Sunday was at least different.

Kathryn woke up at the same time, but there was yoga, no running. Instead, she made herself some coffee and stood in her living room, looking out at a gloomy morning filled with drizzling rain. Tim wondered about the change in routine, but was mostly just excited for some variation. Rachel called him over the radio to ask what she was doing when she didn't see her leave for her usual morning jog. "Just staring out the window with a coffee. Maybe an existential crisis?"

"If only," she said. "Then maybe we could get the hell out of here." Tim smiled; glad to know Rachel was as frustrated by the assignment as he was.

After her coffee, Kathryn went to her kitchen and switched on the lights before donning an apron. Tim could only catch glances of her moving through the space, but it looked like she was going to bake something. Art was still snoozing softly next to him, so he stayed on the radio with Rachel. "Anything good?" he asked.

"I don't know, maybe a cake?" Rachel's hesitation suggested she wasn't much of a baker herself, and Tim wondered if Joe's birthday cakes were store bought.

Even from the car two streets over, Tim could hear that Kathryn was already listening to loud and angry music. He remembered the album she'd played for him in the motel and he could feel a headache brewing at the memory.

Whatever Kathryn was making, it was obviously a complicated recipe. She'd been in the kitchen for more than two hours by the time Art shook himself awake. He asked for a status update, and Tim let him know that Ms. Geller hadn't left her house, but was instead occupied in the kitchen. And then, for the first time all week, her phone rang.

The FBI claimed they had been unable to put any listening devices in her house prior to the beginning of surveillance, but they had managed to tap her known cellphone. Tim had reservations that she would use it all, having seen her with at least one burner during their time together, so he was taken by surprise when it rang.

He imagined the comical look on Chris's face as he jumped to life in the van, prepared to do the one thing he was brought for and hopefully trace the call back to its source.

Kathryn wiped her hands on her apron and switched off her music before she answered. The audio from the call came over the radio to Tim and Art, more than a little distorted.

"Hello?" It was the first time Tim had heard her use a normal greeting when answering the phone. Usually it had been a terse 'yes?'

"Happy Anniversary, baby." It was a woman's voice, smooth and low, that came crackling over the walkie. Tim was surprised and tried not to show it, though from Art's reaction, he seemed equally taken aback.

"Thank you," Kathryn said, a wide smile spreading across her face.

"What are you making?"

"Pistachio almond cake soaked in rosemary syrup with lavender-lemon buttercream."

There was a laugh from the other end of the line. "That sounds like a nightmare."

"I enjoy it."

"I know. Have a great day. I love you."

"Love you, too."

And then the call ended and Chris let out a frustrated breath over the radio. "Did you get it?" Art asked.

"What do you think?" came the terse and irritable response.

"Goddammit."

Tim sat back, chewing on the skin of his thumb, trying to think back over his interactions with Kathryn. Of course, there was no way he could have known whether she had a girlfriend, or if she'd gotten one during their time apart. But it felt like a strange call, regardless. The cadence felt wrong for something romantic.

"She ever mention a girlfriend?" Art asked. Tim shook his head. "Well, shit."

Art resolved to call SA Reed to inquire about any personal relationships that may have been left out of Kathryn's file. Tim could see that Art was growing weary of their assignment as well, and he hoped that meant it would soon be over. The deeper he got into this case, the more he thought it would be best to extricate himself completely from the orbit of Sarah Geller and Kathryn both. He was becoming increasingly fond of the idea of putting her in the rear view as he had that CD she'd given him.

Though he supposed he couldn't hope that she'd fly away in pieces.

#

Despite Kathryn's initial deviation from her usual schedule, Sunday had proved to be even more boring.

"How long has she been in there?" Art asked.

"Since 7 or so."

"Jesus."

"I'll tell ya, though, it looks good," came Nelson's response over the radio.

"It looks like something you'd see at a wedding," Rachel confirmed.

Tim wished he could see into the kitchen better, but he and Art had certainly drawn the short end of this particular stick. While their fellow Marshals got to watch Kathryn bake what was apparently a stunning and elaborate dessert, they were looking at an empty living room with only a few glimpses of a person wandering through their kitchen increasingly covered in flour and sugar dust. And it had been this way for more than five hours. How anyone had that kind of patience for a fucking cake, Tim would never know.

"Woulda been easier to just hit up the Kroger," Tim said.

"Ain't that the truth? I told Leslie ten years ago it wasn't worth the trouble. All tastes the same to me, anyway."

"I don't know, Chief, this looks pretty enticing. Wish I could get a slice." There was the sound of Rachel smacking Nelson. "Ow! What?"

Art turned the radio off.

"You think our mystery caller will show tonight?"

Tim shrugged. "Hopefully."

Art watched him thoughtfully. "You sure you're hopeful?" Tim ignored the teasing and rolled his eyes. Art continued, "What was she like to work with?"

"Frustrating," Tim said. "She was never very forthcoming with information, and she's worse than brusque. I'm glad I don't work with her on the regular."

Tim was aware of Art's scrutinizing stare, so he was careful to maintain as impartial an outward facade as he could. "She's pretty, though," Art said.

Tim shrugged. "Her personality more than makes up for that." Even as he said it, Tim knew the words didn't have any bite and Art would likely see through them. Still, he had to try. Any implication that their relationship had been more than professional would raise questions. Art had surely realized as soon as he'd read the case file that Tim's 'vacation days' had overlapped with the killing spree Kathryn was accused of in Daniel Boone. He was sure, too, that Art had read about the use of a sniper's rifle. Tim's current hope was that everyone assumed Romero was somehow involved, and that was why he'd been killed.

It wouldn't be difficult for Art to put those pieces together in the right way, though, especially if Tim provided any indication that he had been fond of Kathryn. Was still fond of Kathryn? He wasn't sure anymore; he seemed to waiver on this point every few hours or so.

They lapsed into a contemplative silence, each pursuing their own lines of internal inquiry. They didn't perk up for nearly an hour, when someone approached the house.

Art flipped the radio back on. "We have someone making contact at the front," he said. "Looks like a delivery person, but stay on the line."

"Copy," said Rachel.

Tim watched as the kid walked up to the house. It wasn't Dawson, that was for sure. This person was a foot too short and his face sported a splash of acne instead of tattoos.

In the end, it was everything it appeared to be; Kathryn had a pizza delivered. She hadn't made a phone call, so they had to assume she'd made the order from her laptop, or that someone else had placed it for her. Maybe the woman who had called. Either way, they couldn't rule out the fact that the delivery might have a deeper purpose, though they couldn't confirm anything, yet.

#

Art was taking point around dinner time. They'd watched absolutely nothing happen all day except Kathryn eating some pizza and enjoying a slice of cake. She was in the bathroom, now, and Art's cellphone rang.

"Hello?" Tim watched as Art pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know, Raylan, did you try looking in the cabinet?" Tim smirked as Art had a realization. "What are you even doing there, it's a goddamn Sunday."

Tim imagined Raylan's response, 'Justice never sleeps' or 'Criminals don't believe in weekends.' In all likelihood, he just plain didn't have anywhere else to be.

"I'll send somebody over to help, but Raylan, I am not happy about it."

Tim chuckled a little, but that quickly faded to a frown as Art turned to him and said, "I need you to stop by the courthouse."

So Tim went to the office. He scrambled out of the car and over to the vehicle they'd been using to get some much needed time at home when they could, and drove back into downtown Lexington, irritated all the way. When he got there, Tim found that Raylan was asking after a simple prisoner transfer form, and he was infuriated. "What the fuck, Raylan," he said as he stormed over to the file cabinet and pulled a pre-printed copy from the folder marked with MA-PS-013 and shoved it into the lanky man's hands with more force than necessary.

Raylan flinched in earnest because of his still-healing wound, but Tim thought he maybe oversold the movement.

"So... uh... how's the stakeout going?" he asked, feigning disinterest.

"Jesus, Raylan, are you really that desperate for some stimulation?"

Raylan shrugged, sitting back in his chair and propping his feet up on his desk. "Winona is out of town," he said.

"It's boring as hell, so I guess not much different from your week here."

Raylan appraised Tim and he didn't like it. Despite Raylan's penchant for being obtuse, he was often more adept at recognizing social indicators than Tim was. It was annoying, and he had a bad feeling the longer Raylan stared at him.

"Oh, I don't know. I imagine watching your girlfriend without her knowing about is probably a pretty okay place to be. Might even be a bit of a turn on." Raylan looked coyly over at Tim from beneath his hat, waiting for his words to elicit a response.

"Ah, Raylan, you're gonna have to do better than that. Everybody knows you're more my type."

Raylan smiled, hitching his hands together over his stomach.

"You were at Daniel Boone with her, weren't you?"

Tim didn't flinch. "Nope."

Raylan stood up from his desk and walked loosely around to lean against the front of it, facing down Tim who was leaned against Nelson's desk across the aisle. "You know, Tim, it's been a long week here at the office. Not a whole lot going on, and Art wouldn't even let me leave for a prison transfer. So I killed some time by reading the Geller case file and-"

Tim cut him off. "You read a case file? Now you're just pullin' my leg."

Raylan all but rolled his yes. "I read the Geller case file and I checked up on a few other things." Tim stiffened slightly, knowing that Raylan sticking his nose in anything could only lead to trouble. "While I was in Miami, you took a few days off, am I right?" Tim doesn't move; this is a goddamn trap and he knows it. "Well, I know you did because I found the paperwork for it. And I also know that the same rifle was used at two locations; the construction site where you are on record as being the sniper and the Daniel Boone blood bath. Now, I don't know much about your girlfriend, but I'd wager she ain't as good a shot as you are, and a coupla those men were dropped by someone who certainly knew their way around an M110. There's no way she was working alone."

"Coulda been Romero," he said, "or maybe Dawson."

Raylan smirked. "Didn't you tell Art you went camping? Lotta good campsites up at Daniel Boone, if I recall."

"I was up at Hoosier," Tim said.

"No, you weren't." The two men stared at each other, neither willing to give a centimetre. Tim's mind raced, trying to think of a way out of Raylan's logic.

He had never in his life been so grateful to feel his cellphone buzz in his pocket.

"Yeah?"

It was Art sounding just a little south of frantic, "She's on the move."

Tim was surprised to hear Kathryn was leaving her home for the first time in nearly a week, but he was also entirely unsure why Art was calling him about it. "Okay... you following her?"

"I can't. The battery died in this impounded piece of shit. Won't start."

"Shit. What do you want me to do?" He knew Art would prefer to keep the tech van on site if at all possible.

"She took a cab, so we know where she's headed. Buster's Billiards & Backroom."

"I know it," Tim said. He'd been to the place a few times for a beer after work or to see a show. It was a dingy little joint known for an eclectic slate of performers that encompassed everything from country music to jazz and punk. It was only about a five or seven minute drive from the courthouse.

"Get there and call me if you see her. If you don't, we're in the shit."

Tim snapped the phone closed and regarded his office mate coolly.

"Sorry, Raylan, but I have actual work to do."

Raylan stayed leaned against the desk, mouth still turned up in a ghostly smile that made Tim's skin crawl. He turned on his heels and headed out of the office, but he could feel Raylan's eyes boring into his back as he went. He refused to turn around and he decided to take the stairs two at a time to avoid any chance he'd have to wait for the elevator in Raylan's line of sight. Apparently his co-worker was not only a capable Deputy Marshal, he could actually be good at his job when he was sufficiently motivated and without distraction.

Tim was pretty sure he was extremely well fucked.

#

Tim already had a headache. Of all the goddamn places Kathryn had to go, why here? He felt uncomfortably out of place and he was worried she'd spot him in a second because he looked it. It hadn't been difficult for him to get in, at least. A little flash of the badge and the scrawny teenager at the box office had all but given him a backstage pass.

A large part of Tim had wished he hadn't, and an even larger part wished he could order a very strong drink at the bar, but he kept reminding himself he was on duty and needed to stay sharp. This was a far less than ideal situation. With no backup and this many additional people, it wouldn't be difficult for her to manage to slip away if he wasn't on his A game.

He'd positioned himself around the bar, behind enough people that hopefully his face would fade into the background, but close enough to the single entrance that he would see her if she walked in. Some punk band from Brooklyn was apparently headlining, but a local indie rock group was playing now. The bass felt like it was thrumming directly through his nervous system, and the screaming shredded into his ear drums. He wanted about four shots of bourbon and twelve Advil.

Where the fuck was she?

He was just about to call Art and tell him they really were in the shit, when he spotted her auburn hair coming through the door. She appeared to be alone, though he had now way of knowing whether she was meeting someone inside. She was dressed very differently than he'd seen her before, and it made her look about a decade younger. She had changed into a pair of black denim cut off shorts and some high-top converse sneakers with a black tank top. The outfit showed off her tattoos and made her look extremely pale. It reminded him of the small group of goth kids from his high school, except for her lack of makeup.

He texted Art because he knew his boss would never be able to make out his words against all the background noise. "Eyes on target."

Art texted back immediately, "Call if you need backup. Locals on stand-by."

Tim stuffed his phone back in his pocket and rolled up the sleeves of his sweater. There were too many people in here, and he was sweating uncomfortably in his jeans. It was a muggy, hot day unto itself, never mind in a confined space with a bunch of strangers. Suddenly Kathryn's time traveling outfit made a lot of sense.

Tim had bought a hat from the merch table on his way in, and he pulled it low over his forehead, hoping to blend in as much as possible. He hoped the beanie would be sufficient camouflage against the sea of black asymmetrical haircuts, but he couldn't help feeling hopelessly exposed, regardless.

Tim watched as Kathryn ordered herself a stiff, dark drink and he licked his lips in envy. She seemed content to stay at the bar while the openers finished their set, and he saw her rebuff no fewer than five young men interested in buying her a second beverage. When the local band wrapped up, Kathryn ordered a second drink, tossed it back, and then made her way as close to the stage as she could, adeptly wriggling her way through the crowd. Tim moved in tandem, spotting up along the wall near a bouncer after he showed him his badge.

Tim was not prepared for when the music started.

He'd been to what he thought were punk shows, but the energy of this was entirely different. It turned out Kathryn had placed herself directly in the middle of a mosh pit, and the violence that entailed was wholly unexpected. When the band took the stage, there was no preamble. They immediately slammed on their instruments and launched into a shrieking ballad as their frontman screamed "I TOOK A BEATING," and continuing on from there. Even off to the edge of the venue, Tim was not safe from all the raucous the jostling.

He watched as Kathryn jumped and punched and swung around. She both delivered and absorbed her fair share of blows. And while Tim may not have understood the music, he certainly grasped the appeal of what she was doing in the crowd. How many times had he started a bar brawl just for the chance to hit something?

Suddenly, some of Kathryn's more disparate characteristics seemed to solidify. It turned out she was just as angry as he was, and that was something he could work with. Kathryn was covered in sweat and exuding giddy delight. He could see light bruises starting to form on her upper arms and someone must have hit her in the mouth because her lower lip was split and bleeding. He remembered the injuries she had sustained the last time he'd seen her, and he wondered if she had derived pleasure from them in the same way she seemed to be pleased by her current predicament.

Despite his best efforts, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he watched her.

#

Tim kept her in his sights easily through the entire show and an encore, and he was relieved when he watched her head straight for the exit following the last song. He needed water. And a shower.

But first he had to tail her, hopefully back to her house. He climbed into his car, watching carefully as Kathryn walked several blocks from the venue before attempting to flag down a cab. He was glad for the sluggish traffic because it gave him time to sneak around and get behind the taxi that eventually picked her up. They were headed in the direction of her neighborhood, and Tim allowed himself to relax a modicum as he envisioned a smooth ride, and Art letting him head home for a few hours to freshen up. He was sure no one, not even Art, would want to be trapped in a car with him in his current fetid state.

Tim felt his phone buzz and he expected a simple response to his "She's heading back" text. Instead, Art was calling him.

"Hello?"

"Someone just entered her house. We think it might be Dawson."

"Shit."

Well, there went any chance he might've had for a shower.