Tim stared up at the dark ceiling, wondering what the hell he was going to do. He worried that he would be unable to protect Kathryn indefinitely from the arm of the law, and he was even more concerned about Dawson, a hitman still unaccounted for. Kathryn had been reticent to provide him with any further details about Delia or her work. She had only said that Romero had been aware of her position and of the case the two of them had completed together prior to his murder.

She, too, was concerned about the apparent cover-up of what had taken place at Daniel Boone, and while she remained committed to the cause, and willing as far as he could tell to be jailed for it if necessary, she confided that she had spent the time since he'd last seen her trying to figure out what had happened. It was her belief that a compromised FBI agent was behind Romero's death, the disappearance of the victims, and the accusations against her.

A government conspiracy. Wonderful.

After she'd told Tim her story, Kathryn had taken a long shower, emerging red and raw from scalding hot water and too much scrubbing. He'd showered, too, though he was forced to re-don his dirty clothes afterward. Kathryn had made a half-hearted attempt to tease him about her spare shirts not fitting him as well as his had suited her, but the toll of discussing her past was evident, and the quip had no bite. When she'd offered him the bed because she was shorter and would fit better on the small couch, he'd refused, easily accepting that despite their past, they would not be sharing the bed. He respected her space, and had laid down on the loveseat with his legs propped up on one end and his head on the other. He kept trying to convince himself that it was like sleeping in a hammock, but it wasn't. Eventually, though, he had drifted off to sleep, the exhaustion and adrenaline drain of the day overpowering his discomfort.

Tim was startled awake by the sound of soft crying. When he sat up, the faint light that filtered through from the window cast strange shadows over Kathryn's face as she laid in bed. He could see, though, that she was still asleep; brow furrowed and drenched in sweat. Her face was damp with tears. "No," she said, small and sad, and he realized she was dreaming. Tim stood, unsure of the right course of action. But his decision was made for him when Kathryn thrashed violently, "No!" and he knew this was not a dream she should have to endure.

Tim sat precariously on the edge of the bed, reaching gently out and touching Kathryn's shoulder. "Hey," he whispered, "Kathryn..."

But she shifted sharply against his touch. "Let me go..." and she was still crying, broken and heart-wrenching sobs muffled against the pillow as she turned her head to the side.

Tim remembered Kathryn's hands on his shoulders in a motel room not unlike this one, forcing him awake from a nightmare. He wondered if this was what she'd seen in him; terror and fear and sadness. He wondered if he'd been crying, too.

"Get off of me!" Tim's stomach clenched as Kathryn yelped and swung her arms up wildly. Tim caught them in his hands, holding them down at her sides as gently as he could while she kicked at some unseen assailant from beneath the duvet. His chest tightened as he watched her relive some terrifying memory, unable to rouse her.

"Kathryn, wake up!" But she didn't, she just kept thrashing against him, whimpering so softly he thought he might cry, too. He leaned down and pressed his mouth against her ear. "Kathryn, wake up, you're having a nightmare."

Her face almost collided with his as she shot up into a seated position. Panting, trembling, and still sweating, she looked wildly around. He leaned back, trying to give her space as he released her arms. It took her a moment to focus on her surroundings, but when her eyes fell to his, she scrambled to him and crumbled against his chest, grasping desperately at his shirt and sobbing in earnest.

He didn't know what to do. He could feel her tears soaking through his shirt, could feel her whole body convulsing as she wailed hopelessly against him. He wrapped his arms around her, hoping it was the right thing to do. It was the first time Tim had ever thought of Kathryn as being small. She was petite, certainly; a good six inches shorter than him and well-muscled, but lithe. Her demeanor and aura always made her seem larger, somehow. As she curled into his chest, clutching at him like a child, he was overwhelmed by just how tiny she felt in his arms.

When he tried to think of something to say, his mouth felt dry. He didn't want to tell her it was okay, because it wasn't. He didn't want to tell her she was safe, because he wasn't sure that was true, either. Eventually, he settled on whispering, "I'm here. I'm right here," as he ran a hand through her hair in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. Tim wasn't used to providing solace; no one had ever looked to him for it except, he remembered, Samuel Kirk. But that had only been because he was dying and Tim was the sole other person for miles.

This was different.

Eventually, Kathryn's crying subsided and she quieted against him, releasing his shirt and sitting back to wipe at her face with her hands. He loosened his grip and eventually let go, though he didn't want to. He wanted to keep holding her close, to protect her from whatever horrors the night had brought forth. He also didn't want to overstep his boundaries, and he wasn't sure where exactly those demarcation lines were anymore.

Kathryn didn't say anything as she collapsed back against the pillows. Tim stood to return to the couch, but she reached out and snatched his wrist. When he looked down at her, she was staring up into his face with a pleading and somber expression. "Stay," she said, and the sound was so small and unsure that Tim thought his heart might break.

She moved over to give him enough space to slide under the blankets with her, and then she was on him in an instant, wrapping both her legs around one of his and folding an arm over his chest, tucking herself as tightly against him as she could. He wrapped his arms awkwardly around her.

"Is this okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he assured her, despite the fact that it was even more uncomfortable than his previous position on the loveseat. Still, he couldn't bear the thought of taking away what little comfort he could offer her.

Tim ran his fingers delicately over her right arm as it draped over his middle. Looking down, he could see she was wide awake, staring past his shoulder at some far away, lost in a memory. He looked down at the pale appendage on his chest, noting the dark ink etched into her skin. The poorly executed tattoos looked much more sinister now that he understood their origin. The question fell out of his mouth before he could stop it, "Why don't you have them removed?"

At first, he didn't think she'd answer. He cursed his indelicate outburst as she let out a long, shuddering breath, the kind that stutters out of your lungs after you've cried so hard your soul feels empty. Then, she whispered against his chest, "I've thought about it. Still do sometimes." She looked up at him and he watched her face in the dark, blotchy and red—still, he thought, quite lovely. "But they're part of who I am, a reminder of why I do what I do. And besides, when I work with victims, they trust me because they can see I'm one of them." His hand was still caressing her arm when she shifted, reaching up under his shirt to rest her hand over his heart. He wondered if she could feel the way it fluttered when she did. He hoped not.

They spent the rest of their time in silence, her head tucked close to his neck, nose brushing against his pulse. Eventually, his breathing slowed and he fell asleep even as his right arm went numb from the awkward pressure of her body.

#

Kathryn was gone the next morning when he woke, but she had left him something. On the couch where he hadn't slept, there was a silver key and a short note. D will be in touch. A phone number with if you need to reach me. No details on what the key was for, exactly, though he had his suspicions. Tim decided to follow his instincts and flushed the note before he left the room and headed back to his car.

It wasn't until he was on the road headed toward Lexington and whatever reaming Art had in store for him that he decided to let his mind cast back over the previous evening. His stomach clenched when he thought of Kathryn's story and her subsequent night terrors. He had noticed the black motorcycle was missing when he left, and he allowed himself only a moment of frustration at not having procured the license plate number the night before. Mostly, he was glad she had left before him because he wasn't sure he would have been able to let her go otherwise. He understood that she needed to distance herself from him in order to stay out of custody. But he wished she could be next to him, where he knew she was safe.

He knew he was bound to be perpetually on edge until they found Dawson, at least. Once the errant hitman was out of the picture, they could focus on the larger issue of who else might be involved in the plot against Kathryn and, in all likelihood, the person she worked for. Tim let his mind go blank for the rest of the drive, turning up the radio and rolling down the windows to press every unwanted thought from his mind. He knew what he wanted to do, and he also knew that he would likely need to wait to see exactly how chaotic the Marshals' office was before he made any moves.

On an impulse, Tim made the decision to stop at Kathryn's house before completing his journey into downtown Lexington. He parked in front of the little house, aware that he was broadcasting his location, but figuring that if anyone was there already or if someone arrived soon, it wouldn't matter whether they knew immediately or had to go inside the house first.

Tim approached the front door cautiously. He couldn't see anyone inside, but that didn't mean someone wasn't. He decided a direct approach was best, and he walked straight up the stairs to the front door. He stopped at the screen, looking down at it the way Kathryn had the night before when she'd decided to enter through the garage. Barely visible, there was a broken thread dangling limply from the door handle. It was light blue, the color of the flowers closest to the door. An old trick, but a useful one. Kathryn had clearly known someone would come looking for her eventually. He wondered at the childish tactic, surely she had a more high-tech solution available to her?

Tim opened the front door, still broken from where he'd busted it in. The house was quiet and he peeked back into the kitchen and the dining room, seeing nothing of note. There were crime scene markers where casings had been found, caution tape over the back door where it had been broken in. Tim stilled in the short hallway between the living room and the dining room, staring at the door to the basement. His hand fingered the key in his pocket, and he headed downstairs.

The basement was dank and cool; not a finished space as was now expected of newer homes, but a utilitarian expanse with a sink, washer, dryer, and storage along one wall. A single naked light bulb dangled from the ceiling overhead. Tim reached up and pulled the cord, bathing the room in dim light. He took a moment to survey the space and he realized it was too small; there was space missing toward the back of the house, as if the basement had never been completed. He looked over the shelving along the back wall with a trained and critical eye, and he realized the built-in storage was a ruse; there must be a hidden space behind it.

Tim walked over to it, running his hands along the rough wood shelves. They were stacked with peanut butter jars filled with screws, half-empty paint cans, and assorted tools. A silver box in the middle of the unit caught his attention. When he attempted to lift it, it would not move. Certain of his discovery, Tim pulled the silver key from his pocket. He placed it in the lock and was about to turn it—

The sound of a toilet flushing sent him flying backward like the shelf had electrocuted him. He stashed the key in his pocket and drew his firearm, heading cautiously across the basement and back up the stairs, turning the light off as he went.

#

When Tim reached the top of the stairs, he carefully swept through the door and closed it silently behind him. His ears picked up the sound of someone moving in the kitchen, so he turned through the dining room, approaching the same way he had the night before when it had been Kathryn and an unknown assailant. He hoped this time that it was truly Vince Dawson, so he could put a bullet in him. With the hitman dead, Tim would feel much better about Kathryn continuing to delve into the Daniel Boone incident on her own.

Tim braced himself along the wall, took two breaths, and burst into the kitchen.

"Well hello, Tim!"

Tim pulled his firearm back and snapped his finger off the trigger.

"Shit, Raylan. What the hell!"

The taller man was standing in the kitchen, leaned casually against the counter, eating a piece of the elaborate cake Kathryn had baked the previous day. Raylan pointed at the treat with his fork, speaking with a mouthful of frosting. "You should try this, it's really, really good."

Tim holstered his weapon, trying not to let his irritation get the better of him. "I thought you were on desk duty."

Raylan shrugged, "Art's best deputy was unavailable," he looked pointedly across the room at Tim, "and you went AWOL. So he sent me to watch the house."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Who's his best deputy?" he asked.

"Rachel."

"Naturally."

Tim walked to the counter and took a seat at one of the stools. He'd expected to run into a Marshal or some local guy watching the house. He had hoped maybe Art would've left Nelson, he could've easily talked his way out of that. Talking his way out of anything with Raylan was a trick and a half, talking himself out of sneaking around a crime scene after going missing for eight hours might be impossible.

Tim watched as Rayalan scraped the remnants of his cake from the plate.

"You really think it's wise to eat food from the fridge of a dangerous fugitive?"

"Now Tim, are you trying to tell me your lady laced her cake with arsenic?" He continued, mock seriously, "You dating Lady Tofana?"

Tim stood, ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Raylan, knock it off, you're not funny. And anyway, I gave you that book."

Raylan shrugged. "I think I'm pretty funny. I also think you wouldn't be so sore if I wasn't right about you and Ms. Geller."

Raylan walked over to the fridge and pulled it open. Tim stared at the cake he dragged out. It was missing a few pieces, but the towering dessert was truly spectacular. Two tiers of three layers each, if the missing slices were any indication. It was decorated with buttercream roses in various shades that created a pastel-colored bouquet on the top tier.

Even Tim the Ranger Sniper didn't think he would have had the patience for it.

"So what are you doing here, Timmy?" Raylan cut himself another slice of cake, gesturing toward Tim, who waved him off even though he desperately wanted to try it.

"I came looking for some clues about where Ms. Geller might have gone." Raylan chuckled. Tim ignored him. "I followed her as far as Richmond, but I lost her after she got off the highway."

"Richmond's only 40 minutes from here. Why'd it take you so long to get back?"

"Well, I searched for her a while. I stopped and got a room when I got too tired to drive." The excuse sounded lame, even to him. Raylan was fresh and sharp while Tim was dragging ass, which left him at a distinct disadvantage.

Tim glanced over his shoulder toward the front of the house, and his eyes stopped at the open door leading to Kathryn's bedroom. Aside from the bathroom, it was the only other part of the house he hadn't yet seen. His eyes lingered on the door frame, wondering how the room was decorated and what color her sheets were.

Tim was snapped away from his thoughts as Raylan slid over a plate with a slice of cake on it. "If you wanna go raid her panty drawer, I won't say nothin'." Tim watched the cowboy pop another forkful of cake into his mouth and hum an appreciative and exaggerated, "mmmm."

Tim rubbed his hands roughly over his face. He wished again that it'd been Dawson waiting for him when he came upstairs. Or hell, Art, even. His dead dad. Anyone but Raylan.