The crew are pulling a heist. Nothing new there. But something about this job just doesn't sit right with Kat. Implied KatxHale. In my head, set after Perfect Scoundrels.

A/N: Just something short I found on my computer from a while ago. Would appreciate any thoughts.

Kat lay in the blue room, staring up at the ceiling. It had been a long day. Not that that was anything unusual but this job, this stupid job, spent an unusual amount of time nagging at her senses. It was fairly simple job - one she would have done by herself once upon a time - but for some reason everything just felt a little laboured. Even as she looked at the blank, pale blue wash above her, she could visualise blueprints and hand-drawn movement plans. 'No rest for the wicked,' she thought.

But what they were doing wasn't really wicked, was it? Kat had lost track of the number of times she had asked herself that question, or words to that effect. Maybe that was what was tiring: the constant doubt. Now she was stealing to return already stolen items, she had thought that it would get it easier. And it had. She didn't wish for the numbing relief of Colgan's ivy-covered walls anymore which was surely a good sign. It must have been this job, this emstupid/em job. Just then, there was knock at her door, which opened just enough for Hale to poke his head through.

"Still up?" he asked.

"Evidently."

Hale pushed the door open a bit more and moved forward into the room to sit on the end of Kat's bed. Kat shifted slightly under the covers even though he was nowhere near touching her. Yet. Kat shook her head, trying to dislodge that thought. Hale was looking at her intently.

"You okay?"

Kat replied positively but with a sigh, pulling her knees up to her chest. It felt weird to have Hale at the end of her bed like she was ill or something.

"Sure you are. You're sending me all the evidence that you're okay."

Hale was too far away and Kat too tired to reach out and hit him lightly as she said, "Give it a rest, smarty pants."

"I think you mean superman pants…"

Hale moved to sit next to Kat, his legs extending out above the covers. Kat marvelled at how much younger not wearing smart shoes made Hale look. His socks were still boys' socks, with the label sewn on carefully most probably by Marianne; it would hardly have been Mrs Hale. "Everything's going to go fine, Kat."

She turned to look him in the eye.

"They're your family, Hale. It feels wrong somehow. Are you sure about this?"

Hale looked disgruntled and turned to look at the far wall, exhaling frustratedly.

"I realised where the painting was remember? I want to see this happen as much as anyone. Besides," his voice softened. "It was never their painting to begin with. That's what matters right?"

Kat went to interrupt but Hale cut her off before she'd managed a single syllable.

"Kat, my family isn't like yours. They are the kind of thieves who have no honour. And my ties to them are different; it's not like stealing from your dad or any of your uncles."

"They're still your family."

"I know. But if we're being picky the guy who bought the painting married in and we've never liked him anyway."

"I'm being serious Hale."

"So am I. He's really obnoxious."

"Hale…"

"Really, Kat. This is fine. I'm not doing anything they haven't done to me. Even if I'm doing it in a much more literal sense.

"Everything always seems so black and white for you."

"Only the things that don't matter, Kat. Everything that's important to me is just the way I like it: a little bit grey."