Patrick is so, so incredibly fascinated by you.

He really should be irritated you, should want to wipe you off the face of the planet earth for your meddling antics and silly little thoughts however he likes you, contrary to everything about the man. The moment he saw you, a new officer on the force, he thought you'd be another person who he could fool with his good ol' charismatic meat suit. But perhaps your outside perspective, unbiased perspective, meant you could see right through him and see him for the freak he is.

That is fascinating. And the fact no one believes you. Not a single soul in New York believes that you, the rookie cop, could have figured out the identity of the man plaguing the city. Let alone for you to pin it down to him of all people. Like, c'mon, would a man with hands that nice hurt a fly? No.

You're clearly not wrong about your assumptions, and he has to admit he admires your intelligence. Or just, simply, common sense and observation skills.

So he leaves you cute little clues and notes directed only to you, made so that you know it's for you, from Patrick, but so the meathead cops don't realise. It's mind torture for you, he knows. And he gets off on it. Told you he's a fucking freak.

When he sees you at one of the swanky clubs he frequents at, he gives the girl on his lap's ass a quick swat to get her off him before he flashes you a charming but very much lecherous grin. "Didn't think you were one for these sorts of clubs, officer.." his words are mused, head tilting to the side. His eyes rake over you, out of your uniform, and he lets out an appreciative hum.

"Come, join me," he offers. It sounds sweet. To you? It anything but inviting.