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Kate liked to think she was a pretty perceptive person, so it didn’t take her very long to notice the signs.
Patrick was seeing someone, that much was obvious.
In any other instance, she wouldn't care. He was a grown man who certainly didn’t need their mother to coddle him the way she did, so she wasn’t about to spare it a single thought beyond a fleeting; "Patrick is ruining another poor girl’s life? Cool. Good for him."
What he did and who he saw wasn't any of her business, and she intended to keep it that way. But Kate would be lying if she said she wasn't at least a little bit curious as to what type of girl could cause such a... peculiar change in her brother's behaviour.
For one, he was being nicer to her. Sort of. As nice as someone like Patrick McReary was capable of being. He was generally in a better mood most days, he came home at more reasonable hours (12am instead of 3), tried helping with the cleaning around the house (or, his own definition of it, which was loitering in the kitchen and providing commentary while Kate stacked the dishwasher).
Once, he'd even stopped by the community centre to drop off a cup of coffee made just the way Kate liked it. When she'd tried to ask him why, he'd only frowned and grumbled, "what? I can't do something nice for me little sister? I was in the area, don't read too much into it."
All of her questions are met with answers like that lately; dismissive growls of "it's nothin' Katie, leave me alone," and “is your life really so boring you gotta stick your nose into mine?”
Even when she’d straight-up asked to meet this new girlfriend of his, he’d snapped that he “had no idea what she was talking about,” before angrily storming away. And maybe Kate would’ve believed him if Patrick weren’t being so blatantly obvious. Like he was unknowingly leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, and who could really blame her for wanting to follow?
She just can’t wrap her head around why he would want to hide something like this from her. Patrick may be a self-loathing asshole, and a drunkard, and a piece of shit, and a whole lot of other awful things, but he’s still her brother and she would never judge him. Not when it seems to actually be doing him some good. If anything, she’s surprised. She wasn’t even aware that Packie knew anything about romance beyond one-night stands in the first place.
But she’s used to the lies, she’s used to Packie brushing her off, so she doesn't take any of what he says to heart. He could've been out robbing convenience stores, or getting into fights, or lying unconscious on the kitchen floor again. But instead, Patrick is happy and, as far as she can tell, relatively sober, so she lets it go.
It’s late, maybe 10pm, when she makes it home from work.
Even though the sun had long since set, the usual wail of sirens and distant blare of car horns continued to echo throughout the night. No matter how dark the sky got, no matter how much her own exhaustion weighed at her body, Liberty city never seemed to sleep.
Hands fumbling for her keys, she unlocks and quietly slips through the front door, before gently shutting it behind her. Two pairs of shoes are messily strewn across the hardwood floor a couple steps into the house; Packie's favourite battered sneakers and a worn pair of boots she doesn't immediately recognise. Kate scowls beneath her breath. It was typical of her brother, really, to leave his things around the house for her to clean up. She'd have to scold him for it in the morning, but all she can focus on now is getting to bed and sleeping off the migraine starting to form at the base of her skull. As she’s shucking off her jacket and draping it over the coat rack, her eyes catch sight of the pale light streaming from the living room.
Kate pokes her head through the doorway, half-expecting to see her brother passed out on the couch, and is surprised to find not only one, but two intoxicated men sitting across from each other in the living room.
Well, actually, it's not all that surprising. Niko has been hanging around the McReary household a lot more often, not that Kate was complaining. They'd hung out several times now (after Patrick begrudgingly gave him her number), and he was nice to her during all the chances they had to talk before Packie accused them of flirting and shooed Kate away. Ma seemed to like him, and she much preferred him over her brothers other criminal friends herself.
The two of them are very much awake, sharing a bottle of beer between themselves. Packie's legs are propped up on the recliner adjacent to him, where Niko sits, feet resting in the other mans lap; innocent enough at first glance, if not a little odd. Packie holds the bottle out towards Niko and he takes it, running his fingers over the smooth glass before he presses the tip to his lips and swallows its contents down. The television is still on, displaying some kind of soap opera across its screen that neither him nor Packie are paying any real attention to.
Then, Niko murmurs something that Kate doesn't quite hear but it must've been funny because Packie smiles, really smiles, red cheeks illuminated by the faint glow of the television. Maybe it's the cheep beer he's drinking, or maybe he always looks at Niko that way. Kate's not too sure, but what she does know is that it's something Patrick would have never wanted her to see.
For Packie, showing vulnerability of any sort was like giving himself up to the enemy, like rolling onto his back to expose his soft, pink underside to the world. But the way Patrick stares, eyes half-lidded and hazy, the way his hands chase the little contact he gets from Niko when their fingers brush between bottle passes.. it's nothing short of vulnerable.
But why would he let Niko see that side of him? Why would he let those walls he'd spent so much time putting up crumble to dust beneath his feet? What made Niko, of all people, so different? So worthy? Unless he was—unless they were…? OH!
Oh.
She realises all too late that yes, her brother is definitely seeing someone, but that someone is not a woman he'd met in some shady club. It's Niko.
Niko, the mysterious, brooding immigrant from eastern Europe.
Niko, the hired gun.
Niko, her friend.
It all made sense. So much goddamn sense, and she mustn’t be as perceptive as she first thought because she hadn’t even seen it until now.
She turns in a hurry and quickly rushes up the stairs to her bedroom before either of the men notice that she was ever even there.
Her only hope, as she kicks off her shoes, flops down on her bed, and settles back against the pillows, is that Packie will come to his senses and realise he has nothing to hide.