Title: Take My Hand

Characters: Kate Beckett, Jim Beckett

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,414

Summary: "How many tonight, Dad?"
He sighed. "It doesn't matter. It didn't help."
"Does anything?"

Notes: Sometime back in July, I was a little evil and commented on a post from Famous Last Words saying I couldn't help but think about how much of Kate's negotiating with Sky came from experience with her father. This is the ficlet my evilness inspired.

Between having been a college kid once, and walking a beat for almost a year, Kate Beckett was quite adept at dealing with intoxicated people. Once upon a time, she had even been one of them, one of the giggling underage drinkers who insisted it had only been a few sips and there was no reason to call her parents. Now she was one of the stern-faced killjoys who listened to all the excuses. She and Royce had heard some good ones, some they'd even laughed over. Creativity didn't get them out of trouble, but it helped to lighten up the job occasionally.

She never laughed when it was her father she was staring down.

She was just grateful most of the time his sense of privacy kept him out of the bars and off her usual beat. Instead, he became her problem when she was off the clock and trudging up to her third floor apartment, breathing in the aroma of hours-old chicken wings. Her dad had a key, but it was always a fifty-fifty shot whether he would use it or simply slump against the wall beside her door and sip idly out of his brown bag while he waited for her to come home.

At least today he managed to let himself in. Not that he locked the door behind him, but she could be happy that he was inside. The last thing she needed was to have her neighbors – unobservant and standoffish as they were – call the cops and have him tossed in the drunk tank for the night. She wasn't senior enough yet to get him out, and that wasn't something she wanted to explain to anyone else. Royce knew because he was Royce. Nobody else needed to know.

"Hi, Dad," she greeted wearily, scrubbing her hand across her face. "Are you okay?"

It was the first thing she always asked whenever she saw him. The answer never changed – they both knew he wasn't okay, neither was she – but still she asked. Maybe one day he would tell her the truth.

"I'm okay, Katie. " It was soft and it was clear. Maybe he was doing better than usual.

He was still sitting on the floor in her tiny kitchen, legs akimbo, but maybe the bottle in his hand was his first of the evening. She could hope, right?

"I wan-ned to make you something to eat," he added, the words running together a little more than she'd like. Okay, not his first, or at least the bottom of the first bottle. But that explained the mess she had walked into.

"I'm okay, Dad. I already ate at work, but thank you."

She held back on a sigh. She wouldn't get angry with him. Not for trashing the kitchen, not for any of it. She'd tried and he just fought back – the old Beckett stubbornness her mother always complained about - and it never went anywhere. Most days quiet disapproval was all she could muster anyway.

"You don't have any food, Katie. Even your spaghetti sauce is bad." He thrust it toward her to emphasize his point.

She shut her eyes quickly. Katie was a gangly, flat chested, tomboyish, fourteen year old whose sharp tongue made up for her awkwardness. She was Kate now; just Beckett more often than not.

"No time to shop lately. Are you hungry?" She licked her lips, opening her eyes to look him over. He didn't look hungry. Tired, bedraggled, but not hungry. "I can order something."

"Don't do that. I'm fine. I just wanted to do something special, something nice for you. Be a good dad."

His head dropped back against her cabinet, the thud making her wince. Yeah, that bottle definitely wasn't his first. He was feeling no pain.

"You are, Dad," she assured. Her words sounded empty to her own ears, but they helped him whenever they went through this. "Thanks for trying. Why don't you get some water and sit inside while I clean up in here?"

She glanced between his hands, trying to will him to give up the liquor first, and then she'd deal with the spaghetti sauce and the rest of his mess.

"I can order ice cream? They deliver over here." She hoped it'd be incentive. He could be her dad over ice cream. "I'll even let you pay?" she offered, opening her hand for whatever he might give up.

"Don't worry, Katie, it's almost gone."

She squatted in front of him, taking the lukewarm jar of expired Ragu from his hand and putting it aside. She could throw it out later.

"How many tonight, Dad?"

He sighed. "It doesn't matter. It didn't help."

"Does anything?" It jumped out of her mouth with more bite than she meant for it to have, causing the shutters to go up over his face. She didn't apologize, though, not for telling the truth.

"I miss her, Katie," he whispered, pulling the bottle to his lips. The brown bag fell away, letting her see exactly how little was left. He really was almost done with it, Jesus.

"I know, Dad. Me, too."

She did. She missed her every day. More on the days when he was like this. Her mother would hate seeing him like this. She would kick his ass so hard.

"What do I do?"

She blinked. He never asked this. It was always some variation of how much he missed her mom, never once asking what to do to fix it.

She dragged her teeth over her lip. "I don't know, Dad. What do you want to do?"

"I…"

"Do you wanna finish that and stay on my dirty floor all night? I don't have anything else to drink." She didn't. Whatever he hadn't already decimated, she'd poured down the drain, unable to look at it on her shelf. "Do you want to get some water and take my couch for the night? I'm on shift at six; I can take you home on my way in."

Her dad blinked, eyes looking clearer suddenly. "You'd do that?"

She sniffed, swiping her eyes quickly. Was he trying to break her apart?

"Of course I would, and I will." She took a deep breath, trying to get herself under control. "And maybe… maybe tomorrow we can have lunch? Or dinner if you, if you'll try to go into work?" If he was even still on staff, she had no idea. "We could make dinner together, do some ice cream floats or something, and just relax and watch a game."

She was babbling, offering him any option – any non-alcoholic option – she could think of, just to show him there were alternatives. She would take the alternatives with him if he wanted, if he was willing. She'd been strong this whole time and she wanted to stay strong, but she needed him, too. It had been close to five years. She needed him.

"You'd really do that?" he asked again, like she might be tricking him.

"Yeah, Daddy," she whispered, clearing her throat. "I'll do that if you'll do this for me." She curled her fingers around the bottle. "Put this away. Put it all away."

And there it was: her ultimatum. Her challenge to her father after five years without her mom and without him, too. She won't say please. She won't beg. She'd help him but only if he got himself together and helped himself.

"No more brown-bagging, no more sitting on my doorstep, drunk. No more of the way it's been, Dad."

She held out a hand, eyes beseeching him to choose her.

"Whatever it takes, Dad. I can take time off, I will if you need it. I know they'll let you take time off at work, too. You just have to work with me, because we can't do this anymore."

She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. She hoped she was getting through to him, finally getting through to him. She'd tried yelling, she'd tried begging, she'd cried, and she had only been disappointed. This was the last shot she could muster. If he didn't take her offer, she had no idea what they'd do.

Silence stretched between them. She had nothing more to say, she probably couldn't speak if she tried, couldn't work the knot out of her throat. He was crying; she hoped that meant she'd gotten to him, but it didn't mean it would be enough.

But finally, finally his hand slid into hers.