this is all my fault

[ these lines in the sand we cross again and again ]

Her eyes have just closed (at least, she thinks they have) when they open again. She's awake, shaky from lack of rest, and doesn't know why.

She squints at Bill in the early morning light, expecting to see him caught in a nightmare, but his breathing is deep and even, features smooth.

The knocking registers a half-second later.

She eases out of bed as fast as she can without waking Bill, pulling on her robe as she pads down the hallway and opens the door. Steeling herself for the reporter she's sure she'll see, her shoulders relax when she finds Dave and Sarah waiting on the porch.

"Mornin', Kate," Dave says, removing his Wheelsy Sheriff's Department cap.

"Hey."

"Mornin'," Sarah echoes, her smile soft and sympathetic as she balances a stack of plastic containers and a small wicker basket on one arm. "We brought breakfast."

"You didn't have to -- to do this." Kate's stammering, her voice still thick with sleep. "Come on in, guys."

Stepping back to open the door wider, she rubs at the back of her neck with her free hand and stifles a yawn.

"Bill's still sleeping, but probably not for long. You two want some coffee?"

[ a few days after this ]

She's not sure what wakes her.

It's early (too early), that much she can tell from the gray half-light filtering through the window.

She's curled on her side, Bill's arm a warm weight around her stomach, his body against her back. His face is buried at her nape, his slow breaths deep and even in her hair and on her skin.

She squints toward the window and blinks.

Blinks again.

It's --

Snowing.

Her lips curve into a small smile and she eases onto her back; Bill stirs but doesn't wake, and she hesitates to pull him out of such a restful sleep.

(He hasn't been sleeping well for months, and the past few nights have been worse than usual, given what happened to Nathan.)

She settles for stroking his hair when he shifts to burrow deeper into the pillow at the curve of her neck and shoulder.

Merry Christmas, sheriff.

[ slings and arrows ]

Don't worry. This isn't yesterday.

She doesn't clean after the door shuts behind Bill. (Mostly because the house is still spotless from the scrubbing she gave it yesterday.) So she surveys the fridge and the pantry, then puts together vegetable lasagna for dinner.

It's in the oven by the time the dryer buzzes; she folds the warm sheets and loads the dryer again before taking the basket into the bedroom.

She doesn't look at the clock as she passes through the kitchen, only glances at the timer on the stove.

She doesn't look at the clock after the bed is made, or after she's folded the last of the clothes from the dryer, or after the lasagna's out of the oven.

This isn't yesterday.

[ after talking with doc and jack ]

The sun had slipped below the water hours ago, and Kate's finally off the beach and back upstairs.

Two aspirin and a hot bath helped her headache, but she can't sleep. She's sitting in bed, back against the headboard, half-attempting to concentrate on the book in her hands.

[ "thank you, kate. for ... talkin' with me. for tellin' me." ]

She can't sleep.

The shower had eased the ache from her muscles, but she's still staring at the darkened ceiling, half-hoping to hear Bill knock on her door, half-hoping the knock never comes.

She scrubs her face with one hand, wishing she could stop seeing the soft, uncertain look in his eyes.

Things are different now.

It's exactly what she'd been afraid of.

[ "feel like taking a walk with me?" ]

Soft sand and blue water. Warm air that smells like summer. Bill's hand covering hers.

(It's supposed to be easier out here, like this.)

The play of the afternoon sun on the sea burns tiny spots into her vision; they're still there when she blinks, bright like bursts of gunfire.

(It's not.)

She knows he's worried, and she knows she needs to say something, anything, because she hasn't spoken since they left her room.

Glancing down, she gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Thanks."