Fate

Chapter 3a

"Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real." –Cormac McCarthy

It starts after he's cleared for more extensive physical therapy and the doctor nonchalantly informs him that he's also cleared for mild sexual activity. It's like the word 'sex' releases the flood gates of other him's memories of other Kate, and he instantly felt too warm and confined in the doctor's office. When he gets home he pours all his pent up sexual frustration into Nikki Heat and finally realizes what his flashbacks about page 105 mean.

When Kate comes over that night her tells her what he saw . . .without implying too much that he's basically already had sex with her, yet without her.

He had realized very quickly that he needed to always tell her when these memory overlaps occurred. It really wasn't fair that he got this special insight into her life and she was, what did she say?- 'playing catch-up'. He didn't want her to ever think that again. So he told her everything he could remember, and vowed to tell her if it ever happened again.

"I thought they had stopped?" And she's right, they had. The last time he'd even had an inkling of his alter ego was after their first kiss all those months ago. So why are they coming back now? She's kind to him as he pours out his frustrations with his situation, and she listens until he finally collapses next to the couch and tips his head back against her stomach so she can run her fingers through his hair. So calming.

He's pouting like he's a child, and she's smiling down at him like she's enraptured by his antics. She had called him a toddler throwing a tantrum when he gets like this.

Other Kate had called him a nine year old on a sugar rush.

He's not sure which one he likes better.

"Want to come into the precinct tomorrow? The boys have an interrogation first thing if you'd like to watch another." Oh, she knew exactly how to get him out of a funk. He tenses when he feels her shift forward to run her nose against the shell of his ear, and then he's tingling when her warm breath heats the side of his face. "I might join them in the box. Just for you."

He hasn't moved this quick since he'd been shot, and then they're kissing and groaning on his couch.

Everything is perfect with her.

It gets even more perfect when she pulls him toward his bedroom.

"You had a scar."

He's tracing her skin as they lay together in his bed and his wandering fingers have found the smooth skin between her breasts. Transposed memories are confusing his fingertips. His mind is telling him there should be ridged and marred skin. It's making his head hurt.

"You were shot at a funeral. I can't—I can't remember for whom, but, yeah."

He sees a shiver cause her to erupt into goose-flesh and he leans forward to place a chaste kiss to the unblemished skin.

"Well, now you're the one with the scar, Rick."

She takes that moment to mimic him and gingerly trace the angry red gash on his chest. They'd talked about him jumping in front of her that day in the factory as she'd examined his scars for the first time. The actual bullet hole in his chest slightly to the left of his heart, and the surgical gash on his side where they'd had to go in to fix his deflated lung. She had helped massage oil into the angry scars to alleviate the pulling, and he'd never felt more vulnerable, yet loved.

He hadn't told her that he now matched the other Kate.

She didn't need that burden.

She draws his attention back with a warm palm over his scar and her other hand against his cheek, drawing his lips to hers.

When they pull back, she rests her forehead against his own and closes her eyes in contentment.

"I love you, too, Rick."

He takes such a long pause that she has to pull back to bring him out of his own head. His mouth is slightly hanging open and she has to say his name again before his eyes refocus on hers.

"Another flashback?" Her voice is slightly insecure. It's something he's noticed whenever he has a flashback about other Kate. Almost like she doesn't think she'll ever be able to get a first with him without her other self making an appearance.

"No, nothing. Just—just you. In such a perfect moment, all I could think about was you."

The smile that erupts on her face is heavenly.

And they take each other back into the clouds of bliss.

"Let me finish this call and then we'll go watch the boys' interrogation, okay?"

He huffs in mock irritation and she unmutes the landline in her office to continue talking to whoever is on the other end. The Mayor? Or was this call to the Assistant DA? He couldn't remember.

Plopping down in the chair across from her, his short attention span zeroes in on the elephants adorning her desk. There are a few standalone figurines, but his fingers itch toward the little troupe bridged behind her name plaque.

As his fingers glide along the lead elephant's back he's wracked with a flashback so violent he knows when he comes back to himself he's going to be on the floor. He sees flickerings of a case file and vivid pictures of a murdered woman in an alley. Time seems to jump because then he's hovering besides a much younger Kate, must be other Kate, and her hands are dripping with blood; the feeling of a bruise to his side physically jars him.

The next bits all run together until he's checking her jacket for a bullet hole and then pulling her away from an older black man—out of a hanger and shushing her through her sobs, telling her it'll be okay.

But he's lying.

Then there's a funeral, and the other him jumping back in front of bullets trying to save his beloved. But he's too slow this time and then he sees her in the hospital, glowing a ghastly pale color under the terrible florescence of the ward lights.

He never wants to see that again.

There are more men, but he only sees snippets of them; flashes of faces and their association surrounding the gruesome murder of Kate's mother. Lockwood, Montgomery, Maddox, Raglan, Coonan, Arman, McCallister, Simmons, Smith, Rathborne, Lazarus. All of these men, some the same man, pierce his mind until there's only one remaining face burning into his eyelids.

The Dragon.

As soon as he thinks the name to himself he's gasping for air and scrambling to sit up from the cold, hard precinct floor. Kate is clutching at his chest and he's too panicked to think straight. He knows. He knows everything. Or, rather, he knows enough to piece the rest together. Her mother, her planned murder, the subsequent cover-up, all of the key players, he knows it all.

He doesn't mean to but he's ignoring her please to know what happened and if he's okay. He still can't fill his lungs, so he pushes up off the floor and stumbles to her desk for leverage. Kate is looking at him with the palest face he's ever seen. Wait- no, he's seen her worse. Not his Kate, but at this point he can't calm his mind long enough to make the distinction.

"Beckett." She tilts her head. He didn't mean to use her last name. Like he's a real cop— or closer to it then he currently is. That's not the right universe. Crap.

"Kate." She seems to relax a bit now, but she takes a step toward him and he opens his arms. He needs to feel her close to him, to ground him to this life. Everything is bleeding together and he doesn't want to get lost in the other him's mind.

It takes a few more minutes. Kate had moved away to get him some water and close the blinds in her office. He's taking steady sips, eyes closed, as he tries to figure out where to start first. He's not sure how to proceed. Everything he'd ever glimpsed before was never this traumatic nor important, and it almost feels taboo for him to have this knowledge.

It feels like he's cheating, and he's scared to know the consequences if he were ever caught with the contraband.

Beckett is stoic, and understands the importance of not prodding. One of her more defining qualities: the ability to be calm in moments of panic and hysteria. It'll make her a great mom for their kids.

WHOA.

Where did that come from?!

"Rick?"

He shakes his head of that new little tidbit, not even having the slightest ability to deal with that right now, and looks up at her. He needs to tell her. Or—or he could show her.

He scoots up from his slouching position and swipes the collective elephants' figurine off of her desk and holds it in his hands in front of her. She's got the most puzzling look he's ever seen. The furrow of her brow is too tight and he wants to kiss it away. Only wanting her face to be creased with laughter; never stress.

He feels along the back of the first elephant, his fingertips trembling as he outlines the grooves of the latch along the removable back. With a light pressure he pops the entire porcelain piece off of the figurine and memorizes the mesmerized look on Kate's face. She would have never known to look here without him.

Would have never known the terrible truth.

Would never have had to shoot her mother's killer in the precinct.

Would never have died in the back of an ambulance.

Would never have had to be tortured for information.

Would never have had to strike a deal for their lives.

Would never have found justice.

But, as he pulls the small cassette tape from inside the elephant, he knows this is going to completely throw everything out of balance. And he's not sure where everything's going to land once the world stops spinning.

"It's about your mom's case."