It took nearly ten hours for the debrief with the Marshals, the Lexington PD, and the FBI. By the time Tim made it back to his apartment, he was so exhausted he could hardly see straight. Though, he figured that may have been at least partially attributable to the head wound.
Once he'd managed to stumble through the door, the best Tim could do was sit down in the tub while the shower rinsed him off. He managed to keep the dressing on the cut, at least, and then he threw a towel around his middle and tripped toward the bedroom.
He wanted a drink, desperately, but he knew with his brain already swimming it was a bad idea, so he crawled under the blankets still wrapped in his towel and let his eyes close for a few blissful hours of rest.
When Tim woke up in the dark, it was with the feeling of a nasty hangover and dry mouth. He worked his tongue around, but it felt like cotton, and so he got out of bed and grabbed a glass of tap water from the kitchen, which he guzzled.
Had he drunk any water yesterday?
Tim checked the clock; it had, indeed, been yesterday. It was just past midnight, which meant he'd slept nearly six hours, for which he was incredibly grateful. He filled the glass again before he stooped down to pull his laptop out from under the couch where he'd last stashed it. He brought both items back to the bedroom.
Tim sat up against the headboard, setting his drink on the table and pulling open the drawer. He removed the manila folder marked "PERSONAL" that he'd swiped from Kathryn's home.
Kathryn's vitals, the last he heard, had been stable, but she was not yet out of the woods. Tim had desperately wished he could see her at the hospital, but he knew it would have looked bad for both of them if he'd neglected his work to do so.
He had to at least wait until morning, when a detour on his way into the office would seem more reasonable.
Instead, Tim flipped open the laptop and logged on to the VPN. He pulled out the newspaper clipping and looked once more at the photograph and its caption. He didn't really need to; he knew the name because it had been seared into his brain the first time he'd realized who she was.
Andrea Bunting (8).
Tim went to the missing persons database and typed in the name and age of disappearance. His fingers hovered over the enter button for a moment, and then hammered it as if the force of his tap might improve the results.
And then there she was. They'd used a school photo for her file, and even though it was from nearly three years after the newspaper story, it was clearly the same girl. She was missing two teeth, but that didn't stop her from beaming widely at the camera.
Kathryn had been a cute kid. It was a shame she'd never gotten the chance to enjoy being one.
Tim scanned the rest of the bulletin, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. Name: Andrea Kathryn Bunting. Date of birth: November 9, 1979. Parents: Kathryn Elizabeth Bunting (maiden name Harris) and Rodney Brian Bunting. Reported missing by a teacher, Mrs. Harriet King. It turned out Kathryn's soft accent was from Georgia, at least originally.
Tim did a quick search for Kathryn's father, and there was a report from the local PD in Blue Ridge about his overdose death. Kathryn's mother, by all accounts, appeared to still be alive. There was a driver's license with her name and likeness attributed to an Athens, TN address. He quickly stored that information away in his brain for future use, whether that was telling Kathryn one day her mother was alive—and not that far away—or if he'd be notifying Mrs. Bunting of her daughter's passing in the coming days.
That was the least he could do for her, wasn't it? Tell her mother that she'd died taking a bullet for him?
Tim closed the laptop and leaned back against the wooden headboard. His skull was buzzing, and so he closed his eyes, willing the noise to stop.
#
When Tim made it to her hospital room, it was just before six o'clock in the morning. Nearly twenty-four hours since everything had gone to hell in the parking garage and Kathryn had stepped between him and certain death.
Raylan was sitting by the door with his nose buried in a magazine. Tim had hoped maybe he'd catch Nelson on guard duty, but he was also smart enough to understand he deserved all the bad luck he could get.
"She awake?" Tim asked.
"Yep," Raylan said, without looking up.
"She allowed visitors?"
"Nope."
"You need a break?"
Raylan shook his head.
Tim squirmed a little, trying to figure out his next move, tapping his fingers against his gun in its holster.
"Just go in, Tim." And when he looked down at Raylan this time, the man was peering up at him from under the brim of his hat with a knowing smirk.
"Jackass," Tim said.
Raylan returned to his magazine and Tim took a deep breath before he opened the door and stepped inside.
He normally found the repetitive beeping sounds and the soft whirr of hospital machinery disconcerting, but in this instance, Tim decided the noises were comforting.
They meant she was alive.
"Howdy, Deputy. You come to arrest me again?"
Kathryn looked small and pale on the hospital bed, surrounded by too much white.
Tim smiled, "No ma'am." He stopped at the foot of her bed and tugged on the chain of a cuff securing her to the plastic railing. "Doesn't look like it'd do much good, anyway."
"I guess not."
He paused awkwardly, his fingers lingering on Kathryn's ankle. She gazed at him evenly, and he wished not for the first time that he could read her vague expressions. He would never understand how her face could be so accessible to him sometimes and an unreadable mystery others. Tim squeezed her leg firmly for a moment, then let go, resting his hand on his hip in what he hoped looked like a relaxed stance.
He could sense that Kathryn wanted to ask him something, and he was pretty sure he knew what. He was going to make her say it first, though. He was too stubborn to offer the information freely.
"Delia?" was all she could muster, and it stung a little for him to know the woman still mattered so much to her.
Tim had come here to check on Kathryn's health—and to hopefully reassure her. He suddenly realized he was not wholly confident in his ability to do so.
"She's… alive," he said, "Reed accompanied her to the hospital, and she'll be remanded into FBI custody once she's discharged." He hoped that was sufficient. He didn't want to discuss the specifics; didn't want to muddy the waters with the complex details of the situation.
He didn't want to think about what Delia knew or who she might tell it to. Because as long as Delia was alive and well, his future and Kathryn's were still very uncertain.
Tim wished he could tell her he would make sure she was okay; that he would protect her from the fallout of Delia's capture. But his influence only reached so far; there were never any guarantees.
"How much did she pay to have Dawson kill you?"
Kathryn couldn't look at him as she asked, but he smirked a little anyway, "Eight grand," he said.
"Not bad."
"Wanna know how much the Russians paid him for you?" She looked up, uncertain but curious. "Twenty-two."
"Hundred?"
Kathryn's eyebrows shot up when Tim shook his head, and he laughed. "I thought it was a little steep, too. I guess you were really running them out of business."
The grin that spread over her face was worth the sting to his ego knowing she'd been worth a lot more than him. He adjusted his stance, scratching absently at the bandage over his left eye.
"How's the arm?" he asked, finally.
"Sore. How's your face?"
"Hurts," he admitted. And then Tim hesitated, not sure if he should ask his real question; whether it was prudent to pull at this particular thread. Then he looked at the bruise on her face and decided it was, "Why'd you do it?"
Kathryn licked her lips, considering her answer carefully. For a second, Tim thought she might actually say it, but the words that fell out of her mouth eventually were just another convenient excuse. "Would've felt like a dick if you died," she said. "Why are you here?"
He shrugged. "Feel like a dick because you almost did." But it came out in a whisper, and so it didn't sound like the joke he'd meant for it to be.
In the silence that stretched to fill the next moments, Tim thought maybe that was as close as they would ever get. Maybe it was close enough.
They lingered in the strange and tenuous quiet, punctuated only by the beeping of Kathryn's medical surveillance, neither sure of what to say next.
Perhaps thankfully, Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens removed that uncertainty by entering the room in a flourish.
"Good morning, lovebirds. Sorry to intrude, but my shift is almost up."
"Oh, Raylan, you know it's always a pleasure to see you." From the thick, syrupy sweetness dripping off Kathryn's tongue, Tim sensed the two had spent some time together while she'd been laid up and Tim had been de-briefing.
"Pleasure's mine, Ms. Geller. Now, before I leave, I just have one last question." Raylan stared at Kathryn, who returned his gaze with equal intensity. "Was Tim with you at Daniel Boone?"
"No."
She hadn't even hesitated. Hadn't blinked. Tim was so enthralled by her commitment to the lie, he almost felt guilty for what he was about to do.
"Yes," he said, and he watched Kathryn's eyes nearly fly out of her face as they snapped over to meet his. He was still amazed by the way she'd kept every other muscle in her body perfectly still. He didn't think he'd ever get used to that flawless tranquility. Tim held her gaze firmly as he continued, "We went camping. Ate beef jerky under the stars. It was real romantic."
Tim didn't bother to look at Raylan, but Kathryn swung her gaze back to the older man. "I think Deputy Gutterson should head down the hall for a CT scan. Looks like maybe his head injury is more severe than we thought. He's clearly confused."
When Tim did finally look at his fellow Marshal, the man had a smug, satisfied little smile playing across his features, like he'd just heard an incredible joke that no one else understood. Raylan brought his fingertips to his hat and tipped it. "Ms. Geller. Tim."
And then he left. No biting or sarcastic remark. No promise of future trouble. Raylan Givens, now in possession of the confirmation he'd been seeking for weeks, stepped out of the hospital room without any further comment.
"What the fuck, Tim?"
He shrugged, "He was just gonna keep asking, anyway. Now maybe at least he'll shut up."
"You better hope he does, or you're gonna be in the shit."
"There's no proof, it'd be my word and yours against his. Reed already thinks it was Romero, and it's cleaner that way, anyway."
"You seem pretty sure there, Deputy."
He thought about his conversation with Reed in the parking garage, and he nodded. "I am."
The sound that escaped Kathryn's lips made it very clear she was not as confident as he was in his assertion.
Tim knew it was time to leave, but he needed to tell her something first. He just wasn't sure how to say it.
"There's a lot that's gonna happen in the next few months. I don't know the extent of it or where I'm gonna fall in the whole goddamn mess." He swallowed, and it felt thick and dry at the same time. Kathryn was staring at him, waiting to hear what he was trying to say. He wished she'd somehow just know without him having to finish the thought. His voice was low and quiet when he continued, "I just… whatever happens, Kathryn, I know who you are. I know what you've done."
Kathryn's eyes maintained their trademark ferocity, but there was a glassiness to them that hadn't been there before. She looked like she was going to say something, but then she swallowed it down and just nodded.
And that was that.
Tim let his fingers trail gently over the blanket covering her leg as he turned to leave, and squeezed her ankle once more before letting her go.
"Get well soon, ma'am."
"You too, Deputy."
When Tim pulled the door closed behind him, Raylan was back in his seat, reading his magazine.
"See you, Raylan."
"See ya, Tim."
Tim hesitated a moment, waiting for Raylan to say something else. Some trademark sarcastic Raylan Givens thing. But there was just silence, and the flipping of pages in his National Geographic, which Tim knew for a fact the man wasn't reading.
And so Tim headed for the door and drove himself to the office.
#
Later that night, after another long day of filling out paperwork, Tim sat in his living room, staring at the Tracfone he'd purchased. He supposed he no longer needed it. But as he looked at the phone, he thought he could almost hear Kathryn's husky laugh, and he was loathe to destroy it or chuck it in the garbage.
He stared at the thing like he was willing it to ring; willing her voice to return to him through the speaker.
In truth, what he actually wanted was for her to appear sitting on the couch next to him. But the phone remained silent; the cushion beside him empty, and so he put the phone on the floor and ground his boot into it with all the force of his frustration.
Mulling over his conversation with Kathryn in the hospital, Tim wondered if he had done the right thing by visiting her. It was likely the last chance he'd ever have to speak with her alone, and he was grateful to Raylan for that. But he'd hated seeing her looking so fragile, and he tried to push the image from his mind.
For Tim, Kathryn's tenacity and strength were an indomitable part of her, and he didn't think he'd ever get used to seeing her helpless. The way she'd looked on that bed, too small and so weak, reminded him of the night he'd held her as she cried.
Tim's mistake, of course, was thinking of holding her at all, because it sent his mind wandering to places it shouldn't; to other hotel rooms and other touches. The stress of the last 72 hours had taken their toll, and Tim wanted nothing more than the physical reassurance and release of another body next to him.
Of Kathryn next to him, he could finally admit to himself.
Tim thought perhaps a shower was in order before he headed to bed in pursuit of some sleep. Once he'd stepped into the water, though, he realized it was a futile endeavor. Even with the rush of the shower over his ears, all he could hear was Kathryn's low, throaty laugh and it made his stomach coil in a tight, telltale knot. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead into the cool tiles in an attempt to expunge the lascivious thoughts of her.
But even the sting of the cut above his eye wasn't enough to distract him. When this tactic did not work, Tim stood upright and turned the water from warm to arctic, hoping it would help clear his mind.
It did not.
Frustrated, Tim decided he had no recourse but to give in, so he reached low and closed his eyes, calling forth his memories of Kathryn and the time they'd spent together.
Her hair, smelling like cheap motel soap. Her pale skin slick with passion and sweat. The way she tasted. Kathryn covered in blood lying on the cement—no. He forcefully pushed the image of her, pale and unmoving, out of his mind and replaced it with a different one—Kathryn lying on the bed beneath him.
Tim leaned forward again, supporting his weight on the wall of the shower, his left hand gripping desperately at the tile.
The way her skin felt soft beneath his calloused fingers. Her hair falling like a curtain around their faces, pressed together in a world of their own. Her mouth on his mouth, his neck, his chest… lower. The feeling as he—
And then it was finished, and he let his ragged breathing slow to a sigh before he turned the warm water on again, helping to relax tense muscles and wash away the remnants of his weakness.
When had he become such a fucking sap? And why had he gone to see her at the hospital? Seeing her—touching her, even as little as he had—was only going to make things worse. Kathryn's fate was still uncertain, but Tim was relatively confident it did not include riding off into the sunset with him.
Despite the release, Tim found himself still wishing she were here, mouth parted as she breathed unevenly with him. He squeezed his eyes closed against the image, but it only brought her into sharper focus. The fact that his needs were no longer purely physical was not something he wished to dwell on, especially when the probability that he would ever see her like that again was essentially zero.
Eventually, he crawled into bed, a bourbon in hand. Exhausted and defeated, Tim threw the drink back and folded himself under the blankets.
Alone.