually, he experienced the other way around, but his drink tasted strange last night. He hadn’t been able to figure it out last night, but he understood now. Someone must have put something in his drink, or perhaps he was just paranoid. After all, the only people who could have gotten access to his drink were the waiters and Halberstram. He knew that Halberstram would never do anything like that, and he hoped that Texarkana would hire better than that.
He looked around the bright room - light flooded in through the expensive blinds on the walls, illuminating the wall. Paul vaguely recalled making a comment about newspapers and noticed that Halberstram had cleaned up the papers on the floor sometime during the night.
“Halberstram?” He called out as he stood. He heard a shower running, and blamed the fact that there had been no reply on the water. The thought of leaving passed in his mind, but he shrugged it off. He wanted to have Halberstram clear up the missing bits of his recollection of last night.
He looked over the business cards sitting on Halberstram’s kitchen counter - Patrick Bateman’s card looked appealing, but he heard that Silian Rail was going to be discontinued soon, and wanted to laugh at how outdated this would look in a few weeks - as the shower water shut off. Looking over, he caught sight of Halberstram walking by, completely nude. He groaned, and spoke up, “goddamn it, I don’t want to see your fucking ass.” Again, Halberstram ignored him, and this fact bothered Paul.
When Halberstram finally walked out fully dressed - really, quite a nice navy suit, and if he wasn’t mistaken, it was by Joseph Abboud - Paul stepped away from the counter, and strolled back into the living room. “So, Halberstram, what happened last night?” The dark-haired man didn’t even give any indication that he heard Paul, and quite frankly, he was getting irritated. “Listen here, asshole, this isn’t funny. What the fuck happened last night?” Halberstram strolled past him as if he wasn’t even there, and he reached out to grab his arm and…
And he seemed to stumble right through Halberstram. But that wasn’t possible, he thought and looked back at the taller man. “Marcus?” He asked, his voice wavering. Paul stepped forward, and waved his hand back and forth, and watched in astonishment as his hand went right through Halberstram’s head repeatedly. Marcus was sitting down, flipping through some lesbian porn magazine, and it was as if Paul didn’t exist.
His mind was on an unending cycle of this can’t be happening this can’t be happening this can’t be happening this can’t be happening this can’t be happening--
He scrambled over to the coffee table on an impulse, the urge to do something to get Halberstram’s attention rising steadily. He slid his hands across the table, flinging the other magazines everywhere. It took so much more effort than he remembered, almost as if the magazines were heavier than rocks. Halberstram almost knocked the chair he was sitting in over as he jumped away from the table, yelling and cussing. “What the fuck is going on?” Paul screamed, but Halberstram couldn’t see him - couldn’t even hear him. He heard the heavy sound of Halberstram’s breathing, and they both circled around the table. Paul froze as Marcus did, and he watched the man bend down to pick up his magazines.
A question arose in his mind, but he refused to even consider the possibility. Am I dead--
Paul ran back over to the kitchen and flipped the business card over. He grabbed a pen and started to attempt to write down something that Halberstram could read, but his pen wouldn’t stay steady. He yelled out and threw the damn pen at Halberstram’s cabinets. It didn’t take as much effort out of him as the magazines did, but it was still much more difficult than he recalled.
He looked up when he saw Halberstram slowly walking into the kitchen, on the phone with someone. Paul was shouting and jumping around, hoping maybe he’d be able to get through. It didn’t work though, and he was on the verge of tears. This had to be some kind of a cruel joke, right? He wanted to believe that he was dreaming, and he squeezed his eyes shut, telling himself to wake up. But when he opened his eyes, he saw nothing more than Marcus Halberstram’s fucking kitchen.
“Price, I swear to God, I’m not fucking lying,” Halberstram hissed into his phone. Paul stopped for a second, gripping onto the counter to steady himself. “If you tell McDermott or Van Patten about this, I’ll kill you-- no, I haven’t told anyone else about this. It just fucking happened.” Halberstram opened a drawer and pulled out a butcher knife, which glistened in the light. It was rather large, and Paul felt a sense of unease. He knew that he couldn’t touch Halberstram, but he was able to touch objects. What if that knife could go into him?
He stepped back and kept a close eye on him as Halberstram paced towards the living room as if he were stalking prey. He looked like a big cat, graceful and deadly. The glint in his eyes was dark and murderous and nothing friendly, and suddenly Paul wasn’t so sure that Halberstram didn’t cause this.
Halberstram hung up and set down the phone on the coffee table, and Paul followed closely behind him. “If I find out that someone is fucking with me, I’m going to cut you apart slowly and find out what your head would look like on a stick,” he growled, loud enough for his voice to give a vague impression of an echo. After walking around the apartment for a moment, Halberstram turned and cried out as he sliced through Paul’s torso. Fortunately, in whatever state he was in, the knife didn’t even touch him. Halberstram muttered something unidentifiable under his breath and continued walking through the apartment in search of someone he couldn’t see. After what felt like an eternity, Halberstram tossed the knife down on the coffee table and walked away to his bathroom. Paul couldn’t help but follow, and he watched Halberstram open a pill bottle. He was trying to hide it, but Paul could see it. Halberstram was shaking, and he could see something akin to fear in his eyes.
When Halberstram set the bottle down, he saw the name printed clear as day on the label. Patrick Bateman . But that didn’t make any sense. This was Marcus Halberstram, right? Bateman was a fucking loser, and Paul wouldn’t start to befriend a dork like him. But he started thinking about it closer. It started to make so much more sense. The business card. The way Evelyn Richards wrapped her arm around him at that Christmas party. The people who he always caught sitting around him - Timothy Price, David Van Patten, Craig McDermott - those were all of Bateman’s friends.
When the man shut his eyes, Paul started swinging his arms and kicking, hoping something would hurt Halberstram-- Bateman -- whoever the fuck this guy was. Paul gave up a few moments later, knowing he could do nothing to him. He didn’t think he had the strength or energy to pick up anything to hit him with, so Paul slumped against the counter, drooping his head. He heard a hushed gasp come from Marcus a few moments later, and he looked up.
Halberstram was shaking his head and stepped back from the sink. Paul could see his own reflection in the mirror, and…
“Can you see me?” He asked, looking over at Halberstram. He was squinting at the mirror, watching it very closely. A grin split across Paul’s face, and he looked at the reflection of Halberstram. Making sure to enunciate all of his words as clearly as he could, he asked once more - “can you see me?” Halberstram nodded, and an indescribable joy washed over Paul. “Who are you?”
He had to repeat himself again for Halberstram to understand. Halberstram didn’t acknowledge the question and waved his arm around where Paul was. Paul watched as Halberstram’s arm went through him, and he stepped back to ask once more. This time, he heard him sigh lowly, before speaking. “Patrick Bateman,” he admitted, and the fury that caused Paul to lash out on Bateman spiked through him again.
“What happened last night?” He wanted to say and ask more but figured he would try to keep everything short. After all, Bateman wasn’t exactly a master at reading lips. “I… I killed you, with an axe. You should be dead. This… this isn’t possible; you’re not real.” Paul scoffed and started laughing. “I’m not real? This feels pretty fucking real to me, you son of a bitch! I’m dead? Excuse me? Why the fuck would you kill me?” He was yelling again, and he shut up when he saw the mirror start to crack. He watched Bateman reach out and run a finger along the crack, and Paul shut his eyes to let himself calm down.
Bateman was shaking his head profusely when Paul opened his eyes again, and he heard nothing but his voice rambling on about “this can’t be real, I’m going crazy, this is a dream, Paul Owen is dissolving in a bathroom in Hell’s Kitchen--”
Paul wanted this to be a dream too. He wanted to wake up in his bedroom, some pretty little hardbody lying next to him. But it wasn’t, and he was stuck here with Patrick Bateman, who was a fucking murderer. He slammed his hand down on the counter and caught the sight of Bateman jumping out of the corner of his eye. “Why?” He asked, and there were several long moments of silence between them. “Why not?”
Paul made a fist and smashed it against the mirror, and he watched as cracks started to run along where he hit; the area where he hit was utterly shattered. “Bateman, I don’t think you realise the severity of this problem. I’m fucking dead . You? You’re fucked. I’m important . People are going to know I’m gone. You’re going to rot in jail, right where you belong.”
Patrick laughed, and the sound unsettled Paul. “No one will notice that you’re gone. Just like how no one would notice if I disappeared. Our lives are not important. We are nothing . Just… just momentary beings, and just like everyone else, I’ll die. So will anyone who might notice you’re gone. One day, the name ‘Paul Owen’ won’t be anything. Everyone will forget about you. If the police do catch me, as you threaten, then people will remember the name ‘Patrick Bateman,’ just for a while longer. But everyone will forget about us one day.”
Paul could feel tears forming in his eyes at Bateman’s taunts. “They’ll find my body, and whoever else you’ve probably killed. You- you think people love Ted Bundy or any of those other twisted fucks? You’ll go down in history, sure. But everyone will know you as the sick bastard who went on a killing spree in New York. No one will love you, or care about you.” He wanted to say something that will get through to Patrick. He didn’t even know that Patrick has understood 50% of the things he’s said. But he needed to hurt Patrick, and he’d make him suffer for what he did. He knows that he owes Meredith Powell quite a lot of money. She’d make a fuss if he disappeared without paying her off.
“At least people will remember me. You really think anyone will give a shit about you once it’s been concluded that you’re just another missing persons case?” Patrick was grinning, something sick and cruel beaming in his eyes. “You’re a psychopath,” Paul said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“I will continue to spread my pain around until someone stops me. You’re not in any position to stop me, so… I guess you’re going to be stuck with me for a while, Paul.”
Patrick leaned in close to Paul’s reflection in the mirror.
“I hope you’re ready to spend the rest of my life with me.”