DC is different.

It is quiet, as if the city falls into a reverent silence in honor of the hallowed halls which make up the skyline.

It is clean, less trash littering the Metro stations as if to make up for the constantly out-of-service escalators.

It is small, everything of importance crowded into one area at the center of the city.

But there are things that remain constant between the two cities.

Taxi drivers shout obscenities at pedestrians crossing against the lights. The subway runs off schedule. The summer heat and humidity press down upon everyone, uncaring of their business suits and un-air conditioned apartments. There are tourist areas and there are places where only residents dare venture.

Kate clings to those few things, to the sense of a familiarity they afford her.

The AG's office is more professional than the Twelfth. So she cuts her hair, giving up her long, honey-brown curls for short, dark waves that fall to her shoulders. She trades flowing tops and fitted t-shirts for button-ups and tailored blazers. Low-heeled pumps replace her beloved heels.

She changes everything to fit in. Adapting to the new environment seamlessly.

Everyone gets the Fourth of July off, sent off to go celebrate freedom with cookouts, concerts on the Mall, and fireworks. Skeleton shifts alternate for the weekend and Kate gets lucky, pulling the Sunday afternoon shift. With a chorus of "Have a happy Fourth!" echoing behind her, she leaves work at exactly five o'clock on Wednesday, smiling despite her teammates' teasing of jetting off to spend time with her boyfriend.

The escalators going down into the Judiciary Square Metro are working for the first time in what seems like a month. She tucks her bag in close against her body as she jogs down the left-hand side of the moving stairs, passing tired paralegals and Congressional aides still wearing their red badges. The station smells of bad coffee, sweat, and old perfume and Kate is no longer hit with memories of the precinct having that same lingering scent. Overhead boards declare that the next Shady Grove bound train is two minutes away.

She moves to the end of the tunnel, searching the tile for the stain that marks her spot. The spot exactly where the doors open on the second car of the train. Kate scuffs at it with the toe of her shoe; the dark circle doesn't budge, permanently hiding part of the flashing red light that lets everyone in the station know that the train is a minute away.

There are seats available in her car but Kate chooses to lean against one of the rails, taking her phone out from her pocket. Work e-mails fill her inbox, updates from other agents on cases mixed with Google Alerts on topics that fit in with current investigations. She finds the flight confirmation among them, checking-in online so that she can skip the long lines at Reagan and just go to security with her weekender bag.

It's close to five thirty when she finally unlocks the door of the townhouse, kicking off her ankle boots in the entryway. Her feet stick to the hardwood as she climbs the stairs to the bedroom. She strips off her clothes, leaving them in a pile on the bed in order to change into shorts and a tank top. Even after a month, she still reaches back to flip her hair out from under the collar. Sliding her feet into a pair of flipflops, Kate hooks the leather weekender in the crook of her elbow, gathers her wallet and keys, and heads out to Dupont Circle to catch a cab to Reagan.