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sendthembackKeith remembers. Rachel was once incredibly drunk. Texting with Stephen. You guys really want to drink again? Really?
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XIX.
"Okay," Keith whispers. "What happened?"
He knows a few things, but not many, just what he's seen and what he can piece together from what she really hasn't told him. He's watched her wear herself out, seen her toss herself into her work, though he never even suspected what had happened until she told him, and that had taken a near fatal amount of alcohol and blind chance to get out of her.
He had been in a place at a time, probably the right ones, though it felt pretty wrong at the time, especially since it had meant seeing her like that, at her fucking worst, utterly destroyed. It had been terrifying, really.
About a month ago, or six weeks, now, he was working later than usual, not ready to go out into the world. He had exhausted all of his usual procrastinatory measures, shuffling his papers, yelling at his computer, pacing up and down the hallway, the way he sometimes does when he's trying to think. It was a Tuesday and he was already tired from two full days of work, but he just didn't feel like going home.
He didn't feel like working, either, though, even if that was his official excuse for not getting on the subway, or, at this point, calling yet another cab, and just going home. There just wasn't anything to do, or there was, there always was, but nothing could hold his attention. He checked his e-mail and found nothing, then hit ESPN.com, but he just wasn't interested. He spent a good five minutes just staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what was keeping him from letting himself do anything. Finally, he stood up to start another pacing loop, then decided to take a long walk through the building, just to see who was still around.
He grabbed a cup of water and then started his rounds, sticking his head into every open office he passed, making small talk and and hanging in doorways, wandering the desk farms, pulling grunting interns from the work they simply wanted to get done before finally heading home. He was driving them crazy, he knew, but all he wanted was distractions.
It was remarkably quiet in the studios, just the quiet clicking of keyboard and the occasional murmur of a voice. After pissing off his third grad student, Keith shrugged to himself and then turned down another hallway, the one he probably should have been heading down in the first place.
It was just before midnight when he reached Rachel's office, but he wasn't too surprised to see a light seeping out from under her door. She'd been working later and later recently, and coming in earlier and earlier, stretching her days past fifteen hours at 30 Rock a day, now pushing toward twenty. He caught her napping on her couch sometimes, though her little fits of sleep always seemed more spontaneous than planned, like they just fell upon her whenever they could. He found her with a book lying on her chest or a pile of papers spread out across her lap, breathing hard or muttering to herself, sound asleep with her glasses still on her face. Sometimes he woke her up, other times he let her sleep. He gave up trying to slip her glasses off. He always seemed to wake her up whenever he touched her.
When he knocked on her door, softly, but firmly, and she didn't immediately answer, he figured she had probably fallen asleep again. He tested the knob, and it turned in his hand, so, he pushed the door gently open and peeked inside.
Rachel was sitting in her desk chair, leaning, half-sprawled over her keyboard, two different bottles of wine sitting open next to her computer.
"Rachel?" Keith asked and she started up, blinking stupidly at him.
"Keith," she mumbled, trying to nod at him. She got in a slight sway before falling forward again, her head dropping back down onto her desk.
Keith took a few steps forward, lifting the bottles one at a time. The first was a little less than half full, but the second was completely empty.
"Jesus Christ, Rach, what are you trying to do, drink yourself to death?"
"Maybe," Rachel answered, starting to rub her cheek lightly against the smooth plastic surface of her desk, her eyelids fluttering. Then, she suddenly jerked up again, staring through him instead of at him. "You want a drink?"
He took a deep breath. "Rachel... You can't be here like this, a drink or two after the show or while you're doing afternoon research maybe, but this..."
Rachel frowned at him, rolling her shoulders before slumping down into her chair. "What about the drink?" she asked, and he realized that she wasn't even there any more.
"I'm taking you home."
She blinked at him. "My home?"
"Your apartment," he answered with a nod, stepping around her desk. He reached for her hands and she gave them to him.
"My home," Rachel echoed, and he knew she was saying something more than what the words meant to him, but he didn't want to ask, not right then. He hoisted her up and grabbed her laptop bag, leading her stumbling out of the office. He didn't even bother to turn out the lights.
In the cab, halfway through the short trip to her apartment, she told him. The night air had sobered her up just enough, and she look a long sob of a breath before choking out the words.
"She kicked me out, Keith. She dumped me, kicked me to the fucking curb."
"I'm sorry," Keith breathed, pulling her lightly toward him. She tipped into him, her cheek slamming hard into his shoulder, but she didn't seem to notice.
Keith closed his eyes, opening them again before saying, "I didn't know. You should have told me."
"It's okay," she said, pressing her face into his shirt.
Keith snorted. "Apparently it's not, actually."
Then, Rachel laughed. She burrowed her head into her chest and laughed softly to herself all the rest of the way to her apartment, quieting down as Keith shouldered her bag and helped her out of her seat. He paid the cab driver and then joined Rachel on the sidewalk hunting through the bag, looking for her keys.
"Front pouch, dumbass," she giggled, swaying on her feet, almost dancing. He might have gotten angry at her, but then she lost her balance completely and almost tumbled onto the pavement. He lurched forward, holding her up, her keys in his palm.
"Let's get you inside," he gritted through his teeth. "Dumbass."
Rachel had laughed at that, though she had tripped into weeping before he had even dragged her all the way up the stairs.
He got her into her bed, shoes off and lying on top of the covers. Then, he sat with her for a few minutes, awkwardly patting her shoulder and stroking her hairline until she calmed down again. He left her dozing with a glass of water on the nightstand and a whispered promise to call and harass her in the morning. He didn't notice the boxes until he was closing the door, stacks and stacks of them along the wall, crowding her tiny apartment, crushing into everything.
In the morning, both over the phone and then, later in his office, she had apologized a dozen times, but had refused to talk about it otherwise. Somehow, Keith had just let it drop, though he started stopping by her office more and more, badgering her about working too much, bringing lunch and asking her staff and coworkers about her.
Weeks passed and she looked more and more tired, but nothing like that happened again.
XX.
"I don't know how to start," Rachel sighs. She presses her shoulders hard against his chest, then slips onto her back. Keith's arm lands across her chest as she situates herself again. He immediately jerks it up and then lets it fall on her stomach.
"Have you talked to Susan at all?" he asks, biting lightly at the inside of his lip.
Rachel shakes her head. "No... Well, once, almost a month ago."
"Yes?" Keith asks.
"She told me she was shipping me the rest of my stuff and hung up when I tried to say anything back. The rest of my boxes came the following week."
"Oh, I..."
"It's over, if that's what you're asking. Add up all the damage and it's done."
Keith takes a breath. "And the damage?"
Rachel groans up at the ceiling. "Oh, God, I know it's early, but, can we have a drink?"
"I don't--"
She rolls back toward him, looking him in the eye, frowning.
"All right," he sighs. "But figure out what you're doing with Stephen, first, okay?"
"Okay." Rachel gets up then, pulling her BlackBerry out of her bag and scrolling through the menus. She taps something onto the keys and then drops the phone onto Keith's stomach, moving into the bathroom.
Keith nearly jumps out of his skin when the phone vibrates through the sheet. He jams random buttons until the message pops up.
My dear Rachel I have been waiting by my phone all day okay that is not true but I still desire your company
this is keith. rachel is In the bathroom. Keith types back.
Phone thief give me back my Rachel
you can have her when shes done with her bladder.
Not good enough
why am i even talking to you?
WHY AM I TALKING TO YOU?
Rachel snatches her phone out of Keith's hands, noting the impassioned way he's smashing his fingers down on the keys. She clears the message without even checking to see what he's written.
Hey, it's Rachel. Do you want to do dinner instead?
There's a long pause before Stephen answers back. So I guess Keith is so much more important to you then fine
Rachel sighs. Look, we're kind of having a weird day and we need to talk about things. Five o'clock?
Another long pause.
5 is good xoxoxoxoxxxoooo
Rachel rolls her eyes and tosses the BlackBerry back at her bag. Then, she stoops over, finding her t-shirt. "Drink?"
"Drink," Keith sighs.
She pulls the shirt over her head and leads him out of the bedroom.
Words required: 25,005
Words achieved: 27,504
Words of today: 1,746
XIX.
"Okay," Keith whispers. "What happened?"
He knows a few things, but not many, just what he's seen and what he can piece together from what she really hasn't told him. He's watched her wear herself out, seen her toss herself into her work, though he never even suspected what had happened until she told him, and that had taken a near fatal amount of alcohol and blind chance to get out of her.
He had been in a place at a time, probably the right ones, though it felt pretty wrong at the time, especially since it had meant seeing her like that, at her fucking worst, utterly destroyed. It had been terrifying, really.
About a month ago, or six weeks, now, he was working later than usual, not ready to go out into the world. He had exhausted all of his usual procrastinatory measures, shuffling his papers, yelling at his computer, pacing up and down the hallway, the way he sometimes does when he's trying to think. It was a Tuesday and he was already tired from two full days of work, but he just didn't feel like going home.
He didn't feel like working, either, though, even if that was his official excuse for not getting on the subway, or, at this point, calling yet another cab, and just going home. There just wasn't anything to do, or there was, there always was, but nothing could hold his attention. He checked his e-mail and found nothing, then hit ESPN.com, but he just wasn't interested. He spent a good five minutes just staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what was keeping him from letting himself do anything. Finally, he stood up to start another pacing loop, then decided to take a long walk through the building, just to see who was still around.
He grabbed a cup of water and then started his rounds, sticking his head into every open office he passed, making small talk and and hanging in doorways, wandering the desk farms, pulling grunting interns from the work they simply wanted to get done before finally heading home. He was driving them crazy, he knew, but all he wanted was distractions.
It was remarkably quiet in the studios, just the quiet clicking of keyboard and the occasional murmur of a voice. After pissing off his third grad student, Keith shrugged to himself and then turned down another hallway, the one he probably should have been heading down in the first place.
It was just before midnight when he reached Rachel's office, but he wasn't too surprised to see a light seeping out from under her door. She'd been working later and later recently, and coming in earlier and earlier, stretching her days past fifteen hours at 30 Rock a day, now pushing toward twenty. He caught her napping on her couch sometimes, though her little fits of sleep always seemed more spontaneous than planned, like they just fell upon her whenever they could. He found her with a book lying on her chest or a pile of papers spread out across her lap, breathing hard or muttering to herself, sound asleep with her glasses still on her face. Sometimes he woke her up, other times he let her sleep. He gave up trying to slip her glasses off. He always seemed to wake her up whenever he touched her.
When he knocked on her door, softly, but firmly, and she didn't immediately answer, he figured she had probably fallen asleep again. He tested the knob, and it turned in his hand, so, he pushed the door gently open and peeked inside.
Rachel was sitting in her desk chair, leaning, half-sprawled over her keyboard, two different bottles of wine sitting open next to her computer.
"Rachel?" Keith asked and she started up, blinking stupidly at him.
"Keith," she mumbled, trying to nod at him. She got in a slight sway before falling forward again, her head dropping back down onto her desk.
Keith took a few steps forward, lifting the bottles one at a time. The first was a little less than half full, but the second was completely empty.
"Jesus Christ, Rach, what are you trying to do, drink yourself to death?"
"Maybe," Rachel answered, starting to rub her cheek lightly against the smooth plastic surface of her desk, her eyelids fluttering. Then, she suddenly jerked up again, staring through him instead of at him. "You want a drink?"
He took a deep breath. "Rachel... You can't be here like this, a drink or two after the show or while you're doing afternoon research maybe, but this..."
Rachel frowned at him, rolling her shoulders before slumping down into her chair. "What about the drink?" she asked, and he realized that she wasn't even there any more.
"I'm taking you home."
She blinked at him. "My home?"
"Your apartment," he answered with a nod, stepping around her desk. He reached for her hands and she gave them to him.
"My home," Rachel echoed, and he knew she was saying something more than what the words meant to him, but he didn't want to ask, not right then. He hoisted her up and grabbed her laptop bag, leading her stumbling out of the office. He didn't even bother to turn out the lights.
In the cab, halfway through the short trip to her apartment, she told him. The night air had sobered her up just enough, and she look a long sob of a breath before choking out the words.
"She kicked me out, Keith. She dumped me, kicked me to the fucking curb."
"I'm sorry," Keith breathed, pulling her lightly toward him. She tipped into him, her cheek slamming hard into his shoulder, but she didn't seem to notice.
Keith closed his eyes, opening them again before saying, "I didn't know. You should have told me."
"It's okay," she said, pressing her face into his shirt.
Keith snorted. "Apparently it's not, actually."
Then, Rachel laughed. She burrowed her head into her chest and laughed softly to herself all the rest of the way to her apartment, quieting down as Keith shouldered her bag and helped her out of her seat. He paid the cab driver and then joined Rachel on the sidewalk hunting through the bag, looking for her keys.
"Front pouch, dumbass," she giggled, swaying on her feet, almost dancing. He might have gotten angry at her, but then she lost her balance completely and almost tumbled onto the pavement. He lurched forward, holding her up, her keys in his palm.
"Let's get you inside," he gritted through his teeth. "Dumbass."
Rachel had laughed at that, though she had tripped into weeping before he had even dragged her all the way up the stairs.
He got her into her bed, shoes off and lying on top of the covers. Then, he sat with her for a few minutes, awkwardly patting her shoulder and stroking her hairline until she calmed down again. He left her dozing with a glass of water on the nightstand and a whispered promise to call and harass her in the morning. He didn't notice the boxes until he was closing the door, stacks and stacks of them along the wall, crowding her tiny apartment, crushing into everything.
In the morning, both over the phone and then, later in his office, she had apologized a dozen times, but had refused to talk about it otherwise. Somehow, Keith had just let it drop, though he started stopping by her office more and more, badgering her about working too much, bringing lunch and asking her staff and coworkers about her.
Weeks passed and she looked more and more tired, but nothing like that happened again.
XX.
"I don't know how to start," Rachel sighs. She presses her shoulders hard against his chest, then slips onto her back. Keith's arm lands across her chest as she situates herself again. He immediately jerks it up and then lets it fall on her stomach.
"Have you talked to Susan at all?" he asks, biting lightly at the inside of his lip.
Rachel shakes her head. "No... Well, once, almost a month ago."
"Yes?" Keith asks.
"She told me she was shipping me the rest of my stuff and hung up when I tried to say anything back. The rest of my boxes came the following week."
"Oh, I..."
"It's over, if that's what you're asking. Add up all the damage and it's done."
Keith takes a breath. "And the damage?"
Rachel groans up at the ceiling. "Oh, God, I know it's early, but, can we have a drink?"
"I don't--"
She rolls back toward him, looking him in the eye, frowning.
"All right," he sighs. "But figure out what you're doing with Stephen, first, okay?"
"Okay." Rachel gets up then, pulling her BlackBerry out of her bag and scrolling through the menus. She taps something onto the keys and then drops the phone onto Keith's stomach, moving into the bathroom.
Keith nearly jumps out of his skin when the phone vibrates through the sheet. He jams random buttons until the message pops up.
My dear Rachel I have been waiting by my phone all day okay that is not true but I still desire your company
this is keith. rachel is In the bathroom. Keith types back.
Phone thief give me back my Rachel
you can have her when shes done with her bladder.
Not good enough
why am i even talking to you?
WHY AM I TALKING TO YOU?
Rachel snatches her phone out of Keith's hands, noting the impassioned way he's smashing his fingers down on the keys. She clears the message without even checking to see what he's written.
Hey, it's Rachel. Do you want to do dinner instead?
There's a long pause before Stephen answers back. So I guess Keith is so much more important to you then fine
Rachel sighs. Look, we're kind of having a weird day and we need to talk about things. Five o'clock?
Another long pause.
5 is good xoxoxoxoxxxoooo
Rachel rolls her eyes and tosses the BlackBerry back at her bag. Then, she stoops over, finding her t-shirt. "Drink?"
"Drink," Keith sighs.
She pulls the shirt over her head and leads him out of the bedroom.
