Title: Safe House
Fandom: Stargirl (TV 2020)
Rating: PG
Length: 2807 words
Content notes: References to child abuse.
Author notes: Set sometime in Season 1, before the finale episodes.

Summary: Rick has always looked after himself; he’s accustomed to it. So he’s as surprised as anyone when he gets injured and promptly shows up on Pat’s doorstep.



The boy answers the door.

Rick thinks he should remember his name, but at the moment it’s not happening. He does know the dog’s name, but only because the kid says, “Buddy, no!” and grabs him before he can dart out.

The boy takes one look at Rick’s face and swears impressively. “What happened to you?”

Rick clears his throat, and doesn’t answer the question. “Is Pat here?”

“Yeah. But Courtney’s not.” The kid crosses his arms and plants himself more firmly in front of Buddy, fully blocking the entrance. “Aren’t you Courtney’s friend?”

“Uh…yeah. But…sometimes I help Pat, at the garage.” There, not even a lie. Technically. “He wasn’t there, so…”

“Mike, who is it?”

The boy—Mike—looks skeptical. “Your assistant, apparently.”

“What?” Footsteps approach and the door opens wider. Rick tries to stand straighter and look less pathetic. It must not work, because Pat’s expression drops from wary politeness to blatant concern. “Rick?”

“Hi, Pat.”

There is a charged beat of silence, and then Pat reacts. He nudges Mike back inside and reaches for Rick, gaze shifting to search the fading daylight behind him. “What happened?”

And, oh. Of course he’d assume this was a JSA-related confrontation; that some ISA member or their kid might be lurking behind him, tracking their prey.

Rick shakes his head as Pat ushers him inside. “No one’s following me. It wasn’t—“ he breaks off and glances at Mike, who’s standing there staring at them. “I got mugged,” he lies instead.

Pat has a lousy poker face. Disbelief gives way to confusion, which mingles with worry. Then he sets his jaw and moves to lock the door, throwing the deadbolt for good measure.

Rick wonders how many ISA members the deadbolt might actually keep out. Maybe one, he thinks. Probably not even that.

Pat turns back and gently touches Rick’s chin, tilting his face into the light. “Mike, would you go grab the first aid kit for me, please?”

He must look pretty bad, because the boy only hesitates for a few seconds. “Okay. C’mon, Buddy.”

Obedience is apparently not Buddy’s strong suit, because he remains right where he is, staring up at Rick with a big doggie grin. Mike shrugs and moves toward the kitchen alone.

Pat waits until he’s gone before saying softly, “Mugged?”

“Well, no. But not JSA business, either. I figured I shouldn’t say that.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t know. Thanks.”

They stand silently for a long moment, space Pat has obviously left for Rick to explain what happened. The man is watching him intently.

Rick stares at the dog, instead. He can’t help grinning back at Buddy, just a little. He’d always wanted a dog.

Pat gives up with a small sigh. “Okay, come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Rick follows after him, with Buddy trailing them both. They go through the foyer, past a little half bath, down the hall all the way to what Rick quickly identifies as the master bedroom. He hesitates in the doorway, but Pat waves him on towards the big bathroom. “This way. Lighting’s better in here. You can leave the bag, maybe up on the dresser. Buddy thinks anything in his reach is fair game.”

Rick glances at the dog, who looks up at him innocently. He puts his backpack on the dresser.

When he steps into the bathroom, Pat is clearing off the counter between the two sinks. Rick glances around, noting the feminine touches and the closed toilet lid. It’s been almost a decade since Rick lived with a woman, so that’s kind of a novelty.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Yikes.

“Mike said Court isn’t here?” he says in way of distraction.

“Yeah, she and her mom are doing a girl’s weekend kind of thing. I think Barbara feels they’ve lost touch a bit since we moved here.” He meets Rick’s gaze in the mirror, a reminder that Rick is far more aware of the reason behind their family strain than Barbara. That too is a novelty—the bond created by being in on someone else’s secret.

“Anyway, just us guys tonight. Come hop up,” Pat instructs, stepping back so Rick can hoist himself onto the counter. He can’t help but wince as he complies. At least his back is now to the mirror so he can’t see the damage for himself.

Pat is watching him carefully. “Level with me. Am I just worried about your face, or are you more injured than I can see?”

“Um. I don’t know.” He’s not being evasive; he’s just honestly not sure. He hadn’t really taken the time to evaluate. “Shoulder hurts some,” he admits, rolling his left shoulder.

“Okay.” Pat taps the hoodie lightly. “Can you get this off?”

Mike appears in the doorway bearing an obscenely large first aid box. He leans around Buddy to place it precariously on the edge of the sink. Pat thanks him and moves to grab it.

Rick shifts to pull the hoodie off. He holds his breath, lest any pained noises slip through. He manages to get it over his head. As he tugs his old t-shirt into place and shifts the hoodie to the side, something clatters into the sink on his left.

Pat comes back to his side. “Is that glass?”

Rick stares at the glittering shards. “Probably.”

Pat steps closer, tilting his head to examine the wounds on the left side of Rick’s face. He hisses in dismay. “Looks like there’s some in the cuts.”

“Did your mugger hit you with a bottle or something?” Mike asks.

Rick doesn’t meet Pat’s gaze. “Or something.”

Pat hovers silently for a moment before he leans back. “Hey Mike, why don’t you go get dinner going?”

Mike stares at him. “You want me to cook? Unsupervised?”

“I want you to put the sauce pot on the stove, and boil some noodles. Maybe pop the garlic bread in the oven.”

“Yeah, that counts as cooking. There’s a lot of heat involved, there.”

“I have complete faith in you, son.”

“That’s not what you said after the marshmallow incident.”

Pat’s lips quirk up. “Well, I think you’ve matured since then.”

Mike nods. “Yeah. Must be that paper route.”

Rick takes in the banter silently as Pat turns on the faucet. “That’s because Dad knows best. And now, Dad would really like you to start the cooking.”

Pat turns away from him, so Rick can’t see the look that passes between them. He does catch Mike’s eyes when the boy glances his way before he finally turns to go. “Okay. But I won’t be held responsible for taste!”

Pat shakes his head as he washes his hands, toweling them off as he comes back to Rick. “All right, let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

He begins by gently probing around Rick’s right eye and cheekbone. Rick can’t help but flinch. Pat winces, like Rick’s pain hurts him, too. “Well, good news is, the bones feel okay, and the eye itself seems fine. You’re gonna have one heck of a shiner, though. You can see okay?”

Rick dutifully closes his other eye and blinks. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Look at me with both.” A penlight materializes from the first aid kit, Pat carefully peering into his eyes. “No obvious signs of concussion. Are you nauseous? Headache?”

“Little headache, I guess.”

Pat nods. “We’ll keep an eye on it. You know your name, right?”

Rick huffs. “Is that a trick question?”

Pat hesitates, and Rick knows he didn’t mean it that way. “Sorry. Harris, now. Tyler then. Maybe ask me what year it is, instead.”

Pat gives him a sad smile. “I think you’re good. Brain-wise, anyway. Let’s check the shoulder.”

He’s got full range of motion, so Pat concludes it’s probably just bruised. Then he moves on to Rick’s face. Tweezers come out of the kit. Rick tries not to fidget, but despite Pat’s gentle hands, the first touch of metal brings sharp pain.

Pat grimaces. “Sorry, kiddo, but we’ve got to get the glass out.”

He uses his left hand to brace Rick’s head, holding him steady as he brings the tweezers up again. And it hurts, sure, but Rick’s stuck on being called ‘kiddo.’ Silly, maybe…but it’s such a ‘dad’ thing to say.

Pat launches into some story about a young Mike being accident-prone. Rick half-listens. He knows Pat’s trying to distract him, and he appreciates the effort. But he’s paying more attention to Pat’s actions, to his careful manipulation of the tweezers and the way the thumb of his steadying hand takes up a soothing rhythm, rubbing softly against Rick’s jaw.

Rick can’t remember Matt’s hands ever being this gentle.

When Pat finally sets the tweezers down, he reaches for Rick’s good shoulder and tugs him forward. He runs his fingers through Rick’s hair, searching for more glass. Rick holds himself very still. He only has one memory of someone ever doing something similar—his dad, checking him over for bumps and bruises after he’d taken a tumble on the playground. He must have been about four years old. He remembers trying not to cry; remembers his dad’s strong hands, steady but tender.

Pat even smells a little like his Dad did, the faint scent of motor oil from classic cars lingering beneath the clean aroma of soap.

Rick resists the urge to tip forward and lean his forehead against Pat’s shoulder, though it is terribly, unexpectedly, tempting. His eyes burn.

“All right, I think we’re good.” Pat goes to the kit and comes back to him with what looks like an industrial-sized tube of antibiotic cream, which he proceeds to slather all over Rick’s face.

Rick blinks when Pat finally puts the cap back on the tube. He thinks the hard part might be over.

But then, as Pat’s washing his hands again, he says, “You know, I’ve met your uncle a few times. When I went out to deliver the carburetor, and when he came to the garage to check out the damage to his truck.”

Rick winces, and says nothing.

Pat’s watching him carefully, though he keeps his voice casual. “He’s left-handed, isn’t he?”

Rick stares at him for a long moment before he jerks his head in a slight nod.

Pat’s lips press into a thin line. He ducks his head, but not before Rick sees the flash of anger in them.

He knows instinctively that this anger’s not directed at him. That it is, in fact, for him. It’s a weird feeling. Somehow, it prompts him to talk. “Funny enough, I don’t think he actually meant for me to go through the glass door.”

Pat takes a measured breath. “So he just took a random swing at you?”

“No, not random. Pretty sure I deserved it.”

Pat’s response is immediate. “No, you didn’t.”

Rick shrugs. “We were both yelling, and he was drunk, and I know better.”

“Rick, he’s your guardian.”

“And as he’s so fond of reminding me, I ruined his life.”

“No,” Pat says again, firmly. “The ISA ruined his life. Your Dad might even bear a little blame. But you were just an innocent kid. You’re still a kid. And he’s got no right to hurt you. Ever.”

Rick meets his eyes and finds himself frozen by the steady assurance he finds there. He swallows thickly.

The moment is broken by a loud shout from the other room. “Dad, I think the noodles are burning!”

Pat’s face does a weird thing where it kind of freezes in disbelief and then immediately contorts to fond exasperation. He shakes his head and huffs a little laugh.

“Is burning noodles even possible?”

“Trust me, if it can be done, Mike’ll find a way to do it. I better check. You’ll be okay?”

He knows Pat means will he be okay for a few minutes, here in this bathroom, by himself. So the right answer is not that he’s not been okay for a long time, and is usually pretty certain that he never will be.

“Sure,” he says.

Maybe it didn’t come out as certain as he was going for, because Pat stares at him hard, almost as if he’d heard the real answer. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

Still, Pat hesitates. “Rick…you’re safe here.”

Rick blinks at him.

“Dad!”

“Well, unless my son burns the house down.” He goes, then, but Rick keeps staring at the spot where he’d stood. The word reverberates in his head.

Safe.

He doesn’t remember deciding to come here. He remembers picking himself up off the ground, grabbing his backpack and heading down the road. Altercations with Matt usually send him to the Killer Tree.

Only the tree’s not the killer, now. And Rick actually had somewhere else he could go. The garage has become a sort of home base. And really, it should have been enough. There were supplies, and privacy, and he could have patched himself up and laid low until morning.

But Pat wasn’t there. And, somehow, that had been enough to send him here. There was a big difference in plucking glass out of your own cuts and having someone else care enough to do it for you.

He learned long ago that he had to suck it up, that there was no comfort to be had. He hadn’t trusted anyone but himself. And then along comes the new girl, handing him a strange hourglass necklace and saying he’s a legacy—and suddenly, he’s on a team. He’s got friends. He gets hurt, and now he’s at a friend’s house, trusting a friend’s Dad… almost like he’s family.

Safe.

He reaches up and pokes at the bruising around his eye. Hurts like crap, but feels better—so much more familiar—than whatever these emotions are.

He startles when something presses against his ankle. He looks down to find Buddy peering up at him. Rick pushes himself off the counter and settles on the floor to pet the dog. “Hey, Buddy. You kinda lucked out in the family department, huh?”

The dog lets out a huff and drools on him. It is somehow both gross and cute.

They’re still sitting there when Pat returns. The man laughs when he sees that Buddy has practically crawled into Rick’s lap. “Uh oh, he’s got you now. He’ll sit there all night if you keep petting.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.” Rick scratches Buddy’s ears, and the dog practically melts in pleasure. When Rick glances up, Pat is wearing the same affectionate look he’d aimed at Mike earlier.

Rick clears his throat. “Noodle crisis averted?”

“Yep. Dinner is served… with extra crispy bread. Come have some spaghetti with us.”

Rick hesitates. “Mike won’t mind?”

“Mike is using the presence of a teenaged guest to insist that a true guys’ night means eating on the couch with a movie in surround sound, plus pie and ice cream for dessert. You might be his new BFF.”

Rick gives him a dubious look, but then shrugs. “I could eat.”

“Great.” Pat offers him a hand up. Rick grimaces with the movement as his body reminds him he went through a glass door without benefit of the hourglass. Pat has to steady him on his feet. “Okay?”

Rick blinks and takes a breath, shoving the pain down. “Sure.”

Pat releases him, but his hand hovers near as they make their way back towards the kitchen. As they fill their plates, the sound system in the family room begins to boom. “Sounds like Mike’s found us something appropriately loud and distracting.”

“And maybe a few bad guys, getting what they deserve?”

“Probably.”

“So, training,” Rick says, keeping his voice low.

Pike shakes his head, but grins. “Sure. Why not? Carb-loading, too.”

Buddy lets out an appreciative ‘woof’ at their feet. Rick grins, too.

Casually, Pat adds, “And after dinner, there’s a guest room upstairs with your name on it.”

Rick almost instinctively says no. He’s already let his walls down so far—maybe too far to reconstruct them properly.

But, more importantly, he wants to stay.

He ducks his head and keeps his eyes on his plate. “Okay.”

Pat’s quiet for a beat before he says, “Okay,” sounding pleasantly surprised. “Good.”

Pat gives him a little pat on the back as he passes. “Grab a fork and come join us.”

Rick looks up to find the man beaming at him as he leaves the room.

Rick takes a moment, and a few deep breaths, trying to regain his mental footing. He’s so used to taking care of himself. This is all just very… different.

He wonders, briefly, what will come later. He’ll stay the night in the guest room, but eventually he’ll have to go home; though he doubts Pat is going to just let the Matt-issue go. A mental image of Matt being confronted with S.T.R.I.P.E. flashes through Rick’s mind. It makes him smile, just a little.

Rick shakes his head, grabs a fork, and follows Pat into the uncharted territory of the family room.