Raylan/Tim
Art's POV
I still don't know whose idea it was. It certainly wasn't mine, even if it was my house we picked for the movie night. But I didn't have any choice about that anyway - Raylan might as well live in a dumpster, Tim won't let anyone in past his door and Rachel looked like she might kill us all if we even suggested it.
So it's my house, and it's ten in the evening and Bridge on the River Kwai is playing on the TV, and there's popcorn all over the carpet somehow. Sometimes I can't tell if I work with marshals or teenage girls.
It's a great party. No one says anything. Raylan just looks at everything with his stupid bemused smirk that I always want to surgically remove from his face, and going through half my whiskey – making me feel like an idiot for not locking it up. Tim has stopped moving altogether, just sitting like a statue with his eyes on the screen. He hasn't even touched the whiskey Raylan poured for him, although the glass is empty and I'm pretty sure I know where there contents went. Rachel sits with her fingers playing in her dark hair, and for most of the night I assume she's just praying for it all to be over.
But when the charges finally go off on the screen, I see her face illuminated for the duration of the sequence. Flaring oranges and reds highlight the wells of her eyes as she lets her gaze slide to the left, something like a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
I look.
The whisky must have gotten to Raylan, who's fallen asleep. Which by itself is just about the least endearing thing I can think of, except… he's chosen to do it on Tim's shoulder.
I don't know why, but Tim is acting like he doesn't even notice. If I was him I'd toss Givens away and let him sleep it off on the rug. But Tim just… sits there, and as I watch I see him turn his head a little, looking down over the marshal by his side. He shifts his position ever so slightly, and lets the man's head fall more comfortably onto his chest. Well – it's more comfortable for Raylan, I would think. Not so much for me. I try to look away, but… it's one of those things. The ones that keep drawing your eye, no matter how much you tell yourself you don't want to be looking.
By the time the credits are rolling Tim has his arm draped loosely around Raylan's shoulders, although he's keeping it low, as if we won't see. He doesn't move – he doesn't look like he wants to move any time soon. I should be bothered. I'm a traditional man, you know. There are proper ways for things to be done. Between a man and a woman and all that. But I feel oddly resigned to it now, and when Rachel makes her blindingly-fast exit I'm left alone with the two, meeting Tim's eye from across the coffee table. "Just be careful." I tell him, shaking my head.
"What?" He mouths, and all I can do is rub at my temples.
"With Raylan. Be careful with Raylan."
Tim plays stupid, gives me an odd look. I stand up – I might as well go to bed. It's tiring, pretending not to care about these fools.
"He's not as tough as he looks. Hell, he's downright fragile. So be careful with him, Gutterson."
And I leave them there like that, Tim still trying to look like he doesn't understand simple fucking English.