this is all my fault

[ "Bill, I'm Kate. It's really nice to meet you." ]

She should tell him.

She should, shouldn't she?

A thousand and one possibilities cycle through her thoughts, the same fear shadowing each of them: What if this damages his timeline, somehow? What if she ruins something by telling him she met his younger self in the bar?



- - - - -



She falls into a fitful sleep, well before Bill comes home.



- - - - -



She wakes a few hours later, still in her short khaki skirt and summery top, to the sound of Bill snoring next to her.

She scrubs her eyes and sits up, rumpled and groggy. The light blanket Bill must've covered her with before bed slips to her waist.

Squinting at the clock on the nightstand, she breathes out something between a sigh and a yawn. With a glance at her wrinkled clothes, she slides out of bed to change into actual sleepwear.

She pulls on a fresh camisole, and finds her favorite pair of yoga pants, worn soft and thin from hundreds of washings. In the bathroom, she pulls her tousled hair into a ponytail; she washes her face and brushes her teeth as quietly as possible, in hopes that she won't interrupt Bill's sleep.



- - - - -



She can't turn off her brain.

Giving up, she pads out of the bedroom, careful not to wake Bill. She pours herself a glass of white wine, and flips on a single lamp in the living room.

She settles into her favorite corner of the couch, a navy scrapbook in tow. Its contents have become as familiar as some of her own family photo albums, each newspaper clipping and photo caption holding information that feels firsthand, now, instead of second and third.

As horrifying and heart-breaking as most of the photographs are, she draws a strange kind of comfort from every page she pores and flips.

[ "so you're glad we decided to stay?" ]

Kate all but melts into Bill's side, her heart beating too fast.

The carriage house is dark and silent, save for her breathing and Bill's; waves rolling onto the nearby shore are a low, relentless blanket of sound.

"I should let you pick out unmentionables more often," she says, hiding a grin against his chest.

[ "that was better than dessert." ]

Kate wakes with the sun, wrapped in a warm knot of sheets and limbs. Bill is snoring lightly, sprawled on his stomach with most of his head buried beneath an over-sized feather pillow; what little of his hair she can see is sticking in every direction.

Smothering a smile, she eases out of bed; she wants a shower before breakfast, and she's sure he will, too.

She pauses in the bathroom's threshold, a line between her brows.

She glances over her shoulder.

The clothes they left in a careless, haphazard mess on the hardwood —

They're folded in a neat stack on top of the dresser.

And Bill's belt is draped over one arm of the sofa.



- - - - -



Breakfast is phenomenal: pesto and feta omelets, homemade sweet potato fries, buttermilk-and-brown sugar pancakes, and fruit so fresh Kate's mouth waters with every bite.

She spears another blackberry with her fork, her eyes moving from Bill to Mrs. Palmer as the woman brings out a second French press.

Kate breathes deep, the scent of rich coffee filling her nose. Feigning nonchalance, she offers a smile.

"Mrs. Palmer, this is fantastic."

"Thank you, dear. I take it you two are enjoying yourselves?"

Kate nods, mirroring Bill.

"But, um." She clears her throat. "Did housekeeping make an early round?"

Mrs. Palmer's eyebrows lift as Kate continues.

"Maybe someone dropped in to straighten up while we were still asleep?"

A half-smile tugs at one corner of Mrs. Palmer's mouth.

"That would be Georgia," she says, chuckling as she offers Bill more turkey sausage. "She always did love to keep this place in tip-top shape when she was alive."

[ "I'm sure I can make good time." ]

The Palmer Home is even more impressive than its photos implied.

After a warm reception and a short tour from the innkeeper, Kate and Bill return to the third floor to settle in.

Kate crosses the spacious suite and steps onto the piazza, taking in the view of the harbor and Fort Sumter.

"God, this is gorgeous."

[ "about last night ... " ]

Kate wakes early -- too early, judging by the near-darkness of the bedroom.

After a few minutes, when it's annoyingly apparent she won't be drifting back to sleep, she presses a soft kiss to Bill's cheek and murmurs near his ear when he stirs.

Easing out of bed, she pulls on a pair of sweats and tugs on a couple of layers; she wants to keep warm during her jog.

After checking to make sure Boo's still sleeping soundly across the hall, she slips downstairs to make fresh coffee for Beckett and Bill before her morning run.

[ these stakes have a high alcohol content ]

She's lost count of how much wine they've put away among the three of them.

By the time they call it a night, she's also lost count of how many hands of Texas hold 'em have slipped through their fingers, wallets, and wardrobes.

Kate's laughing as they stagger-stumble upstairs in a tangle of arms and torsos and underwear.

(At this point, she's fairly certain Bill and Beckett are mostly carrying her between them.)

They clear the stairs and her ankle rolls -- how, she's not quite sure -- but she's taking Beckett and Bill with her with a warm tumble, the ceiling's spinning, and she can't stop laughing.

"God, guys, I'm sorry -- sorry -- "

Her fingers brush Bill's stomach, and her free hand grazes Beckett's ribs as she twists to peer at them.

"Everybody okay?"

[ that house of cards is gonna fall ]

With Boo tucked in bed for the night, Kate's curled on the couch, hardly reading a dog-eared paperback, while Bill works on a jigsaw puzzle at the kitchen table. On the TV screen, the PONG! console plays a silent game against itself.

As she turns another page, Kate absently brings a hand to her face. The swelling's much better than yesterday, but the bruise is ugly, an eggplant splotch marring her cheek just below her eye.

It's quiet in the suite; the knock surprises them both. Kate stiffens, and her eyes flick to Bill. She's trying to reassure herself that it's a friend on the other side of the door, or someone coming by to check on Boo, but her triphammering heart belies the notion.

[ "i can't see you get hurt again because your heart's bigger than your brain." ]

"Goin' s'where?"

Her stomach twists as she smooths Bill's rumpled hair from his forehead in the gray pre-dawn light.

"Just for a run. Go back to sleep."

He gives her a sleepy half-nod.

"Mmmkay. Careful, s'bunnies."

She nearly chokes on guilt as her lips brush his cheek.

"I will. Back in a little while."

She slips out of the suite and heads down the hall to Bill's empty room.


- - - - -


She finds the gun on the top shelf in his closet.

Jaw tight, she lifts the weapon with steady hands and checks the magazine, then tucks the gun into the waistband of her black running pants at the small of her back.

With its cold weight at the base of her spine, she's hyper-aware of every step, every flex of each muscle and every breath she takes as she locks Bill's door and heads downstairs.

She doesn't know if she'll find Ramon, but she has to try.