Hospitals never intimidated him. Rick got stitched up there a few times in his life, and he left one with a tiny Alexis in his arms. So going was easy. Trick was the leaving part. Sometimes chances of leaving the hospital in the same condition as you went in suddenly weren't an option.

God, it's not like he'd died. He assumed. He was still here, still breathing.

About an hour ago, probably more, Rick had struggled against a heavy, warm unconsciousness and yelped, horrified at the blurry image of a hovering nurse. They gave him sedatives. He woke a second time more like a gentleman than a trapped animal. (With a blonde, from what he could tell, at his side, and that disappointed him.

"Welcome back to the land of the corporeal, Rick," she'd said, and the next moment Beckett—Kate—was watching over him. Rick couldn't see her, but her scent beat the brisk hospital sterilizers into subdued submission. Sadly, his mouth hadn't worked to let her know that.

She stalked out after he made a half grunt of frustration, pausing to brush his fingers. He smiled. Tried to anyway. Wished her good hunting.)

Rick felt like hell. Like he'd vacationed in hell, tossed a few boulders around for good and unreasonable measure, and then swallowed hot rocks for a late night snack.

Then again, anything beginning with the nonchalant introduction of a cow ("Is that a cow?" he'd asked.

"Oh yeah, that's Gene.")

—couldn't possibly have any other ending worse than this. And all in just two days. Two days. Seemed longer, despite him having no recollection of the past ten hours or so. Memory lapses, FBI agents, mad scientists and unmistakably evil bad guys. All the elements ripped right out of a science fiction novel, a well-planned story of impossibilities and more questions than he cared to ask. Except it actually happened. To him.

All because of a sudden revelation, a spur of the moment decision, a mystery he wanted to solve. That line of thinking had worked well for him in the past. This time though? And he thought shadowing the NYPD was dangerous. Working alongside Jordan Shaw didn't compare to this horrifyingly, eye-opening unfeasibility.

Except. It was real.

He'd laugh a bit manically if laughing didn't set his stomach aflame.

"Dad?"

Rick pulled from his thoughts. Alexis already lost her dad once today, though she didn't know it exactly, so he had to be there for her now, not get wrapped up in morbid hysteria.

He adjusted his shoulders on the pillows so he faced her better. "Yeah, pumpkin."

"So." Alexis whispered because loud noises hurt his ears. She waited, a haggard droop settled on her shoulders that didn't belong on someone her age.

Rick squeezed her hand, cold in his own, but his skin was still too warm for normal. Not feverish exactly, no fever symptoms, just too warm.

"So," she began again, stronger this time, but quiet. "This…I mean, he's your…dad?"

Ah.

So that's what has kept her quiet after making absolutely sure he was as all right as he could be under the strange circumstances. Should have known. Her grandfather. The biggest mystery in her life finally had an answer.

"Yeah," Rick said. "My dad."

"My grandfather." Alexis chewed her bottom lip, and Rick wondered when she'd picked up that habit. "Did he know about you? Us?"

Maybe at some point.

"Not sure, sweetheart." Rick drug his hand out from under hers, and covered her curled, loose fingers. "Never asked."

A light in the back of her too-gray eyes (a possibly permanent side effect: vision distortion) slowly crept forward. "Can I meet him?" She almost sounded breathless.

No. God, no.

The immediate answer seized his throat, part consideration, mostly abject terror at the mere notion of Alexis anywhere near that man. That man who somehow got Rick tangled up in a mess that far outreached his own perspective. That man who filled the illusive gap in Alexis' family tree. The man who far surpassed any imaginings, any nightmares Rick could scare from the darkest corners of his imagination about who his father was. Is.

Inventor of Whipped Cream. Right.

But. Was it really his father's fault? Wasn't Rick the one who overstepped the boundaries? Again.

Rick took a slow, deep breath that tasted like smoke, and released it.

The man who was still family, regardless. At least he came with an uncle for Alexis. With a…brother for Rick.

Oh boy. That still got him the most. A little brother.

Rick managed a lame, "Uh," but his mouth hung slightly open in surprise when the curtain surrounding his bed whipped back.

Beckett, Kate, dark eyes—with more green in them than Rick remembered—ablaze, and even more intimidating with the boys at her back, fumed.

"So, who the hell is Walter Bishop?"

~*~X

For Nikki.

Her insistent idea. It's crazy enough for me to enjoy playing with.