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The house is dim and quiet in the early-evening hour, and Rick nurses a lukewarm bourbon sour as he sits hunched over himself on his leather loveseat. The windows, after having been broken through by crazy hippie cultists, have been repaired and reinforced, and heavy-duty locks have been installed on both the front and side doors. A loaded pistol is hooked to the underside of the coffee table, the safety off and its barrel aimed at the entryway. He won't always have a pit bull around to keep him safe, after all. Call him paranoid, but he'd rather be overly cautious than dead.
A loud, sudden knock on the door makes Rick jump halfway out of his skin, the sour dumping over his hand and legs. He stays frozen, muscles practically vibrating until an easy, familiar voice floats through the door.
"Rick? You there?" Like a flood, all tension drains from Rick's body in an instant. Before he knows what he's doing his quarter-glass of bourbon is on the table and he's stumbling for the door. It takes a bit of fumbling before it releases, and when the door finally swings open Rick takes a moment to stare dumbly at the man behind it.
Cliff smiles, his mouth framed by a peppery mess of stubble that makes him look as though he's been burning the candle at both ends. His aviators hide the top half of his face, and his hair is of ruffled cascade of waves that tickle his jaw handsomely. The blue unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over the light grey tank hangs from his shoulders loosely, not quite fitting the way it should if he was eating right. His acid-wash jeans are much the same: pooling over his brown leather boots in a heap.
Rick forces his eyes up to meet Cliff's gaze- that is, as best as he can with those fucking glasses. Rick would damn them if they hadn't saved his ass as many times as they have. He wishes he could see his eyes, though.
"You gonna let me in or what?" Rick breathes a sigh he hadn't noticed he'd been holding, and stands aside to let Cliff in. He strolls through the living Room as Rick shuts the door, dropping a six-pack of beer next to the sloppy glass. Rick watches Cliff hitch his hands up on his hips, looking around with a critical eye.
He looks good, despite everything. He'd been released from the hospital not too long ago, but still favours his left leg on account of the still-healing stab wound in his right thigh. Cliff refuses to sit idle any longer, though; not even the doctors could get him to stay still.
Cliff turns to him, that smile spreading across his cheeks once again. Rick forces himself to speak fast when Cliff opens his mouth.
"You, you're looking better." Cliff hesitates, just for a moment, then his lips twist into a smarmy, lopsided grin.
"M'feeling better, that's for sure. It's gonna be a while until I can shake this off, though." He pats the front of his leg lightly, and Rick nods absent-mindedly. He doesn't move. "Is Francesca gone already?"
Francesca, his wife. Will-be ex-wife. The one currently staying in a tall, pampered hotel near Santa Monica. That one.
"Yea-yeah, she's not here. She's just, just working through some things, you know." Francesca had demanded to move back to Italy when she'd woken from her pill-induced blackout, her eyes wide and frightened and desperate. She wanted nothing to do with America after the attempt on her life.
Rick refused to go back to Europe, though. They fought for a week as Cliff was treated in the hospital. Francesca had given up first, and Rick gave in even faster.
Divorce should be easy. Being alone will be hard. Rick doesn't want to be alone ever again.
He needs to talk to Cliff. He needs to ask once and for all.
"Li-listen Cliff, I uh, I need, need to talk to you. About something kinda, uh, important." Cliff's grin slides away, but he doesn't look unhappy, thank God. He motions to the loveseat as he takes a seat on the sofa, as if he owns the place.
Rick walks over and falls into his chair, not caring that his house robe rides up his thighs. Cliff doesn't seem to react, or maybe he does and Rick just can't tell. He can't give a rat's ass, anyhow. Cliff pops his feet onto the coffee table, ankles crossed one over the other casually. Rick leans back into his seat, sighing slowly as he grips the armrests with his fingertips.
There's a reddish-brown splatter on the ceiling, the spots are so small anybody else would miss them if they weren't staring. Rick doesn't need to stare to know what they are, but he does anyways. He swallows thickly, but has to do so twice to be able to speak.
"I-I know I told you I couldn't afford you," he begins, willing himself to keep the words flowing. "But I, uh. I've done some thinking. Some- some good, long thinking, and I've changed my mind. I think, uh. I want, I want you to- I--"
He stops, shame burning up his throat like bile. Fuck his fucking mouth. Damn it, damn it all to Hell. He swallows again, refusing to look away from the blood-speckled stucco and meet Cliff's obscured gaze. He screws his eyes shut instead.
"I want you to stay," he bites out. "With Francesca leaving, an-and you being hurt, I don't want to let you go. I want you to stay here. I want you to move in."
The room is silent, tense with suffocating emptiness, but Rick doesn't dare open his eyes. Cliff says nothing, does nothing, and Rick bites his lip as white-hot, shameful tears burn the back of his eyes.
Keep it together you piece of shit. Don't cry. Don't you fucking cry you weak, miserable, useless--
A sob wracks his lungs, and immediately his composure buckles. His face crumples, tears spill down his cheeks, and he digs his fingernails into the thin leather seat as more sobs claw out from the confines of his throat. He feels so small, then. Small and alone and afraid and oh-so sorry for himself. He wishes Cliff would leave already, he wishes Francesca would come back, he wishes those insane hippie fucks hadn't broken into his home and ruined his fucking life.
The leather sofa shifts, and Rick waits with anguished anticipation for the door to open, for Cliff's car to rattle to life, and for Cliff to drive back to his trailer with his dog and forget all about him forever, like they'd planned. Rick waits to be left alone for good, in this empty house with its bloody ceiling and too-empty rooms. He won't blame Cliff when he does. Rick would abandon himself too, already has time and time again.
But it never comes. The door doesn't open. The car doesn't roar to life. Cliff doesn't disappear in the blink of an eye like he should.
No. Instead, a warm, calloused thumb brushes along Rick's cheek, and he's so startled he snaps his eyes open fast enough his eyelids may never close again. There, standing above him like some kind of grizzled angel is Cliff, his aviators tucked into his shirt pocket and his eyes so sad it breaks what little undamaged portion of the Rick's heart is left.
"Sure thing, Rick." Cliff's voice, rough like sandpaper and deep like molasses, sends a chill up every inch of Rick's spine. "I'll move in. Don't you go crying over nothing."
Rick doesn't move. He doesn't blink, doesn't look away, doesn't fucking believe it. But sure enough Cliff stays right where he is, wiping the tears from Rick's face and gazing down at him with all the tenderness in the world.
Rick doesn't fucking deserve it. He absolutely doesn't deserve Cliff, but in that moment he doesn't care as he launches himself to his feet and crushes Cliff in a bone-breaking hug. It's the most genuine hug he's given anyone, ever, including his own damn mother. Cliff wheezes a laugh, soft and happy and so, so good as he hugs Rick as well, fingers splayed across his back while Ricks' stay fisted in that godawful Hawaiian shirt Cliff pulls off so well.
They stay like that for a while: wrapped up around each other and not caring about the stained ceiling, the wounded leg, or the padlocked doors. They don't care about the ranch of fucked up hippies and their cold, soulless eyes. They don't care that shit's about to get real complicated real fast, because they know they've got each other's backs.
And that's all either can really count on.