Raylan is due back into the office today. Art knows that it will be desk duty, but he can't help this feeling of relief. They are back up to full strength with Raylan returning to the office.
Hopefully he's got his head back on straight. Art knows that Tim and Raylan have been spending time together. He thinks that they might have cured what's eating Raylan.
The door opens, and Art looks up.
He's back.
It's not quite the way Art thought it would be, in fact it's a bit of a shock. Art watches Raylan's slow, painful progress through the bull-pen with a sense of doom. He's still on crutches, his injured leg is sporting a full-leg brace over his jeans, and he's not bearing any weight on it at all as he swings slowly across the floor.
He looks pale and haggard and closed-off, and Art can read that from fifteen feet away. Tim's walking just behind his friend, Art glances towards him a question in his eyes, but Tim shakes his head no, just a little. But it's enough.
"Raylan." Art snaps out of his trance then and moves, hand outstretched, towards his deputy. Raylan comes to a halt by his desk, and re-arranges the crutches so he can take Art's hand.
"Art."
"It's good to have you back." Art's a little surprised to discover that this is really true. They've all missed him. Not that Art is planning on admitting that part.
"It's good to be back." The response is a little mechanical, but is good enough for a start. The smile doesn't quite reach Raylan's eyes though. He still looks like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.
Art looks past that and flicks pointed glance at Raylan's leg. "How's the leg?"
"Healin's slow." Raylan sounds a lot more like his old self in his impatient tone. "I'm on crutches for at least th' next four months."
He scowls at his own leg, as though it's letting him down, and Art can relate to that, relate to what he can see in Raylan.
"Well, we're in f'a nice quiet time of it then," Art decides to play the asshole card. It's worked with Raylan in the past.
"Kiss my ass." The response is grumpy, and a little sheepish, and heart-felt, and Art could have cried with relief if he had been the type. This is the Raylan he recognizes and understands.
Art retreats to his office, to attempt to regroup. Raylan's back but the problems haven't gone away.
Raylan nods at the rest of the office and eases behind his desk, grabbing his chair he positions his injured leg to sit down. Art watches the slow and careful movements with worry.
"Tim." Art beckons, and Tim sighs, he'd side-stepped the first question. He knows this isn't a request, Art means to get to the bottom of the problem.
He slopes into Art's office, his movements reluctant, Art is going to ask a lot of questions, and there are at least two that Tim knows he cannot answer. Not because he doesn't know, but because these are not his secrets to tell. Perhaps if he keeps Art on Raylan's leg injury the other questions will not arise.
Art motions at Tim to shut the door.
"Is there anything I need to know?"
"He's got a hairline fracture of his femur, as well as the chips that were knocked off by the bullet, and then there's the infection…" Tim literally crams the air with medical information. If he keeps talking about Raylan's injury and physio and everything else he can think of it may divert Art from a pointless discussion about Raylan's emotional state. Or other matters.
Neither of them are ready for that discussion.
Art is pissed at Tim's evasiveness. His eyes have skittered off to the side, and this torrent of information on Raylan's physical state was useful but not what Art was after. And from Tim's demeanor, his youngest deputy knows exactly what he is after.
"Son."
Tim stops talking.
His eyes track back to Art's.
Art's raised eyebrows and generally frosty look say it all.
Tim swallows. He cannot lie. But there are some truths that are not his to reveal.
"He's hurting." Still.
Tim holds his breath, and there are questions in Art's eyes, but he chooses not to express them at this time. Tim actually relaxes, maybe this isn't going to be so bad. If he can just keep Raylan on an even keel for a while perhaps the cowboy will be able to put it all behind him, without additional fuss.
He kinda knows he's kidding himself, but hope springs eternal and all that.
[][][][][][][][]
Of course, that's how it starts. Art knowing a thing, and observing his deputies and seeing more than Tim hopes he will.
The first time Tim is out of the office with Rachel, Raylan buries himself in paperwork. He's got neat piles spread across his desk, his keyboard on his lap, precariously balanced on his brace and he's burrowed in.
Art can see from his posture that Raylan has retreated into himself. From the man who could unconsciously hold a whole roomful of people just by walking into it, to this sad, strained person.
This is not Raylan.
Art's been seeing glimpses of this for the last almost three months. Ever since Raylan came back from suspension.
He starts to observe Raylan more closely. If Tim is not around, Raylan goes through the motions, does his job, dots the I's and crosses the T's. He's quiet. Too quiet. If Tim is there, Raylan makes more of an effort. As though he is trying to convince himself and Tim that everything is okay.
Art can tell that Tim sees through that ploy, but has decided to play along.
It's role-reversal. Although Tim is kinder and gentler with Raylan, without making it too obvious, than the cowboy ever was with Tim.
It takes Tim a week to confess that Raylan is living with him. Tim took him home when he was released from the hospital. Went round to the dark and poky apartment, packed up Raylan's belongings and clothes and moved him in with Tim.
Art doesn't really have a problem with this, but he's still mildly annoyed that Tim has taken this long to tell him. He says as much.
Tim shrugs. That nonchalant little shrug that makes Art very crazy. "It isn't as though he was living in conditions that he can cope with. He can't climb stairs. It seemed simpler."
Art lets it go at that. Tim's apartment is on the ground floor and has two bedrooms. Two salaries paying one mortgage seems perfectly reasonable.
[][][][][][][][]
Raylan's been back three weeks and Art is about to make it official. He's past being worried and silent. Raylan's still passive, still obviously struggling with something, and he's still not bearing any weight on his injured leg.
Factor in the presence of AUSA Vasquez in the office, wanting to talk over something obscure from Arlo's death and Hunter Mosley, and this has all the hallmarks of disaster.
Raylan's a mess from the start. He's tense and angry and haunted in a way that he wasn't before, Art can see him breaking apart, but there is nothing he can do about it. Whatever he says, and Vasquez too, Raylan's not listening.
The hard look in the cowboy's eyes might have been terrifying but Art can see a glistening there too.
"Do what you want." Raylan surges to his feet, but he's misjudged the distance in his haste, and his injured thigh bangs into the solid wood of the conference table.
Even with the physio, and the frequent check ups on his injury, the pain that blasts through Raylan's leg causes his vision to white out, and the breath to be sucked from his body. He's vaguely aware of Art on one side and Vasquez on the other supporting him, but it's too much and his over-loaded brain takes the easy way out.
Raylan faints.
Tim looks up from his fascinating study of Nelson's chicken-scratch at the sudden noise, in time to see Raylan crumple like a puppet, Art half-catch him and stagger under Raylan's weight, and somehow between them Vasquez and Art manage to lower Raylan to the floor so that he doesn't do himself any further harm.
Tim would have liked to think that he would immediately fly out of his chair to Raylan's side in such circumstances. But shock freezes him in place for a full ten seconds.
[][][][][][][][]
Tim kneels beside his friend, holding his hand and waits for the ambulance. Raylan's conscious but drifting and disorientated. Tim is hoping that the discussion about the true nature of Tim and Raylan's relationship can wait until after he's got Raylan checked out, back home and has at least seen to his needs. But he knows that it is coming at some point.
He's not ashamed or in denial or anything, it's just that neither he nor his partner talk about themselves much. Sometimes he thinks that's how and why he and Raylan fit together in the first place. They are what they are, this is exactly what it is and it's become part of their lives.
It's nothing specific that has betrayed them, but Raylan turns to Tim, and Tim cannot hide his worry at Raylan's pain and confusion. Art and Vasquez saw it all.
Physio has not been going well. Raylan's been feeling a lot of pain with the leg, he is reluctant to even try to weight bear on it. Tim knows this at least is emotional rather than physical, but even trying to talk about it makes Raylan tense, unhappy and withdrawn.
Tim also knows that it's the damn house, and the graves and everything that Raylan has lost in the last year. Coming down from the high of capturing Drew Thompson and beating the Detroit thugs has left Raylan with nothing but a decaying house, and surrounded by death.
Even his baby girl, and impending promotion with all that that may bring, and Tim allows himself the painful thought that Raylan may move on to better things and leave him far behind, even all that seems to make no difference to Raylan's misery.
If Art is going to ask about Raylan's suspension and whether that was a factor, well Tim's just going to give it to him straight.
Hell, yeah.
It's a factor. Even though Art was justified, and Raylan needed the space. It just fell at a time which compounded all the pain he had already been through.
"Tim?"
Tim yanks his attention back to his friend, Raylan's eyes are half-closed, from what he can see they look a little glassy, which is worrying. Then Raylan goes to try and sit up, which makes everything a lot worse, as he sways, Tim grabs hold of him to prevent him falling back and hurting himself, and the heat from Raylan's body is a shock.
"Shit." Tim anxiously eases Raylan back down, and looks up at Art who's been hovering a while. He's closed the blinds and dimmed the lights in attempt to help Raylan.
"How long are they going to be?" Tim asks, "think we would be better taking him in ourselves?"
The conference room door opens. Rachel flicks an anxious glance to Raylan then up to Art. "Update on the ambulance, it will be here in twenty."
Art frowns, and Tim says "Hell, we're only ten away from the hospital now."
Art makes a decision. "Rachel, call them back, we're taking him in ourselves." He tosses his car keys to her and she hurries away to make the call, grab coats and shut down her computer, as Tim and Art gently coax an ailing Raylan to his feet.
Somewhere between the very slow journey to the elevator, Rachel has signed herself and Tim out of their work, quick sprint to the stairs and she has gone, Art knows she will have his Yukon as close to the door as she can get it and will be prepared to help them with Raylan.
This is what makes Rachel so good. She thinks many steps ahead.
Raylan is almost a dead weight between them, Art is almost wondering if this is a good idea, but there is something in the determination on Tim's face that keeps him going.
For once the elevator is on their floor, and the doors swish open immediately. They guide Raylan in carefully, and Art shifts most of his weight over onto Tim, reaches out and pushes the button for the garage level.
He turns back expecting to take on his half of Raylan's weight.
From somewhere Raylan's found a tiny reserve of energy to push himself back off Tim a little. He's standing on his good leg. Tim's arm is firmly around his waist keeping him supported, the three inch height difference means that Raylan's forehead is resting against Tim's head and the sniper's free hand is holding the back of Raylan's neck. It's the intense look in Tim's eyes as he whispers something to his sick lover.
It is what Art has been dancing around for almost seven weeks. He realizes he doesn't have any objection, not really. They can't be in the field together, which is something of a shame, because they work very well together, but that's a small price to pay.
Tim has the patience, and the love, and as sick as he apparently is, Raylan responds to Tim's gentle handling.
Raylan's lost so much, Art can't help hoping that the cowboy finds peace this time. At least Tim is not going to steal from Raylan, or leave him high, dry and hurtin' like so many women have in Raylan's dysfunctional romantic past.
The elevator arrives at the right level, even though it's a soft landing, the stop causes Raylan's knees to begin to buckle. Art steps across and supports him from the other side, as the doors open and Rachel is just outside.
She's dropped the passenger seat back, so Raylan can stretch out, but it's still a struggle to get his braced leg positioned without hurting him further. Once he's in, Tim jumps into the back seat and scoots up close to the passenger seat.
Art knows, or thinks he knows, about Tim and Raylan's relationship. The way Tim figures it they have been hiding a while, now isn't the time for hiding. However Art chooses to interpret what he can see.
Art climbs into the driver's seat and takes off. Tim realizes that Rachel is with them, but all his attention is back on Raylan.
Raylan's headache, which has been building since before lunch, is a full on, barely able to squint at the ceiling lights pressure behind the eyes kind of headache which makes his stomach roll at the thought of food, but the medication he's taking for the leg injury and the pain control needs food. His stomach lining can't cope with the medication without something to absorb it.
Raylan badly wants to throw up, but this is Art's car.
He turns his head, resting his forehead on Tim's shoulder. Tim's arms are sort of wrapped around him, so Raylan lets go. The one thing he can always trust in, his sniper will take care of him.
If he wasn't about to part with his lunch, his breakfast and possibly the night before's chicken supper, he would smile at that thought.
Tim takes care of him. He can rely on his Tim.
Tim Gutterson honestly can't remember the last time he had felt this scared. Raylan's leaning against him, Raylan's eyes keep rolling back in his head, his breathing is labored, Raylan's body is radiating heat. Okay, it's not super high, but he's still running a fever, and talking gibberish.
Raylan's wearing that Cheshire-cat, bemused grin that he wears when some light finally goes on somewhere in his head and he's figured it out. Raylan's slightly fever-bright eyes fix on Tim's.
"I love you."
As love declarations go, Raylan's timing, sense of place, and delivery all suck, but Tim really doesn't care. This is Raylan. This is exactly who he is. He's awkward, difficult, suspicious, high-maintenance, permanently angry, like a coiled spring, a pain in the ass with lousy timing and Tim loves the asshole.
The pain and misery of the last few hours are going to come crashing down on them all some time soon and Tim knows it. But for that actual moment, whatever's been messing with Raylan's head has cleared. There might actually be a way out of this crisis, and Raylan will be his old trigger-happy, asshole self once again.
Just perhaps the universe is going to tip right back on its axis.
If it doesn't… well, Raylan will probably make good on what he told Art six months ago. He'll leave the Marshals Service.
That thought makes Tim sick to his stomach.
[][][][][][][][]
Art pulls up in front of the ER doors, and Rachel jumps out to get a team.
Things move like a blur then, and Art has enough time to see them whisk Raylan through the doors on a gurney, Tim and Rachel following at a trot, before a horn sounds behind him somewhere and he pulls away to find somewhere to park.
[][][][][][][][]
The doctor wants to keep Raylan for the night.
The very last place Raylan wants to be is at the hospital. His leg hurts, his head hurts and he's spent entirely too much time in hospital beds, or waiting by hospital beds in the last three months.
He knows that Tim, and Art and Rachel, and practically everyone else at the office is worried about him. Hell, Raylan is worried about himself. He just can't seem to shake it, the pain in his body… or the pain in his soul.
On his own for a month he thought he would be bored. He was, a little, but there were other things out there that he found to occupy his time. Talking to Winona, waiting for his baby girl, he knew he wanted that. He just wasn't sure he wanted the Marshals Service any more.
Now he's back, he's injured and it's one more thing on the road to Calvary. Every time he puts his foot down, a pain sparks through his thigh and shoots down his leg to his foot.
Like it's trying to tell him something.
He charms the doctor into letting him go. Easing carefully down off the examination gurney, he gathers his crutches and begins his slow, agonizingly painful trip to the exit.
Raylan can see the burning worry in Tim's clear blue eyes, he appreciates the masked facial expression that could be read as exasperation by anyone who does not know the young sniper as well as Raylan does.
Raylan stares at his sniper, his own masking abilities are offline. He's unaware of the love in his eyes as he returns the sniper's look.
Tim sighs. They've pretty much revealed themselves to Art. It isn't quite what Art thinks it is, but that doesn't matter as such. They share an apartment, they share a bed, but that's more comfort and need than anything else. They slept on the same bed for a whole month before anything intimate occurred between them.
It's a tiny, fragile thing that Tim has promised himself will be casual, against the day that Raylan gets himself together and leaves again. Tim's heart will not be broken because this is not that kind of deal.
He sees the way that Raylan is looking at him. Sick and injured, on enough medication to drop a rhino mid-charge, Raylan is not exactly in control of anything very much. The look in Raylan's eyes goes straight to Tim's heart, and he knows he's kidding himself.
Neither of them have much acquaintance with love. Probably wouldn't recognize it if I tripped over it Tim thinks to himself. Knowing that he's lying to himself.
Well, shit.