Author's Note: Own nothing but the action. (Thanks a million times again to Hallonim for the cover photo.)

A Long Climb Up

"There's a federal warrant out for him…murder charges."

"Yeah, I heard."

He hadn't seen her in over a year and this was her hello. If it weren't for the noise on the street around them she might have caught the sound of his tiny fragment of peace of mind dropping onto the sidewalk, too small to compete for attention in the hustle of an afternoon in downtown Washington, D.C.

"Can I buy you lunch?" she said, and it didn't quite sound like business and it didn't quite sound personal.

Shit, he thought, not really wanting to reminisce or share regrets, but he couldn't say no. This was Rachel asking and he'd do just about anything for her. "Sure."

Rachel didn't look much older than the last time he'd seen her – a little rounder, in a nice way, and if you knew her well enough, more than fifteen years now he'd had the pleasure, then you could make out the creases around the eyes that weren't there before, that were still barely there. Tim smiled then, couldn't help himself, and she returned it, likely thinking the same about him, that he'd aged a bit, too. He was still wiry, fit, sharp, but his face advertised his forty-odd years when the combat helmet and the sunglasses came off.

He was surprised to see Rachel here in D.C. It was a bit of a trip from Memphis where she was now Bureau Chief, an obvious choice for the position since the Marshals Service preferred to locate their people in their home towns, or as close as possible anyway. Tim understood the concept – you know the best hiding places in your own neighborhood. He wasn't sure it had done Raylan any good, but maybe it wouldn't have made any difference, either, maybe it was bred in the bone, whatever drove him.

He often wondered what was lurking in his own bones.

"How long will it take you to change?" She gestured at the full Special Operations Group combat gear, vest, boots, radio, thigh holster, rifle. "You are not going out for lunch with me dressed like that."

"If you're going to be that fussy, I should probably shower, too. It's fucking hot out here today and I'm soaked through."

She pursed her lips into a young girl's smile. "You look good, Tim."

"So do you," he said, and meant it. He turned his wrist and checked the time on his watch. "Why don't we make it dinner? I have to debrief the gang and make sure the gear gets stowed properly for the trip back."

"You don't trust them?"

"Not with my rifle, thank you very much."

"You are just the same."

Tim shrugged, smirked.

"Alright," said Rachel. "I'm at the Grand Hyatt. Five o'clock?"

"Grand Hyatt? Nice. The director put you up there?"

She nodded coyly.

"Why? What're you doing here anyway? Chief's pow-wow?" He hoped she'd reply with a yes, that it was business as usual.

"We'll talk at dinner," she said, reached over and squeezed his arm affectionately.

Someone from his team called from the US Marshals SOG command trailer. "Sir, are we done here?"

"We're done. Pack it up."

Rachel arched an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"He's young."

A nod for the implied – and we're old. "Good day?" Shielding her eyes from the sun, Rachel turned and surveyed the crowd still gathered.

"Quiet day, and that's a good day." Tim let one of his team take his helmet, but he held tight to his rifle, a gruff, I'll deal with this, thanks. No one asked him why he didn't pitch in – it wasn't like him not to, and being in charge had its perks – but a few curious glances were directed his way, eyes lingering, wondering about the woman standing next to him with the star on her belt. It was obvious to anyone watching that they were familiar with each other, a comfortable and respectful familiarity that comes with standing together when the shit hits, and standing firm.

He shuffled uncomfortably in the sun, uncomfortably with the coincidence of Rachel here, now. Coincidences were all fine and well in love and movies, but in law enforcement, coincidences always aroused suspicion. Tim had been at it long enough to know that, and to trust his suspicions. Standing silently with her on the sidewalk in front of the federal courthouse in Washington, D.C., on a Wednesday afternoon, a long way from Tennessee, a long way from Louisiana, Tim let the coincidence and the suspicion gnaw at him and gave Rachel some space to explain. But she held stubbornly to the silence.

Eventually the team had packed everything into the trailer and one of the group walked over and raised his eyebrows in question. "We ready?" The deputy couldn't help glancing at Rachel as he spoke to Tim, and when he shifted his eyes back to his boss again the question on his face was different from the one asked.

"Yep, we're ready," said Tim. He decided to quell the team's curiosity by feeding some information. "Rachel, this is Deputy Marshal Clint Westwood. Clint, this is Chief Deputy Rachel Brooks from the Memphis Bureau. We worked together when I was a lowly new deputy like you."

"Lowly new deputy… You can't start talking like the old man in the crowd until you start acting like one." A respectful nod for Rachel. "How d'you do, Chief? Pleasure to meet you. I've heard about you."

Rachel shook hands with the young man, couldn't help laughing. "Clint Westwood? You're joking."

"Parents have a sense of humor."

"That's obvious."

He grinned and left to return to the rest of the team with a snippet of information to satisfy them, and the silence between Tim and Rachel picked up where it left off.

Tim couldn't wait any longer. Hot and thirsty, he wiped a hand over his mouth and decided she had won this round and he'd have to leave her without any explanation for her presence, for now anyway. He reverted for a moment, back fifteen years, a familiar and facetious head tilt that he hadn't really grown out of yet, one last effort to get something from her.

"We'll talk at dinner," she repeated, catching the look and its point, chuckling at the memories but stonewalling him still.

"Fine. Be that way. I'll meet you in the lobby." He turned with an insolent shrug and slump, just like old times, again just for her.

"You got a problem with that, Deputy!" she called out, bouncing it off his back, just like old times. "Five o'clock – sharp."

"Sure. Five. Whatever." Turning to walk backward he yelled over, "Unless you wanna slum it and come to my room?"

"I like mine, thanks."

"That's so not fair – you get the Hyatt and we get a shitty motel."

"They like me better because I dress nicely."

Tim waved and disappeared into the swarm of urban camouflage and boots.

The waiter brought a glass of wine for Rachel and a shot of bourbon for Tim. Sipping at his choice, Tim said, "You sure they're going to let you expense this? – 'cause this is expensive by the glass."

"It's expensive by the drop."

"Well, if the director's paying."

"She's paying."

Tim frowned then tipped the glass up and finished it. "Why are we here?"

"I heard you were in town, thought we could catch up."

"Rachel..."

"I can wish it was that simple." She stared at her wine glass, twirling it between her fingers by the stem.

"I don't know why you didn't just order a half bottle."

"They went to see Art about Raylan, asked his advice," she said abruptly, not looking at him.

"How's he doing?" said Tim delaying the conversation that he knew was coming.

"He's good. Leslie's good."

"You were there?"

She nodded. "They want us to go after him – you and me. It was Art's recommendation. They wanted a man hunt, to put together a special task force. You can imagine – it's a big deal here in D.C., what happened, a black mark on the Marshals Service. They're scrambling to whitewash this, or sweep it quietly under a mat somewhere. Art said no to the idea. He said to keep it simple and quiet. He said to send people that Raylan trusted. I'm here to convince you to come with me."

And there it was, not that it caught Tim off-guard – he'd been expecting it from the moment he saw Rachel weaving through the crowd, badge out, ducking between the security barriers, making a beeline for him in the midst of all the law enforcement out on the square today – but it still struck him hard, like watching a fist come at you in slow-motion and not being able to duck.

"Shit."

It was raining when they landed in Louisville. Rachel drove for the first couple of hours and Tim slept, jacket balled up between his head and the window. He had spent the trip back home to Louisiana and then the flight up to Louisville through Atlanta on the same day, writing up his report for the team's week stint in D.C., then there were requisitions to sign, and finally he sifted through the next pile of applications to fill positions on the volunteer roster for the SOG teams, making notes. Rachel had had the advantage of a heads up for this detour in her life, and she had taken care of the Memphis office business before leaving. She had read a magazine on her flight, she said, slept a bit, felt okay to take the first leg behind the wheel. They traded outside of Corbin and she made a couple of phone calls then they settled back into silence.

"How's Sheryl?"

"I thought you were sleeping." Tim shifted in his seat and reset his hands on the steering wheel. "She's okay, I guess."

"I guess?"

A head wag. "She didn't want to move to Louisiana. San Diego suited her better, she said."

"You split up?" Rachel sounded distressed, more than Tim.

"Not exactly." The face was familiar, the pained and puzzled and jaded Tim Gutterson. "Honestly, I don't miss her. We hardly talk anymore."

"I didn't know."

"Why would you?"

"Tim, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not."

The next question cut to the core of it. "Do you want to stop and see Chris's parents on the way out tomorrow? We have time. They're still in Lexington, aren't they?"

"Nah, I haven't spoken to them since I took the position with SOG."

"They'd probably be happy to see you."

"I wouldn't want the reminder."

"That's you, not them."

Tim didn't respond.

Rachel waited then asked, "You still miss her?"

"Of course I do. Fuck, Rachel, why do you always have to bring this up?" His mouth twisted as he said it, eyes fixed steady on the road ahead. "Are you sure Raylan's going to be here? Why would he come back to Harlan?"

"Just a hunch. Thought we'd start here." She looked at him sadly, allowed him to change the topic.

"How's Nick doing?"

"His company's doing well. They've got another kid on the way."

"Jesus, how many's that now?"

"Number four. I think he's making up for a lonely childhood."

"Maybe we could visit him instead. You like being an aunt?"

"Better than motherhood, less complicated."

Tim snorted. "You mean less complicated than getting married again."

"I'm not lucky in love."

"Me neither."

"That was different, Tim. You and Chris were good together."

"We just never had the chance to fuck it up."

"I don't think you would have. Let's stop by and see her folks. It'd do you good."

"It's opening wounds when I go there – her mom always ends up crying."

"There's nothing wrong with crying. It's healthy."

"It's been six years, Rachel. I'm done with the crying."

They wound through the hollers, late autumn leaves ground down into the asphalt, smearing the road into the brush and the forest and the fields on either side. When they got off the main road and traveled now the barely two-lane sides, every old house or trailer they passed brought someone to the front to watch, see who was passing. The eyes lingered on the strange car, shiny new rental, not from around here.

Tim stopped at the rise before the drop and the turn to the long lane up to the old Givens house, put the car in park but left it running. There was a pick-up parked by the door. The grass was long and fallen over in the yard, matted and uncut the past few years. The woodwork needed paint. The grave markers were still there, the view beyond them lovely, serene, pastoral.

"Go on," said Rachel. "He's not going to shoot us."

"You knew he was here, didn't you?" Tim looked over at Rachel. "You knew."

"He called."

Suspicions again swirled and confused Tim's thoughts, or maybe cleared them finally, after all this time. "You and Raylan?" He was disappointed. Rachel was always lofty, above him and above Raylan, at least that's how he saw it. He hadn't imagined that he could get more jaded in his life, but then another swift kick at idealism. He felt foolish.

"Me and Raylan." A hushed confession, arms up and dropped. "So sue me."

His words must have carried something of the disappointment and he tried to amend it, hide it. "Hey, no judgment. It's your life."

"I didn't ask your approval."

The imperious tone was back and Tim smirked rather than smiled at it, feeling differently about it now.

"He never lost his charms." Her tone changed again, apologetic. "Just so you know, it was after he left Kentucky, after Winona kicked him out again and got sole custody. That was an ugly separation, the second one."

"Third one."

"Yeah, I guess…third one. He ended up in Memphis before he took retirement, remember?"

"No, I don't. Me and Raylan didn't keep in touch. Some of us, Rachel, didn't notice the man's charms." He wet his lips, buying time, trying to keep his anger out of it. "I remember hearing something of the shit storm in Miami though, during all that. There was talk they were going to charge him over that incident, fire him at least."

"There was no evidence that it wasn't justifiable."

"Here we go again."

"Tim…"

"So it was you that saved his ass that time, offered him a spot in Memphis?"

"No one else would have him."

"Boy, this sounds familiar."

"You would've done it."

"I'm not so sure." He dropped his head and ran a hand around the back of his neck. "You were quiet about it."

"You were busy in San Diego."

Tim turned away from her and eyed the countryside around them, around the house, this time not with an eye for nostalgia or beauty, but with a hunter's eye, looking for blind spots and ambush spots and chewing on a lip as he considered the slow rise to the house, impossible to approach unseen.

"You sure he won't shoot?"

"Tim, it's Raylan."

"You sure he won't shoot me?"

Her phone rang at that moment and they both stared at it.

Tim wanted to turn the car around right then, leave it for somebody else, but Rachel answered the call.

"Raylan?"

"Put it on speaker," Tim whispered.

Rachel ignored the request, spoke quietly into the phone. Just come in with us, she said, calm and reasonable. It's just me and Tim, like you asked.

Tim shut out the conversation after that admission, even more angry now. Rachel had lied to him. This wasn't a request from D.C.; this was a request from Raylan. Thinking back to their conversation at dinner, he sifted through what she'd told him, wondered if Art even had anything to do with this, doubted it. It was a good hook though, to ensure his involvement. Neither Rachel nor Raylan would willingly tangle Art in anything, not at his age, and not after what happened the last time.

This was impossible. There was no way he was putting handcuffs on Raylan. It wasn't that it felt wrong, or right for that matter, just that it was Raylan, and Raylan would say that he didn't do handcuffs, and then what? Then what? What did they expect out of this? What could he possibly do to help this situation?

"Put it on speaker," he repeated, louder this time.

Rachel turned to him then, her thoughts on hopes, shook her head, said something and hung up.

"Go on," she repeated. "Park in the drive. He wants to talk to you."

"He wants to talk to me?"

"He said he wants to see you alone."

"Why the fuck are we doing what Raylan wants?"

"Please, Tim, just do it. I think he'd come out with you. I don't want to see this go down any other way. Do you?"

"Why do you think he'll come out with me? He's always done whatever the fuck he pleases."

"Because he respects you. I sometimes think you two understand each other better than anybody else could."

"I missed the memo."

"Tim…"

The car felt his frustration, the gear jammed into drive, the accelerator pressed too violently, gravel and dead leaves kicking up off the tires as Tim sped down the hill and turned sharply and too fast into the driveway, sliding the back a little on the corner. The car skidded to a stop and he forced it into park, opened the door and got out and shut it hard, not saying another word to Rachel, but he felt her watching him on his angry march to the house, past the truck, up to the stoop; he felt her expectations following him, stomping behind him loudly, demanding.

He knocked at the screen, impatient. "Raylan? It's me, Tim."

"Come on in. Door's unlocked."

Stepping across the threshold before he could think too hard about it, his right hand brushed the holster on his hip, unclipping it, his left came up and pressed into his forehead, trying to chase away doubts. Raylan was in the kitchen, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, studied calm. He smiled when Tim appeared in the doorway.

"Where's your hat, Raylan? I thought for a minute you were your dad without it."

The smile pressed into anger at the insult and Tim watched Raylan struggling to let it go.

"Good to see you, too, Tim. Drink?" he said eventually, evenly, leaned his chair back onto two legs.

"Fuck, Raylan. It's ten o'clock in the fucking morning."

Raylan shot a barb back. "And how is the drinking?"

"Same as always. Only after work. But fuck, pour – apparently I'm not here in any official capacity."

"You're not here to close out a warrant?"

"You shot a cop."

"Yes, I did. I don't deny it. Plainclothes – there's always a danger. Do you remember that? Plainclothes officer on scene." He wiggled a finger at his temple. "It always sat there messing with your head when you called for back-up. You'd think what if they shoot me by mistake? It happens. I didn't know he was on the scene."

"How could you? You weren't on the job anymore. You weren't supposed to be messing in that."

"Somebody had a reckoning coming. Long overdue."

"Was it worth it? What the fuck were you thinking?"

"It's a regret – wrong place at the wrong time." Raylan shook his head slowly. "I'd undo it if I could."

"But you can't."

"Nope." The front feet of his chair hit the floor with a thud and Raylan leaned forward, unscrewing the cap on the bottle of bourbon and pouring two glasses. He kicked the chair across from him out from the table and slid one of the glasses to that spot and nodded at it. "Sit for a minute."

The invitation was casual and Tim let himself relax a little, stepped to the table and sat down and reached for the glass. He said, desperate to understand the situation, "Who were you after? Just couldn't retire, could you?"

"I never did see the point of mandatory retirement at fifty-seven. Didn't suit Art very well, either. What's it going to be like for you, do you think?"

"I've already got plans for after. I've got a couple of buddies running a private sniper school who've been hounding me to join them. They can't keep up with the demand."

"Makes sense – good gig. You liking Louisiana?"

"Well enough that I'm thinking of leaving before I hit fifty-seven. The work's okay, but I don't get on the rifle as much anymore and I don't like the heat down there."

Raylan nodded, but he was distracted, took a breath and took a sip of the bourbon, grimaced. "You still spending all your free time at the range?"

"I think it's a useful skill to keep up."

"I agree."

"That's great. We agree. Raylan, what am I doing here? It's Rachel wants to talk to you."

"I don't want to talk to Rachel just now. Women cloud my thinking. That's one thing I've learned about myself."

"Congratulations."

"Mm-hm."

The room went still then, suddenly, and Tim thought he could hear the bourbon aging in the bottle it was so quiet, almost motionless, timeless. He watched his arm with a detachment that saddened him as it picked up the whiskey and brought it to his mouth. He tasted it with a keen sharpness that brought a flood of memories back of drinks with friends in bars in other states, or this one, other kitchens, and this one. The glass was loud, settling back on the table, and the table was smooth under his fingers, well-worn and tired and experienced, if something inanimate could have experience. A few generations of Givens had lived here and Tim didn't want to hear anything the table might have to say about that, and when Raylan spoke finally, it might have been the table speaking, old and worn and tired and experienced.

"I ain't gonna die in a prison, Tim. I'm not going nicely."

"Yep, I know."

There was a pause, and Tim thought about how this might play out differently, but couldn't, then they both pulled; three shots fired in a blink.

Rachel was in the house seconds after the first shot left the barrel, her voice pitched to scream but still rational, calling loudly, "Tim? Raylan?"

Tim was lying on his back on the floor, looking up at the ceiling, worn and stained, and he felt like that ceiling, worn and stained. He'd never been shot before. All his time around firearms and he'd never been shot before. He didn't like it much – it hurt like fuck – but he didn't think he was going to die from it.

Rachel went to Raylan first, briefly, then came to him, hovering, grief, wet streaks marking her face, phone to her ear calling for help, repeating softly again and again, sorry, I'm so sorry – oh God, Tim, what happened? What happened? She pressed a cloth on the wound, and it made it hurt more, that and looking at her, and the way she couldn't look at him.

I don't miss. He wanted to say it aloud to Rachel, to explain what happened. I don't miss.

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