A/N: This one is a little heavier, we're gearing up here for the "final hurdles" before the end of this story. I'm really looking forward to writing this next chapter because I have the dialogue for a part of it prepared for months now. It's pretty much the basis of this entire story, and you'll probably know it when you see it. I can't wait to share it with you guys, and to have the finished story for you so that you'll know what I know! I'm so completely blown away by the response to this story, and every time my phone buzzes with an alert from this story it just brings a smile onto my face.

I hope you like this one, it's a little different from the previous chapters.

Distill a whole year down into a day
Act like we all start over with a pristine slate
But to get yourself a new life you've got to give the other one away
And I'm starting to believe in the power of a name
Cause it can't be a mistake if I just call it change

Sara Barreilles - December

Chapter 14 - Now and Then

6 years ago

It was a dimly lit café tucked into the side of the highway. This café was a place 24 year old Kate Beckett would frequent often, toying with the idea of returning to the life that she had left behind in New York. She would sit there for hours, watching the headlights of cars disappearing into a distance she would not dare to venture into. She would flip the phone open and shut in her hand, her thumb grazing over the 2, ready to punch in the number to her father. But she never did.

"Do you want a refill, hon?" The heavy-set waitress asked. Kate didn't have to read the name tag anymore to know her name.

"No thanks Patrice, I should get going." Kate smiled weakly, pulling a few crumbled notes out of the pocket of her jeans and did her best to straighten them out before putting them on the table.

"Alright hon, see you on Thursday." Patrice didn't notice the double-take Kate did at the comment. She hadn't known how predictable she had gotten, and the realization settled like a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach. It sent jitters through her veins, closed up her airways and the claustrophobia wasn't far behind. It didn't take a doctor to recognize the symtoms, but Kate only felt the restlessness that pulled her out of her seat. She knew the medication, knew what helped before.

David was doing his AT-service at one of the hospitals in the area. Neither Kate nor David knew that when they met, but she knew he was looking for a stressrelief. He lived in an apartment that was not much bigger than the bed in it, and the walls were bare of anything that would be able to fool her into thinking he was anything but the exterior he showed her. All he cared about was getting ahead, and he had no interest in human connection. That was what made him perfect for her.

There were no questions as to why she needed to see him, nor any concern of how she chose to escape whatever was bothering her. He knew that he wasn't her first, that he was in a line of men who were only good enough as long as they made her forget whatever it was that she needed to escape. It was a reciprocal non-relationship, and neither of them were playing the other person.

In the miniature apartment equipped with a water boiler, instant coffee, and a microwave that heated up frozen pizzas bought from the corner store three stories down, it was simple. Neither undressed the other, and he buried his face between his thighs and didn't leave until her knees shook with an orgasm. They never made love, it was never slow. He fucked her so that she forgot her name, his fingers leaving bruises on her thighs, arms. She left her own marks, a feral fury bubbling to the surface as she clawed at his back and scalp, biting his neck hard enough to break the skin. It was never pretty, it never left her feeling proud. But with him between her thighs, above her, or under her, or behind her, she no longer had to think. And that was all she needed. All that she had to be was a primal being who didn't care about anything but what went on in that room.

Afterward he would sometimes hand her a bottle of whatever flavor of the week, that night it was a tequila bottle that was nearing empty, left over from a party she knew the doctors had held that weekend. She never hesitated, always took a few gulps of it, and then passed it over to him. She would feel sore then, but not yet ashamed of herself. At 24 the shame hadn't quite settled in yet, it felt dirty and exactly how she wanted because it was distracting, but she was not ashamed.

"I'm moving to New York," David said that night as she walked over the mattress to get to the bathroom. She didn't respond to him, they didn't talk often, and New York wasn't a topic she was about to change that with. "Aren't you from there?" He looked casual on the bed: lying on his back naked and unbothered by her piecing stare.

"It was a long time ago," she answered, and ran a hand through her tangled hair.

"Got any tips?" Despite her deflection he pushed on, pushing buttons he knew would get somewhere. Why, she didn't know. It frustrated her that she couldn't read him. What was attractive about him, beyond that he was ridiculously good looking with a six-pack she had no clue how he managed to get or maintain with his crazy schedule, was how easy he was to understand.

"Mind your own business, is my tip." She slammed the door to the bathroom shut behind her. She leaned against the sink, focusing on steadying her breathing as she stared into the rusty drain. She may not have felt any shame about this, but the mere mention of New York made shame well up like nausea, and tears started to press behind her eyelids. Back there she had left him, her father, when he needed her the most. No matter where she went she could never outrun the shame of it. She could never outrun how pathetic and useless she felt for leaving, yet she could not find it in her to return. And that she couldn't return made her feel that much worse.

The door opened behind her. It didn't have a lock, it had always been broken. She didn't look up to see him in the mirror, but she could feel him press himself up against her back. His hand slid down the flat expanse of her stomach and between her thighs. Despite her anger at him her breathing picked up, and she arched her back so that she could press against his hand and the hardening member pressed against her ass. As his fingers worked fasted between her legs, his finger rolled over her clit he pressed himself into her.

This is what she knew, what she needed. Not the talking. Her knuckles turned white as she held onto the porcelain of the sink, pressing herself back against him, settling into a rhythm until his punishing pace made it impossible for her to keep up. All she could do was hold on as an orgasm washed over her, and when her legs wouldn't keep her up anymore he held her weight up against him.

When she left his apartment she knew that it would be the last time she went there. If he called her she would ignore him. He had the stench of New York on him now, and there was no way she would ever let herself fall into that pit again.

—-

Now

The baby rolled in her stomach, lazy and heavy inside her womb. The paper cup filled with tepid tea was untouched in her hand as she stared unseeing down the long hospital corridor. The inside of the hospital room was stuffy and dark. As the alcohol left his system his body protested, craving more of the substance that was sure to kill him now. Her dad had insisted on the curtains being drawn shut and grew increasingly upset at any sound that disrupted his peace.

She pressed her hand against her stomach, against the solidness of her belly, and felt a hand or a foot push back against it in annoyance. The daughter that she carried inside of her was an anchor she was lucky to have. Whenever her mind started to float away, and spiral into chaos her daughter's kicks would pull her back into her body. While most likely she woke up from the increased pulse, and was equally affected by the adrenaline that pumped like poison in Kate's veins, Kate liked to imagine it as kicks to comfort her.

Many times she felt like she owed her daughter an apology. Her daughter deserved more than what Kate had to offer her now. With three months left until her arrival it was seeming more and more unlikely that she would ever get to meet her grandfather. With each second ticking closer to that inevitable future she unraveled even more. Like a ball set in motion down a hill she could not stop the onslaught anymore. Yet again she was facing the death of a parent, but this time she had to prepare for it.

When Johanna Beckett died Kate believed that if she had been able to prepare, had time to bargain and mourn before her mother drew her last breath, then it all would have gone a lot different. As she stared at the closed door to her father's hospital room she knew that death was never easy. Now she was torn between the knowledge that death would end the pain he was in, and the depths of sadness that overwhelmed her at the thought of her father no longer being a part of her future.

It was self-inflicted. That she could acknowledge. On each of their parts they had inflicted all of this pain onto themselves. Her by staying away for a decade, and him for picking up the drink.

—-

4 years ago

The application forms laid crumbled at the bottom of her bag when she opened it in the morning. Her superior had handed them to her over the break she had at dinner-time two days before, urging her to apply. It would give her a higher paycheck, more responsibility, and advance her career.

Becoming a paramedic had never been her goal. Neither had she ever planned on being an EMT. It was one thing to fall into the profession of EMT, and tell herself it was a temporary thing until she got her life into order. It was an entirely different thing to commit herself to it, and to become a paramedic.

Instead of declining the offer Kate had taken the papers, giving as big of a convincing smile as she could muster, and stuffed the papers into her bag. That bag had haphazardly fallen just by the door in someone's apartment, scattering half of its contents across the floor.

The inside of her skull throbbed to the beat of her pulse, and she was thankful for the dimly lit hallway she was crouched in. The light that had pierced through the open curtains in the living room had roused her from her sleep, and threatened to blow her head up with its glare. The shots of tequila she had taken to chase down the foul tasting lukewarm beer had been a bad idea, and even in her inebriated state she had known that. She hoped that she would get home before her stomach turned against her, not feeling like embarrassing herself by puking out of a taxi by the side of a highway. In her experience it wasn't something the driver tended to appreciate. When it happened Kate made sure to tip extra.

It would be a lie to say that the application had been the reason for why she went out after her shift ended the night before. However, it was the excuse she had given herself. By now it felt tired, even to her, to use her mother's death and father's alcoholism to excuse her personal moral decline.

She took the excuses that were given to her to satisfy the itch of boredom that crawled under her skin. It was the itch that crawled under her skin when the grief pressed underneath her lungs, and it was too much for one person to bear. So she had to go out, she had to quench the grief with something more urgent and present. As long as she could focus on the now she had no time to dwell on the past. Each time she battered up her insides she hoped that the sadness of other things would grow smaller in comparison. It never did, but it never stopped her from trying.

At work she had a reputation. She knew that. Most people didn't care as long as it didn't involve them, but some did. It hurt, she had to admit that, when the nurses at some of the hospitals would scoff at her, or when a wife to one of her co-workers viewed her with suspicion. The married co-workers were off-limits to her. Though she usually felt no obligation to the spouses of the men she had sex with there was nothing to gain with bringing that kind of drama into the shop. And it was all a carefully weighed game of risks and gains at this point.

Though now she was old enough to admit that even the most carefully weighed plans could fall if the wolf were to blow at her house, it was the responsible thing to at least have one. Which was why she kept condoms in a tin container in her bag, and took her pill between 6 and 7pm every evening. In her line of work, and with her choice of lifestyle, there was no consistency to her sleep schedule. So while she would've preferred to take it as she woke up she didn't want to risk ever being late taking it. The pills were kept in the same place as the condoms; within the unremarkable tin container that scrambled around in her bag to remind her of its presence.

As she reached for the container that had slid across the hallway floor in the night when she had arrived, she felt the pull and twinge low in her belly that caused her to wince. In their rush she had been too dry, and he had been too quick. The pain had almost been a welcome distraction then, dulled by the alcohol, but now she hissed and tried to breathe into it.

The pain eased into something that was more discomfort than anything, and she put everything back into her bag. The litter of things covered the paper, scrunching it up until it was no more than trash. Useless.

Before she left she glanced at her phone, unlocking the screen with a press to the red button. The phone had saved her last thought before she had left with the guy — she didn't remember his name. The contact was saved as Home phone despite that she didn't call that place home anymore. It didn't belong to anyone who she could feel home with, either.

Often in a momentary romanticism brought on by the haziness of alcohol she found herself entertaining the thought of going back. People sometimes asked questions about her back home, the place she never visited, as if her disinterest in her past was peculiar. Maybe it was. Either way, back home wasn't home; it was only back.

She pressed the return button until she was back on the home screen again. Safe from temptation.

—-

Now

She knew that she could have called Rick to help her, but she didn't. It wasn't that the thought hadn't occurred to her, because it had, but because she didn't want him there. As good as the man was, she knew she wasn't. It was becoming abundantly clear each day that not only had she failed as a daughter to her father, but also as a person. Hadn't she left then he would've been sober, and she knew that in her heart to be true. Though she had no superpower to see the might've-beens, the belief of it was as much evidence she needed to convince herself.

Not once during the climb up the stairs to her father's apartment with his weight bearing down on her shoulder did she regret the decision to not call Rick. There were many things she did regret, but not this one.

In preparation for his arrival home she had cleaned up the mess he had left behind him in his rush to the hospital. Though she was under no illusions that the rush of the admittance had actually caused much, if any, of the mess she had tasked herself with cleaning up. When the cleaning had been done she had interviewed hospice services and nurses that would care for her father's increasing needs during the coming months. The first nurse would arrive that afternoon, but now it was only 10am and the hospital had discharged him as soon as possible to get an available bed.

Both Kate and her father were wheezing by the time they reached the door to the Beckett apartment. Kate from her increasing uncomfortable weight that made any graceful movement mere chance than anything else, and Jim because he was an ailing alcoholic with a fast approaching expiration date.

The two of them settled on the couch inside, catching their breaths and gathering their senses of the new normal that they were about to get to know. They'd talked briefly about what was to come, but Kate hadn't wanted to overload her dad with to much practical information when he got exhausted from just sitting up. The stairs had obviously taken most of his energy judging by the drooping of his eyelids, and neither of them had the energy to take him to bed.

Instead of taking him to bed she took a hold of his legs and carefully placed them on the couch, thanking her lucky stars that he'd sat down in the middle of the couch. Otherwise his head wouldn't have aligned so perfectly with the side cushions to the couch. As soon as his eyes fluttered shut he was already out.

—-

1 year ago

Patrice filled her cup up without Kate needing to ask. Over the years the two of them had developed a silent friendship, and though neither knew much more about the other than their first names, it was the one lasting friendship she had had since high school. And it was in between the familiar smile Patricie gave her and Patricie walking away from her window booth that it dawned on her. The realization was like an ill-fitting shoe, uncomfortable and impossible to ignore.

Turning her head to catch Patrice sashaying over towards a co-worker, both laughing at the joke that was lost on Kate, it further cemented the truth in her realization.

This was not where she belonged.

Though Patrice's smiles were always welcoming and kind, and she was always greeted Kate like a friend who'd stayed away for long, she was only a customer. The irrefutable fact was that whatever life she pretended to live in this city was no life. Over the past decade she had not made her mark, nor rooted herself in any capacity beyond the superficial.

What she had in Los Angeles she could just as easily have anywhere else in the world. Her life here was as exchangeable as her presence in other people's lives. Though she knew that people like Patrice would at some point pause and wonder when the last time that EMT-girl last came in, and how odd that it had been so long, her absence would not be noted as more than an anomaly in the day to day life.

Maybe it was the years between her mother's death and now, but on her second cup of coffee that night she wanted nothing more than to matter again. It was a longing that she hadn't felt in years, to be noticed and to be someone.

The last time she had been someone had been in New York, and she knew of one person there that still saw her as a person that mattered. Though she had been running for years from that place, it was the only place she could think of where she would no longer be anonymous.

Before the third cup of coffee arrived, and before she ordered a second plate of fries to it, she had reached her decision. She was moving back to New York.

—-

Now

"I'm sorry I haven't called," Kate said, cradling the phone close to her ear.

In the small kitchen she could only see a small speck of the hallway that extended towards the bedrooms, but out of habit she still looked out towards it to catch any potential eavesdropper. The nurse had arrived a few hours before, and was now preparing her father for bed.

"No, it's okay. I understand that you're busy," Rick replied. From the tone of his voice she could hear that he did understand. "How is your dad?"

"He's uh…" She watched the corner of the hallway that was visible to her, as if she could see through walls and into her dad's bedroom. "Tired." No words seemed to be enough, yet she couldn't find the ability to think of any other word to describe him. Watching him wither was exhausting too, but she didn't want to tell him that. Right now she didn't have the energy to think about how she was feeling.

"Are you… are you coming back here tonight?" He spoke as if he was testing the stability of the ice underneath him, wanting the ice to hold but still uncertain that the storm that'd just passed over hadn't destroyed it.

"I'm staying." It wasn't until he'd asked that she had thought to ask herself that question. Even without him asking she would've arrived at the same decision. Leaving her father wasn't a choice anymore. Too many times she had decided not to come, so now she owed it to him, and to herself, to stay.

"Okay, I understand…" Despite his words he sounded weary, knowing that the ice was cracking underneath the weight of his foot, but still wanting to know for sure if the ice would hold him. "Do you want me to have a driver pick you up tomorrow?"

"No Rick… I'm staying here," she clarified. "I can't leave him again."

He plummeted into the ice cold water.

"I understand." He didn't.