When Tim arrived at the office, he walked into a hurricane of activity. Rachel's eyes rose to meet his from the conference room, and he could see immediately that he was in for a shitstorm. He was still deciding whether it would be easier to just turn around and leave the country rather than face Art, when his boss noticed Rachel's gaze and fixed his eyes on him, too.

Tim didn't know if he'd ever been so scared in his life. Art was an unpredictable man, and he wasn't entirely sure whether the Chief Deputy was past putting a bullet in a subordinate who had disappeared without a trace during an FBI-backed manhunt.

Art pulled open the glass door and Tim braced as if for impact. "You get your ass in my office. Now." Despite the fact that there were at least a dozen officers from various federal agencies buzzing through the bullpen, there was no question in anyone's mind who the summons was meant for, and Tim trudged toward Art's office feeling all the confidence of a sixth grader on his way to see the principal.

Art held the door open for Tim, which felt somehow more threatening than if he had been pointing his firearm at him. He stood awkwardly as Art carefully closed the door and then made his way around the office, lowering each set of blinds. The last thing Tim saw before he was cut off from the outside world entirely was Vasquez's smug smirk.

"What the fuck, Tim." Tim opened his mouth, but Art gave him no time to answer. "No, I mean, what. The. Fuck."

"Sorry, Art."

"Sorry? You're fuckin' sorry? Well, that's just dandy. Thank you, Tim. I'm so glad that YOU'RE SORRY!"

Tim winced. The persistent buzz of others working in the adjacent rooms quieted to a dull and insidious silence. For all that Art had made a show of closing the blinds so no one could see in, he obviously had zero intention of keeping their conversation private in any way.

"I thought I could catch her, but I lost her once we got off the highway."

Art collapsed into his chair, clasping his hands across his middle. "And then what? Because you should've turned tail then and headed straight back here." Tim started to answer before Art curtly interjected, "In fact, you shouldn't have taken off after her alone in the first place!"

Tim ran his hands through his hair, trying to sell his frustration. He decided to pointedly ignore the second jab and instead address the question. "I just kept driving around, hoping I'd spot her. I was angry and frustrated that I lost the vehicle, and I let it cloud my judgement. At some point, I realized it really wasn't safe for me to be driving anymore, so I gave up and slept at a motel and now I'm back." Tim collapsed into a chair across from Art, sinking down into the worst posture he could manage without hurting his back. "I stopped at the house first, then I came here."

Art watched Tim for what felt like a long time. Tim hoped that the legitimate circles under his eyes would help to underscore his exhaustion, maybe gain some sympathy from his extremely frustrated superior. He knew that Art had a soft spot for him, and he was looking to play on that affection for all it was worth in this moment.

"Goddamn it, Tim." Art shook his head, leaning forward onto the desk. "Next time keep your phone charged. Got it?"

Tim sat up, relieved. "Yes, sir."

#

Of course, Art's irritation hadn't really tapered out with a request to better manage his battery usage. Instead, his righteous indignation had extended to Tim's work, and Tim was now stuck on desk duty, filing paperwork for his ill begotten chase, the weapons that had been discharged in Kathryn's home, and the time he had spent tailing her at that horrible concert.

Tim was pleased by none of it, but he also knew he had no say. So he dutifully buried his head in lengthy forms and manila folders until 7PM, at which point he decided it would be prudent for him to return home. Tomorrow was another day, and he needed to sleep if he was going to be at all functional.

Tim tossed his copy of Kathryn's file onto the counter as he walked into his kitchen and yanked open the fridge. He pulled out a half-filled tupperware container and put it into the microwave. While he waited for his leftovers to warm up, he poured himself a bourbon and flipped on the television with the remote, leaving it on whichever channel it was already tuned to, not caring as long as it provided some white noise. As he took a sip of his drink, he stared at the unopened file and let his mind wander through the facts of the case thus far.

He wondered where Kathryn was now; what she was doing. Whether she was safe. His stomach tightened when he thought of the still unaccounted for hitman, and his part in all of this. If he believed Kathryn—and he found that despite everything, he did—then someone else was responsible for the death of her handler. Dawson, though an effective murderer, certainly was not cut out for management, which meant his services had been acquired by someone else.

The most important question for Tim to answer was who was writing the checks, and was he a dirty agent or some thug she'd been associated with during her time as an informant. The answer to that question could very well determine every important turn the case would take. Of course, he could tell Art they shouldn't be hunting Kathryn. But watching all of their resources poured into finding her was maddening when he realized there was a much larger picture they should all be taking into account.

When the microwave beeped, Tim pulled out the leftover chicken and rice and took it to the couch, where he sprawled out and ate. He let the television continue on in the background, though he paid it no attention, even after he'd finished his dinner and poured another drink. In fact, he found himself in a complete daze as his mind continued combing through the information he had, looking for inconsistencies or openings he might have previously missed. He was cursing Raylan Givens and wondering how he could once again gain access to Kathryn's house when his phone rang.

Tim sprang up like someone had jabbed him with a cattle prod. He'd let his mind drift too far, and it took him a moment to recognize what was happening. He lifted the device to his ear without looking at who was calling.

"Hello?"

"'Evening, Deputy." Tim's shoulders relaxed a fraction; he hadn't even noticed he'd been holding them so tightly.

"Miss Kathryn, what a surprise." Tim leaned back against the couch, letting his feet come up to rest on the coffee table in front of him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He could hear Kathryn pull back a laugh, reigning herself in. "Just wanted to say goodnight; I feel like I cheated you a little bit last time we saw each other."

Tim listened carefully; he could hear something soft and quiet playing in the background and he wondered despite his best efforts what she was listening too, even though he knew he'd probably hate it. "It is presumptuous of you to assume my bedtime. My wet nurse doesn't put me down for another hour, yet."

"Hm. Someone should probably have a talk with the babysitter, then." He didn't miss the fact she hadn't said 'parents.' Of course, having been through his records before she recruited him initially, she would know they were both dead. It was a small gesture—one of many—that he noticed and refused to take for granted.

"Where are you now?" he asked, knowing she wouldn't answer.

"Somewhere between the Pacific and Atlantic, just north of the Mexican border and a tad south of the Canadian," she said, soberly. He heard the clink of ice in a glass over the phone and he wondered how many she'd had to steel her nerves before she'd called him. Even Kathryn—enigmatic and assured though she was—must have had some reservations after their last interaction. If she was half as guarded as he thought she was, he could confidently count on a single had the number of times she'd cried in front of another person. Tim wondered if any of them had also seen her naked.

"Nothing new here, I'm afraid," he said, deciding it was time to get down to business. "Dawson is still a dead-end for now. No one knows where he is. They've got six Marshals and a coupla Feebs working to find you."

"Unless one of them is you, I doubt that would be nearly enough." She paused, waiting to see if he would continue their ill-advised flirtation. When she realized he wasn't going rise to the bait, she continued more somberly. "I don't know anything about this Dawson shithead either. He's new to me and I'm trying to find anything I can on him, but it's hard now that I've been locked out of the FBI databases. Romero used to let me use his credentials."

That explained how she had been so capable of pretending to be an agent when he'd worked with her. Romero was another line of inquiry. He still wasn't sure what exactly his relationship with Kathryn had been or why he had been willing to look the other way why she did her work. "If I hear anything useful, I'll let you know. Just assume he's in every room you walk into; from what I've read, he's that kind of guy."

"Noted," she said, and he heard the ice clink again.

"When should I expect your Delia?"

He imagined Kathryn losing a bit of her drink as she snorted. "Ha-ha, Deputy. She'll find you at some point in the near-ish future at a place where you will be available to speak with her. That's all I can tell you, truly." There was a pause as she considered something he couldn't quite decipher over the phone. He wished he could see her, look her in the eye and read what she was thinking. He could hear her voice change as she whispered thoughtfully, "For what it's worth, she seems interested to meet you. Can't say that for most folks."

"I'll try to keep my calendar open, then," he offered, hoping to bring the more light-hearted side of her back. Tim liked witty, sarcastic Kathryn. He wasn't sure, yet, what he thought about sad, vulnerable Sarah Gellar or whatever her name was. But he was leaning toward, 'no, thanks.'

"Since there's nothing else to report, I guess I'll leave you and your nanny to your bedtime routine."

"Thanks, it's my favorite part of the day."

"Goodnight, Deputy."

"'Night, Kathryn."

And then the music and the ice and her voice faded away and he was left alone in the dark of his living room with nothing left to do but think about the case, Kathryn, and how the hell he was going to get himself out from between the two.