A/N: Hopefully this chapter clears up some of the questions you guys had after the last chapter

Trigger warning: alcoholism


Chapter Seven

Despite the fact that his profession required him to imagine dozens of different and often outlandish scenarios every day, Rick never in his wildest fantasies would have predicted the success he received from publishing In a Hail of Bullets. The one glowing review he received in the New York Times set off a chain reaction of dozens of equally positive reviews from newspapers around the country. By July, sales had grown to four thousand five hundred copies in just one week, landing him a coveted twentieth spot on the New York Times bestseller list. Upon hearing that news from his agent, for the first time in his life Rick was rendered absolutely speechless.

Those weeks had been an absolute whirlwind. He had almost daily phone calls from his publisher and agent. The publisher, Black Pawn, wanted to capitalize as much as they could on his popularity, so they scheduled a few book signings at some Manhattan stores. Rick doubted they were as successful as Black Pawn wanted them to be with an average of seventy-five people showing up at each, but he was still pleased that more than one or two people had cared enough to show up and ask for his signature.

At the inaugural signing, the first person in line was Kate. Rick laughed out loud when he saw her; he had no idea she was going to be there. He had, of course, told her about the fact that the signings were occurring and she expressed her happiness for him, but she said she would be working during those Saturdays and unable to attend. Evidently, she'd traded shifts with someone so she could be his very first autograph.

With such an enthusiastic response, Rick expected their communication to continue regularly, but after he saw her at the signing, they did not speak for over a week—a true rarity as their phone conversations had been happening at least every other day since school let out, even if they were for just a few minutes long. He was so busy that he didn't give it much thought until she was short with him when he visited her at Starbucks on Sunday evening. It was then he realized that despite four voicemail messages, she had failed to call him back even once that week.

The next week progressed similarly. He went to Starbucks during her Wednesday evening shift, but she insisted she was too busy to talk even though the store was almost empty and the stream of patrons going in and out was weak at best. After two more messages she failed to return, Rick decided he'd had enough. He wanted to know what was going on with her and why she'd suddenly—and seemingly at random—turned a cold shoulder to him.

Friday evening he decided he was going to confront her at her apartment. They had been speaking regularly all summer so he felt reasonably sure she, unlike many others their age, would be at home. As he discovered, much of her free-from-work time was spent with her friend and roommate, Maddy, but at the end of June Maddy had left for a European vacation which would then turn into a semester at NYU's Abu Dhabi campus in the fall.

When Rick arrived at the Beckett apartment he took an extra moment to collect his thoughts before knocking on the door. He just wanted to talk, he coached himself; to see what was going on. As far as he was aware, he had not done anything to offend or upset her. On the off chance he had done something wrong, he would apologize and do whatever he could to make it right.

Just as he was about to knock, Rick heard a loud crash and thud inside almost as though someone had dropped something and then fallen in their attempt to pick it up. He turned his head so his ear was almost pressed against the door and strained to listen for a sign of what might be going on inside. He could hear muffled voices, but nothing specific or alarming. Explaining it away as an accidental event, Rick rapped his knuckles against the door and, in doing so, inadvertently pushed the door open. Evidently, it had not been shut correctly—or locked—so the pressure his knuckles exerted on the door had been enough to unseat it and slide it open a few inches.

"Kate?" He called out tentatively, not wanting to barge in and scare her or her father. Before he could say anything else, though, he heard another loud crash. That time it was easily identifiable as breaking glass.

Now genuinely concerned, he nudged the door open a bit further and spotted a trench coat thrown onto the floor just a few steps inside. A foot away from it lay a set of keys. A few inches from that sat a black shoe—a tie-up loafer, clearly a man's. "Well, someone came home in a hurry," he muttered under his breath.

"Katie! Ss-op! Ss-op it 'm fine!"

Rick stepped into the apartment and shut the door gently behind him. The loud, clearly slurred voice could be heard from down the hall to the left and Rick approached tentatively.

"Dad-"

"Katie—no! Ssop!"

When Rick turned the corner, he came face to face with a most unexpected sight. Kate stood at the entrance to the kitchen wearing a green tank top and navy blue cotton shorts, her hair in a high ponytail. Beside her, her father was hunched against the wall, a shoe on one foot, his khaki pants soiled at the knees, and his blue shirt appearing damp in the front as though a liquid—a drink perhaps?—had been spilled on it.

Rick watched as Kate's father stumbled forward and fell to his knees. Kate reached out and attempted to grab him under the armpit, but failed as his arm slid through her grasp. Her father hit the floor with a force strong enough to rattle a nearby potted plant and cause a significant noise, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Here, let me help." Rick spoke for the first time.

Kate did a double take and gasped. "Rick! What are you doing?"

"I heard a noise and the door was open; I wanted to make sure you were ok."

She shook her head as she looked at him. "No, what are you doing here—at my apartment."

"Oh." He stepped up and stood just a foot in front of Jim, who stared at the floor as though an important secret code were printed on it. Rick glanced down at him before looking back to Kate. "You, uh, weren't returning my calls."

"And you didn't think there was a good reason for that?!"

He fought the urge to flinch at her snippy tone. "Well, maybe…I came to find out what it was. Did I do something to upset you?"

"No I—" She shook her head and raked her fingers back through her hair. Looking down at her father she said, "I don't have time for this right now. You need to leave. C'mon, Dad."

She crouched down enough to loop her arm under his and attempt to hoist him into a standing position. He grumbled slurred words at her; despite the obvious evidence to the contrary, he continually insisted he was fine. Ultimately, she was able to get him to stand, but instead of continuing to move forward down the hall, he turned and made his way back into the kitchen using a heavy hand against the wall to guide him.

Once he'd disappeared from sight, Kate wrapped her arms tightly around her body and turned back to Rick. "I'm sorry. I—I'll try to call you sometime this weekend. Please just go."

"Kate." He sighed out her name. Suddenly, it became very obvious why she hadn't been returning his calls. Evidently, during the times she was not working, she was parenting her parent, who unfortunately, seemed to have slipped back into his alcoholism. Rick's heart broke for her.

It had been a long journey, filled with speed bumps from douche bags who didn't know how to keep their genitals to themselves, but by May Rick finally felt he was getting through to her. He felt her eyes had just a little bit less sadness. Not a lot, but some. She was smiling and laughing with him; she was enjoying life. But now, watching her hug herself tightly as her father spiraled downward, she looked so small, so vulnerable. He just wanted to help her.

"If you-"

"Please," she said, her tone softer than ever. "Just go."

Rick almost complied. He almost gave up, but a voice deep inside him told him not to. She needed help and he wasn't going to leave her—not in that moment. Before he could insist verbally, the sound of shattering glass echoed from the kitchen and her father stumbled into view. This time, Rick and Kate both stepped forward, but the elder man's forward velocity was too much for them and they were unable to prevent him from falling to the ground. At least, Rick thought, they had probably slowed him down enough so that he hadn't broken anything.

"Damn it Dad…" She sighed beneath her breath.

"Let me-"

"No." Her voice was sharp and it cut him. He met her eyes to see that though tears threatened to fall, her stance was strong. "I asked you to go."

Rick felt the flames of fury begin to alight within him. She was being absurd. He was right there! Why wouldn't she just let him help? "Kate-"

"I said go!"

"Yeah," he countered, raising his voice, "and what are you going to do with him? Let him sleep it off on the hardwood floor?"

"We're fine."

"The hell you are."

"Rick-"

"Stop being stubborn!" He challenged. That shut her up. Her lips pressed together and she looked at him with eyes wide. Proud he'd gotten her to listen, he set his jaw. "I'm helping you and we're not arguing about it. Now, where should I take him?"

"I…" She hesitated for a moment before finally relenting. "His bedroom is that way; I'll show you."

Rick knelt down and hoisted Kate's father up over his shoulder, which was no easy feat. The man was smaller than him, though still weighed about a hundred and eighty pounds, he guessed. Suppressing a grunt at the extra weight, Rick allowed Kate to lead him across the apartment to a hall that branched off into three rooms. The first door was open and clearly led to a bathroom, which led Rick to deduce the other two were bedrooms.

Kate opened the door directly in front of them and flicked on the light. Rick quickly glanced around the space to see that it was the size of a typical Manhattan bedroom—aka, not very large. The queen sized bed, chest of drawers, and desk fit very tightly. He sidled his way in between the desk and bed and put Jim down as gently as he could; the drunken man did not wake.

When Rick backed away, Kate hurried in and attempted to untie her father's shoe, but struggled with the knot. He could see her fingers were trembling, but resisted the urge to step in, fearing she would snap at him again. After a few attempts she was able to loosen the lace and pull the shoe off. She set it on the ground beside the bed and then walked to the exit, flicking off the light as she went.

Rick followed her and shut the bedroom door behind him. When they reached the hall, he could see Kate had brought her hand up to cover her mouth. Her fingers trembled so much she looked like she was experiencing her own personal earthquake. "Kate," he sighed out and her head snapped up as though she just remembered he was there.

"You, um." She sniffed and skimmed her fingers beneath her eyes. "You can go now. I'll just-"

"Stop." He reached out and touched her shoulder when she moved towards the kitchen. "Let me help you clean up."

"No, that's not necessary. I can-"

"It's not a matter of whether or not you can." He pointed out. "But you have bare feet; you'll hurt yourself. Just let me help."

"I…" Her voice trailed off and it appeared she was finally too exhausted to continue fighting him. With a lackluster gesture, she pointed towards a door near the entranceway. "There's a broom in that closet. The trash is in the kitchen at the end of the counter; you can't miss it."

He smiled at her. "Thanks. Now go splash some cold water on your face and take a break; I'll take care of the kitchen."

As though being forced to obey his command, she nodded distantly and stepped into the bathroom. With a satisfied nod, Rick made his way to the closet.


Eight minutes later, after washing her face and sitting on the cold tile floor, Kate exited the bathroom feeling reasonably less nauseous than she had when she entered. At least that was progress.

She glanced to her left towards her father's closed bedroom door and felt the anger roil within her. Why did he have to be this way? She had already lost her mother and survived his decent into the bottle once. Wasn't that enough? Why did he have to go back to that dark place and, in doing so, drag her along with him? True, she carried her fair share of scars from the loss of her mother, but none of them were destructive—especially not to others.

With a heavy sigh, she padded her way towards the entryway where she picked up his jacket, keys, and discarded shoe. So far it seemed he was back to repeating his old patterns: drinking during the day when he didn't think she'd see him, retreating to his room at night where the underside of the bed was beginning to look like the dumpster outside Rick's dorm after a weekend bash.

The worst part for her were the mornings after when he apologized sometimes tearfully and promised to go to a meeting, promised to get better, but it always ended with him and a bottle in his hand. His empty promises made it impossible for her to trust him and, when she couldn't trust her own father, the list of people she could trust shrank to almost none.

As she hung her father's jacket in the closet, the sound of the kitchen trash can lid slamming down had the talons of embarrassment clawing at her throat. Rick. Not only had Kate been forced to watch her father become too drunk to stand, break a glass, and ultimately pass out onto the floor, Rick had seen it as well. She hated that; it mortified her.

True, one could argue that Rick had seen her in a far worse situation, and if there was any one person who would not judge her it would be him, but she still hated it. She did not wish to be seen so vulnerable by any outsiders if it could be avoided. Hell, she didn't even want to see her father in the state he was in, but what was she to do? He was the only family she had left.

When she heard his footsteps approaching, Kate wrung her hands together. She had to say something to him, but what? She would thank him, of course, but she felt an inexplicable desire to say something—anything—to mitigate the embarrassment her father had just caused. But, really, what was there to say? What excuse could she give? The situation was beyond her control.

As it turned out, when Rick rounded the corner carrying the broom, any semblance of an apology immediately vanished from her mind when she saw him. In his left hand he carried the broom, but in his right he held a wadded up paper towel coated with splotches of red. "What happened?"

"I cleaned up the kitchen," he said as he returned the broom to the hall closet. "All the glass should be gone now."

"No—to your hand."

"Oh, nothing; I'm fine."

"You're bleeding."

"It's just a scratch."

Taking note of the amount of blood on the paper towel, Kate eyed him skeptically.

"Really, I'm fine." He assured her. "I just cut my thumb when I picked up one of the shards."

Kate pointed to the sitting room as she backed towards the hall. She directed him to sit on the couch while she retrieved the first aid kit from the bathroom. Judging by the expression on his face, he did so with great reluctance.

After retrieving the white plastic medical kit from beneath the sink, Kate sat on the coffee table across from her patient. He held out his right hand and winced when she pulled away the paper towel. He had a decent-sized slice across the tip of his thumb but it wasn't terribly deep. She pulled his hand into her lap so his forearm was cradled between her knees and dug into the kit for antiseptic cream.

"So…when did he start drinking again?"

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, but only for a moment before she turned back to her work. "I don't know. Looking back, I think he was hiding it for a while. A few months at least." She smeared the cream into his cut and he hissed with displeasure. She apologized as she screwed the cap back on the bottle.

"When did it get this bad?"

"A few weeks ago."

She pulled a flesh-toned adhesive bandage from the kit and pasted it over his wound. She crumpled up the paper backing for the bandage and set it on the table beside her. Then she closed the lid to the plastic box and made to stand up, but he stopped her by grabbing on to her right hand. She looked over at him and he said, "I'm sorry."

His words could not have been simpler. She knew they were genuine from the sound of his voice and the way he looked her directly in the eye as he said. Plus, over the six months she'd known him, she knew he wasn't the type to say an apology only because it felt expected, especially not at a moment like that one. So, it wasn't the words themselves that hit her, but the fact the fact that he was there, with her, helping her even after she asked him to leave.

It began in her diaphragm—the uncontrollable spasms of a deep, choking sob. She tried to control it by breathing in quick breaths through her nose and pushing them out her lips, but all attempts failed and the tears began to trickle down her cheeks.

Gripping a bit tighter to her hand he said, "Hey, it's okay; it'll be okay, Kate."

But the thing of it was—she didn't believe him. He meant well, but he hadn't seen what she had. He didn't know how bad it could get—how dark it could go. This, embarrassing as it was, had been a relatively mundane event compared to the others.

She shook her head as the tears flowed, not really sure why. There was no use trying to stop them; they were coming anyway. Normally, she did her crying in the shower, or curled up on her bed with her face covered by the blankets. Public crying was something she avoided at all costs. It embarrassed her and showed a weakness she never wished to reveal. Yet, in that moment, she could think of nothing but how warm and soft his hand felt against her own and how nice it might be to be enveloped by his strong embrace.

"Rick?"

"Yeah?"

She sniffed as she looked up at him. "Remember how you said if I ever needed a hug?"

A very simple smile crossed his face. He pulled his hand away from hers and opened up his arms while simultaneously leaning back in the couch. She slid forward and fell into him, her head leaning against his shoulder, her body tucking against his. She pulled her feet underneath her and curled up just as his arms locked around her—warm and safe. She clung to him with her left arm looped around his waist, and cried against him.

For the first time in as long as she could remember Kate was glad she wasn't alone.


A/N: As always, thank you so much for your reviews!