Title: A Change of Scenery (1/13)
Author: Romantique
Email: dolph1n
Classification: Raylan/Rachel Hurt/Comfort, Friendship
Rating: T for language
Summary: Raylan's inability to sleep reaches the breaking point. (Takes place after 'Fever Dreams' which is rated M for language and violence.)
Disclaimer: I wrote this fic immediately following the end of Season 3.
Legal: These characters do not belong to me. I'm just a fan and have not made a dime. Please email me to obtain permission to post.
"Good mornin', Sunshine," Art's voice bellowed artificially sweet and cheery.
It was much too early for his boss' loud volume and levity, so much so that Raylan Givens thought he might lose his breakfast ... which consisted of too many cups of coffee that were not doing their job.
Walking up to his legendary, yet 'pain-in-the-ass' marshal, Chief Deputy Marshal Art Mullens cornered Raylan, as soon as he stepped off the elevator, late to work ... again. It was obvious Art had been waiting there for him to arrive.
"Don't tell me. Let me guess," Art placed his fingers over his forehead and closed his eyes, as if he was performing a psychic reading. He then opened his eyes, stared straight at Raylan and announced his channeled 'vision,' "You didn't get any sleep ... again ... last night."
It didn't take psychic ability for Art to figure this one out, as the evidence was clear: Raylan looked like hell. He had bags and dark circles under his eyes. His normally smooth, controlled gait of a big game cat had slowed to that more resembling a garden slug. His hat was sitting on top of his head, askew, in a 'devil don't care' sort of a way.
"No, I didn't. At least not much," Raylan said in a low, gravelly voice. "And it wasn't for a lack of tryin'."
"Maybe that's your problem? You're tryin' too hard," Art suggested.
Attempting to garner a little sympathy, Raylan replied, "I've tried warm milk, bourbon, and sex ... separately and combined, and not in any particular order or on the same night."
"Did it help?" Art asked
"Nope. Nada," Raylan shook his head. "Don't tell me you got a better remedy?"
Everyone had their favorite sleep remedy and felt free to share them with Raylan these days, whether he wanted them to or not.
"I dunno," Art shrugged. "The bourbon and sex combo always works like a charm for me. The milk? Not so much. I'm lactose intolerant." He then patted his large tummy. "Gives me gas."
Raylan's expression changed into an offended squint, clearly too much information coming from his boss.
After a beat, Art added, "Maybe you should take a few days off? You know, get outta town."
"And go where?" Raylan asked in an irritated tone, obviously not open to the suggestion.
"Anywhere. Change of scenery," Art looked up at him. "Or you could always talk to the Department shrink. Maybe you need one of those sleep studies, where they wire you up and read your brain waves. I do know one thing."
Raylan had known Art long enough to know that he was going to hear the rest of this, whether he wanted to or not. So, he politely asked, "What's that?"
"They're not gonna tell you to lose weight for your sleep apnea, like they did me," Art quipped, referring to Raylan's tall, thin, muscular build. The man didn't have an extra ounce of fat on him.
Raylan raised an eyebrow. Under his breath so as not be overheard, he skillfully deflected the conversation away from himself. "So you went to the Department shrink for a sleep study?"
"I had to," Art was very matter-of-fact in his admission. "In my case, my snorin' was keepin' me from gettin' a good night's sleep, and it started affectin' me on the job. Slowed my reaction time. Same way it's affectin' you. It's a cumulative affect that you can't afford to ignore."
"While I appreciate your concern, I don't snore," Raylan continued to deflect. "At least not unless I've been drinkin' ... heavily ... which, of course, I would never do on a work night." Raylan suspected Art knew he was lying about the heavy drinking.
Starting to become irritated himself, Art asked, "And how do you know whether or not you snore?"
For Raylan, he stated the obvious. "Because ... my partners have told me I don't."
"What have you got, 'Girls Gone Wild' goin' on over there, at that college bar?" Art asked, mostly curious about the plurality of Raylan's use of the word 'partners.' "Do your partners snore?" "
Raylan let out a nervous laugh at the intimacy of this conversation. "Uh, not hardly and no," he used his finger to emphasize which answer went with which question. After a pause he added, "I have trouble fallin' asleep ... not stayin' asleep. And I don't want to go to a doctor who will give me pills. That's not the answer."
"Well, you better find the answer, since you're the man with all the answers ... because you can't keep goin' on like this. Hell, I can't afford to ignore you draggin' yourself in here every day, runnin' on only two of your eight cylinders," Art was being very frank. "If you don't make some immediate changes, you'll soon be runnin' on empty."
Screwing up his face in a look of disbelief, Raylan Givens was beginning to feel challenged, a position he never accepted very well, no matter the source. He reactively stood up taller and puffed out his chest. "What exactly are you sayin' here, Art?"
Posturing in a counter move with his hands on his hips, Art clearly stated, "I'm sayin' you need to either take some time off or go see the shrink. It's your choice."
"What ... now?" Raylan deflected again. "I still have a few loose ends to tie up with Wynn Duffy."
Art crossed his arms over his barrel chest. He decided to give his marshal a Raylan-style ultimatum. "You have until sundown to give me your decision. Until then, Rachel's goin' with you."
Shaking his head, as if what Art said made no sense, Raylan asked, "You want Rachel with me to question Duffy? What about Tim?"
Art was now speaking authoritatively, like a boss. "I want Rachel to chauffer you today and keep you from beatin' the shit outta Mr. Duffy. You're less likely to manipulate her or make her do your flunky work. And besides, I highly doubt you'll need Gutterson's sharp-shootin' skills to pay Mr. Duffy a friendly visit."
Pursing his lips with an audible exhale of frustration, Raylan glared at Art.
"Don't give me that look. I'm serious, Raylan," Art was now glaring at Raylan. "You're not sleeping is affecting you on the job. Your diminished reaction time and quick-trigger temper make you a hazard on the road and to the Badge." Raising his eyebrows, he declared, "End of conversation."
With that, Art turned on his heel and walked towards the Marshal Offices' entry doors. Raylan followed him about 20 paces behind.
Once at the door, Art turned and decided to throw Raylan a bone. "Look at the bright side. I bet Rachel won't mind if you catch 20 winks on the drive out there. That would be far better for her than to have to deal with your less than sunny temperament."
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Deputy Marshall Rachel Brooks was not pleased with the favor Art had asked of her, but she understood why he wanted her there. Her assignment was to 'keep the peace' and to back up Raylan if either he or Wynn Duffy stepped out of line. But since their recent prison transport trip to Arizona, she had a little more insight into Raylan's behavior.
Following alongside Raylan out the office door, in her most professional voice, she said, "We're wearing our vests, plain clothed."
"Alright," Raylan agreed.
It was a wise call based on Raylan's colorful history with Wynn Duffy, much of which Rachel did not know.
"I'll meet you out at your car," she said, as she headed for the Ladies Locker Room to put on her vest under her clothing. Raylan went to his locker to do the same.
A short time later, Rachel joined Raylan in the parking lot. She was just happy to find that he hadn't ditched her. "Keys, please?" she asked.
He dug into his pocket, grabbed his keys, and tossed them to her. She could tell he was not pleased with this arrangement, as he always preferred to work alone, but he somehow seemed resigned. Once they stepped into Raylan's Lincoln, Rachel adjusted the seat and mirrors to accommodate her much shorter frame. Then, she opened a paper bag she had with her and pulled out a pastry with a napkin and handed it to her 'partner for the day.'
Raylan held up his hand as a gesture. "No thanks. I'm not hungry."
"I didn't offer it to you because I thought you were hungry. It contains a lot of sugary carbs. Carbs make you crash and sleep," she explained, still holding out the treat with no emotion on her face or in her voice. "Couldn't hurt to try it."
Raylan looked at her sideways. What she said made sense. "Thanks," he nodded, as he took it from her.
"You're welcome," she said, as she started the car and pulled out of the lot.
Raylan took a bite out of the big strawberry jelly roll. It was extremely sweet.
"There's some bottled water in my bag, behind you ... if you need to wash it down," she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.
He reached behind his seat and could feel more than one bottle. He grabbed one by its neck. Balancing the pastry on his knee, he unscrewed the top off the bottle and took a few gulps to dilute the sugar overload in his mouth. He was then ready to proceed to eat the rest.
"Is everyone giving you advice on how to cure your insomnia?" Rachel finally broke the silence.
Raylan nodded, his mouth full. "Yeah."
"Well, this one is not a cure ... but it might help you catch some sleep on the drive out to Duffy's," she said,
Wiping his mouth and then his fingers with the napkin, Raylan swallowed and asked, "You wouldn't mind? If I nodded off for a bit?"
She quickly glanced over at him and said, "No, I wouldn't mind."
Raylan adjusted his seat to a recline position, stretched out his long legs in front of him, and pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes. He then, crossed his arms over his chest and let out a long, slow exhale.
Rachel glanced over and watched his arms rise and fall over his chest. She actually felt for the guy, though she tried her best not to show it. Here they worked with crime victims every single day ... and to find out that Raylan had been one at the hands of his own father? For her, it explained a lot. Not that it ever excused his loner, 'doesn't play nice with others' behavior. But it offered an explanation as to why.
She couldn't help but wonder if it was his experience as a crime victim that made him such an effective marshal. Or maybe it was his familial relationship to a criminal. He certainly had a unique perspective, and it certainly explained his need to bring justice and order to a world that wasn't always fair. She had garnered a lot of trust and respect for the man over the past few years, getting to know the man vs. the legend. And she felt that he had learned to trust and respect her and Tim, as well. There was no doubt that she and Tim often felt slighted by Art's favoritism to his old friend from their Glynco days. But she had decided any favoritism shown to him wasn't Raylan's fault, although he wasn't above courting it from Art or anyone else he came into contact with. As much as Tim complained, he still did most of whatever Raylan asked of him. Rachel, on the other hand had set her firm, professional boundaries with Raylan from day one. He wasn't one to try and take advantage of her, in the way he did Tim.
More than any other marshal, Raylan had been through a lot since his arrival to the Lexington office. His aunt was murdered; he'd been shot, framed for murder; Winona left him, he shot and killed his first woman, and his friend Trooper Tom Bergen was killed in the line of duty. And worst of all, Rachel was with him when he brought his own father in for questioning for the murder of Tom Bergen and was subsequently held over for trial. Any other marshal would have folded under the strain a long time ago.
And then, unbeknownst to Raylan, when she inadvertently found out about how he was terrorized as a young child by his father, it was hard for her respect level for the man not to double.
When she glanced over at him again, his breathing had slowed to nice, even, shallow breaths. His arms had dropped and his hands had fallen loosely into his lap. His head had turned somewhat to the right, his mouth was slightly open, and his jaw and the lines on his face appeared relaxed. She was fairly certain he was sleeping.
(To be continued ...)