Katherine became the third Taylor in Winchester in a matter of two weeks.

She's only just now realizing it, drunk in the pasta aisle of Albertson's in the next town over—whatever it's called. She frowns at the rotini and releases a sigh through her nose, looking up from the box.

"Son of a bitch."

He fucking domesticated me.

Bamboozled. Swindled. Kind of.

Katherine swings around the aisle and bumps into Patrick. All six foot four of him frowns down at her. A gentle giant, really.

"Easy does it, Kitten."

She sighs, leaning against the cart. "Where. Is your brother? I have words."

"You always have words," Pat mumbles, turning a pack of tortillas over in his hand. "When don't you have words?"

Patrick is kind of her favorite.

Russell, the precious try-hard, is trying to diffuse a nuclear football three aisles over. Paula. Who had no idea Katherine had practically moved in.

"It was absolutely not her idea," Russell insists. Paula blinks at him.

"Russell, can you see how that's even more of a problem?" The brunette calmly asks, raising a perfect eyebrow at him. Russell purses his lips, rolls them back into his mouth, and nods.

"Yes. Yes I can. But—but P, she's like—she's like—" Russell lifts his ball cap up, muttering swear words as he itches his scalp, and sets it back on his head. Paula sets her basket down with a long sigh.

"Spit it out, I just got off a shift."

"She's fragile," Russell whispers. "Not fragile like a flower, fragile like a fuckin' bomb." Paula's eyebrows knit together, clearly not convinced, as she crosses her arms. "P, she's literally—" He rubs his face and huffs before holding that hand out to her defensively. "You know what I saw her do two nights ago? She crushed up a couple 'a pills and took 'em that way!" Russell looks over his shoulder before back at her with wide eyes. "She has night terrors and she sleep walks but it's the kind where she re-lives that night over and over and over," he whispers.

Paula shrugs and shakes her head. "What night?"

"The night her husband was murdered. Not even two months ago, P. And she's drinkin' all the time and she's taking these pills and she's just started eating again. She hasn't told me she wasn't eating, but I can tell these things, ya know." Paula's dark eyes flit over Russell's shoulder as he pleads his case, watching the blonde woman in question turn around the corner with Patrick. Her hair is slicked back into a bun, sunglasses sit on the bridge of her nose—why is she wearing sunglasses inside?—and she wears a white t-shirt, cutoff shorts, and a pair of converse. 

"She looks like every other college girl in the area," Paula pronounces. 

But even she remembers what Katherine looked like when Russell carried her into the ED. That woman had muscle. She was tall and formidable, maybe even a little ripped. This woman is tall and lean in a way that seems natural for her. Toned. 

Paula frowns, posture losing its aggressive rigidity. "Where is her baby?"

Russell frowns, too. "Baby?"

"She was..." Paula takes a breath, looking at Russell, then Katherine. "Oh my god, I'm a horrible person."

Russell raises an eyebrow. "Paula, what—"

"Her husband was murdered?" Paula whispers. Russell nods.

"But what—"

"I'll call you later." She plants a kiss on his mouth, scoops her basket up, and walks the other way. 

Katherine pops her gum as she sidles up beside Russell. "That's not even the good kind of bread," she says, staring down at his hand. 

Russell turns towards her and stares. He can't see her eyes behind her dark lenses, but he does see that judgmental little eyebrow popping out at him. He looks at Patrick, who simply nods in agreement, before looking back to Katherine. 

"Don't fuckin' double team me," he mutters.

"Don't pick the wrong bread," Patrick retorts. 

"If you're such a fuckin' bread expert, you pick the fuckin' bread." Patrick swipes the loaf from Russell's hand and heads back to the other aisle. 

"You tricked me," Katherine lowly accuses. Russell raises an eyebrow at her. Baby?

"How's that?" He drily asks.

"I was leaving town two weeks ago," she begins.

"No you weren't."

"And now I'm grocery shopping with you two."

"Yeah, 'cause your name's Taylor," Russell says, slinging his arm around her shoulder, and leads her around the corner. "And our name's Taylor. So we're family." Katherine shoves his arm off of her shoulders. 

She wore those stupid sunglasses in the kitchen while she tended the noodles, too. Russell hasn't played music over the speaker since she started staying at their place, but he has it on his iPod, so he just plugs his headphones in. 

Katherine watches him dance around the kitchen, nodding his head to a beat she wonders about, and thinks about Charlie...and then Dean. They were alike in very few ways—she could count them on one hand—and one of the ways is how they cooked. 

Charlie liked music when he cooked. Dean was right there with him. And now Russell.

He flicks an earbud from his ear and raises an eyebrow at her.

"What?" She drily asks.

"What?" He retorts. 

She turns away from him and stares at her noodles. "Ah, shit."

"What?" Patrick asks from the sofa.

"I got the wrong daggum noodles and neither of you told me!"

Patrick slowly turns to look at her with a frown. "I didn't know there were specific noodles for fettuccine."

Katherine turns to look at him, eyebrows knit together. "Say that again, but slowly."

Russell turns the chicken in the pan, smirking. "I did tell you," he says. Katherine points the prongs of a fork at him.

"Lie to me again and I'll stick you."

Patrick noticed her unhealthy pre-sleep habit the other night, too. He made a bet with her—if she could beat him in an arm wrestle, she could have the pills. At the very idea of not having something to help her sleep, she spiraled. Her breathing was heavy, her hands started shaking. Then she started to cry, but she didn't make a show of it. Patrick kept watching baseball, Katherine descended into madness on the floor, and Russell slid down next to her. Their shoulders touched and she didn't flinch. She may have even leant into him a little.  Before long, her shoulders lost their rigidity, her spine relaxed, and her head rolled onto his shoulder. 

Russell feels pretty tired, too.

"And that's what you call a panic attack," Patrick mutters, turning the pill bottle over in his hand. Russell wonders what all else Pat notices without saying. 

Patrick sighs, raising an eyebrow at his little brother. "What the hell did you drag in here this time?"