Author's Note: I'm thinking that if they want to save money and come in under budget, the Justified production team should cancel Erica Tazel and Jacob Pitts' contracts and just pay for cardboard cutouts of the Marshals Office crew waving at the camera (other than Nick Searcy, of course). It wouldn't interfere much with the show. Meanwhile, we'd still get to use our imaginations and create the interesting and complex relationships that Raylan might have with the other Marshals if they ever did appear for more than a walk-on or have a part in a story arc that didn't seem rather pointless and like a bad commercial break. So, Rachel's married (or was), and Tim may or may not have problems adjusting to life after his stint in the military. Okay. Why did we need to know that?
And that's it for my rant. I promise. Unless you count Tim's.
Meanwhile, something else has got to be happening while Raylan saves yet another teenager and gets dumped by his girl again despite his best efforts at being heroic (a bit of a season 2 déjà vu). I'm sure the Marshals Service is a busy organization and that their reputation is not hanging on the Crowes getting busted. So, some story time with the other Marshals (what are their names again?), though mostly Tim because he's my muse of the moment. A different universe from my other stuff. Enjoy, I hope.
Don't own anything by EL (RIP) or F/X (and if I did, I'd do it differently). This is all for fun, just a harmless little creative outlet. No money is getting to me. None.
Jigsaw – Chapter One
"Boss, the folks downstairs want a revisit from that witness we brought in under subpoena for the..."
"Just give me the problem, Tim. I don't need the whole history."
There was some snark building, but Tim didn't give it air, settled for a drop of sarcasm in the tone. "Okay. It's that out-of-state dude that..."
"Christ, Tim, it's not like we've never had to chase down someone out-of-state before. You know the procedure. Just make the call, get it done."
Art didn't even look up.
So Tim didn't bother with another word of explanation, didn't bother reminding Art that this particular lowlife took six weeks of tracking through small town Georgia and into the mountains the last time the US Attorney's office issued a subpoena, didn't bother reminding him that it took two Deputy US Marshals and four members of the Georgia State Police to bring the witness in once they'd cornered him and that one of the staties ended up in the hospital, didn't bother mentioning that the federal government landed in a legal battle with the man's lawyer over the injuries he sustained during the delivery of the subpoena and that the charges brought against him at the time, aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest, threatening a federal officer and possession of illegal firearms, were subsequently dropped. He did show up in court finally though as an unwilling witness for the prosecution in a case involving the shooting of a Kentucky game warden. His testimony was a stinking dumpster of perjury.
Tim eyed the blinding bald spot on Art's head, decided he also wouldn't bother his boss with the idea he had for delivering this subpoena this time since it wasn't well-received when Tim suggested it the last time.
Get it done. Alright. Fine. So he'd get it done. And no one had better complain about his methods.
Get it done. That's all he was hearing. That's all anyone was saying with tensions in the office running taut as a banjo string on an upright bass.
Get it done.
He turned and trudged back to his desk and picked up the phone, call waiting, spoke to the clerk in the US Attorney's office, hung up. Heywood Humphrey's face was taunting him, smirking up from the mugshot paperclipped to the folder Tim had open on his keyboard. He flicked the man's face right between the eyes then ran his finger down the arrest report until he found what he was looking for, the name of a hunting outfit in north Georgia. Picking up the phone again, he dialed the number and booked a guide for the weekend, requested him by name. He set the receiver down in the cradle and looked around the office thinking he really should take someone with him for this – it was procedure for confronting a man with a history of assaulting law enforcement officials – but after doing two visual circuits of the bullpen he huffed out a dismissal for the lot, a small explosion of frustration through his lips. He'd go alone. There was no one here he wanted to sit in a car with for four hours and that was just one half the trip.
It was blown all to shit this week, the easy feel of the job. It was like Mom and Dad fighting.
"Um, Raylan?" The office administrator was standing awkwardly in front of Raylan's desk. "The Chief wants to know if you plan on submitting any expenses for signature this month?"
Raylan looked pointedly at Art's office. "Nope."
"Okay, thanks," and she left awkwardly.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Tim mumbled under his breath, then screamed it at the top of his lungs in his head, oh, for fuck's sake, hoping to shake it out, shake it off. Instead, it stirred up a headache. Fuck, he thought, calmer, digging in his drawer for some pain killers, swallowing four. He hated being the go-between, the push-pull between fighting parents. Tim was the only one in the office not playing this game, and he was going to continue not playing this game, not passing on messages until Art got his message – Tim don't play!
At least it was Friday. He rubbed his neck, looked at the clock – 4:45pm. He couldn't think of any job small enough to fill the exact time left until five and he didn't want to start anything that might take longer than fifteen minutes, keep him here in this pressure cooker past his contractual obligation. He tucked the phone under his chin and shuffled some files, decided to look busy.
He turned to his right, studied Art sitting with his head down, pushing a pen across some paperwork. Art was definitely the dad – he had that dad thing down pat, that if I ignore it all maybe it'll go away on its own thing. And though no one was talking about it, it was obvious to all that Art had let his frustration at Raylan out with a fist. Congratulations, but disappointing. It made it easy for Tim to draw the comparison with the only dad he had experience with growing up and it wasn't a flattering comparison.
And that left the mom role for Raylan. He fit it okay – more likely than Art to verbalize his discontent, strutting around the office acting like he had tapped into life's secrets while the rest of them were wandering without a clue and persecuting the enlightened. Fucking drama queen, still thinking it was better as a one-man show and no one could do it like him. He was chipping away at his own pedestal then passing Art the hammer to chip away at his.
What was it that guy, Sartre, said? – Hell is other people. Yep.
So just what had Raylan done? Tim really didn't give a fuck except that he was eating shit for it too. Clearly it was something bad – bad enough that Art wouldn't talk about it, bad enough that he barely acknowledged his senior deputy anymore except to send him orders through the rest of them. And if that wasn't enough to drive Tim to drink, Nelson was positively dancing around the office, no longer the underdog, turning stomachs with his sickly sweet overtures to Raylan just to hide his glee that the shit had finally come full circle. Fuck, it was annoying.
Tim's thoughts must've been powerful and directed. Nelson twitched like he'd felt the vibe, hopped up from his desk and skipped over to their end of the bullpen.
"Fuck," Tim breathed his current favorite word into the dead phone. "Here comes a motive for murder."
He said it loudly enough that Raylan heard, looked where Tim was looking and smirked in appreciation of the sarcasm.
"Hey, Raylan." Nelson smiled, gooey, generous in his new lofty position of second from the bottom. "A bunch of us are going for a beer. You want to come along?"
"Thanks for including me in your plans, Nelson," Tim said, unable to resist an opportunity to tease, and besides there was an awkward space crying to be filled as Raylan dug around for a good excuse to say no to the invitation. "A beer with Raylan, huh? Should warn you – better bring your credit card." He leaned back and enjoyed Nelson's discomfort.
A stammering apology followed. Raylan interrupted it. "Uh, maybe. You in, Tim?" He looked over the barrier with an invitation, an eyebrow salute for the timely entertainment.
A drink sounded good right now, but the company would sour the taste. Tim felt he needed a bit of distance and some perspective before he reacted to it all and did something stupid. He shook his head. "Nope. I don't drink. Gave it up for Lent."
"Bullshit," Raylan coughed into his hand. "Come for a drink, Tim. Nelson's paying."
"I'd rather go to an AA meeting, thanks." He snatched the Humphrey file from his desk and stood up, looking longingly at the hallway and the perspective that he hoped might be there waiting for him.
"Tell me, Tim, do you mean to be such a prick or is it accidental?"
The retort came with a glued-on grin. "A true gentleman is one who is never unintentionally rude."
"You must've stolen that line from somewhere – it's too literate for you."
"Oscar Wilde. According to him I'm a gentleman. Not so sure about you, Raylan. Gee, look at the time. Gotta go."
"Where're you off to in such a hurry?"
"My empty house. For once it's looking better than a bar."
The clock ticked over to five as he slipped between Raylan's desk and Nelson and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" Rachel asked as he passed, stopping him with a wall of seniority. She didn't bother looking up either.
"Going to get 'er done…ma'am."
There was a warning on her face when she looked up.
"Subpoena." He tapped her computer screen with the file he was holding and said in a controlled monotone, "Odd word. I looked it up today procrastinating going to talk to Chris, our tech dick, about a problem I was having with my phone. You want to know what it means?" He didn't wait for a 'yes' or a 'no'. "It's Medieval Latin for 'under penalty,' first used around the fifteenth century. The fuller phrase 'subpoena duces tecum' means 'you shall bring with you under penalty.' 'Duces' is a conjugation of the Latin verb, 'ducere', meaning 'to bring' – that's second person future indicative – and 'tecum' is 'with you.'" He paused to let her digest the information. "We should update it, don't you think? Something like – 'Get your fucking ass down to court now or we'll put you behind bars.' That might be too long..."
Rachel looked like she wanted to put Tim's eye out with the pen she was holding. She put a hand on her forehead, effectively blocking Tim from view, and focused back on the paper on her desk. "Just get it done."
"Yes, ma'am."
He stood a moment watching her until she felt it, looked back up.
"Tim, not today."
He shrugged. "No one's interested in etymology anymore." He got a huff from her, turned and slipped out of the office.
There was a group gathered waiting for the elevator, he swung wide of them, ignoring another invitation for drinks, and took the stairs to the basement. A bare nod to the security guard at the door and he was gone, outside, the air a little crisp, bracing, the sun low and bright, out to the parking lot and into his truck, the headache already retreating as he settled behind the wheel and shut the door. He was never so happy to be alone.
"Halle-fucking-lujah."
He stretched the word out turning the engine over, let the truck idle and skipped through his playlist for something loud and aggressive. Finding a good track, he cranked up the volume, put the truck in gear and drove sedately out of the parking lot and cruised home.
He was steering his truck through his neighborhood less than five minutes later, an older part of the city, workers' houses on the wrong side of the tracks that the gentrifiers thankfully hadn't bothered with, cheap, rough. Tim had found a nice apartment right downtown when he first got the assignment to Lexington, but he hated feeling caged, didn't want to live too far out of the bustle either though, so settled for renting this small semi-detached a short drive from the court house. It came with an easy but negligent landlord. And the neighbor was quiet. She lived alone too – there was a boyfriend but he moved out shortly after Tim moved in. They'd say hi when their paths crossed, toss a word or two occasionally between the yards, reminders for garbage pick-up, complaints about the weather. She always smiled, didn't matter the day.
She wasn't his type. She rode a bicycle everywhere, even in the snow, and had more tattoos than he did. He had her pegged as a soft-hearted, left-leaning, free-spirited innocent, the kind to keep crystals in her living room to increase the energy of her chakra or whatever the fuck, probably drank herbal tea. He didn't give her much thought except to admire her back when she wore those strappy tops in the warm weather. She had a nice back, smooth and enticing with a spider on a web tattooed on her right shoulder blade. It was the only spider he'd ever had an urge to touch. Shame she wasn't his type.
She was wearing one those strappy tops this evening, probably why he decided to be chivalrous. It wasn't warm enough for a strappy top but the argument she was having with her ex on the front step was clearly hot enough to keep the evening chill from affecting her. The stiff line of her back told Tim everything. She'd stepped outside her door to have it out with him, keep the ex from stepping in.
They both looked over when Tim pulled into his driveway, the bass notes from the speakers booming, announcing his arrival even with the windows up. He directed a hard look over at her visitor, shut off the truck, got out, leaned against the open door and waited for a reaction.
"Is there something I can do for you?" The ex sent the empty snarl and bark across the yard, tired of the unwanted scrutiny.
Work was still hanging on Tim and he kept it there for this. "Nope. I'm fine. Thanks for asking." He held the man's angry gaze for a second or two past casual then switched over to her. "Jo," a pointed look, "anything I can do for you?"
She brushed off his concerns, rolling her eyes straight up. "Keep that Friday beer you promised me cold. I need it tonight. I'll be over in a minute."
"No problem," he said, playing along, then added, though for the life of him he had no idea why, "I'll order the pizza. The usual?"
She nodded.
"Okay. See you in five."
"Alright."
Tim turned and reached into the cab for his back-up weapon that he'd set on the console when he left the courthouse, then, standing so the ex could see what he was doing, he dropped the magazine and made a show of checking it, slipped it back into place and slid the gun into the waist of his jeans, closed and locked his truck and walked into his house.
He stood just inside, waiting. The slam of a car door, an engine turning over, a bit of tire tread left on the asphalt was his signal that he wasn't needed anymore. He smirked, kicked off his boots and went to the kitchen for a beer. The doorbell rang while he was rooting through the refrigerator hoping for some inspiration for dinner. Slamming the door closed he went to see what she wanted.
Jo had covered her back with a warm and wrinkled flannel shirt. A little bounce, a helpless grin, an uncertain finger wave, and she said, "Thanks – that got rid of him in a hurry. Is that gun real?"
"Yep."
She didn't turn to leave. Maybe she wanted reassurance that he was going to be here if the ex came back. She couldn't have been serious about the beer.
He hinted, said, "You let me know if he shows up again."
A finger reached across the space between them and poked him. "Where's the beer you promised?"
"I didn't," Tim pointed out, looking down at the arm linking them, the tattoo wrapped around the wrist. "That was you that said that…about the beer."
"Maybe." She smiled again, undeterred. "Did you already order the pizza or do I get a say on the toppings?"
She took a step closer and he took a step back, a reaction. She took it as an invitation and slipped past him into his house.
Flustered, he couldn't come up with something appropriately rude to say, could only watch, irritated, while she toed off her runners and peered around his place curiously. He resigned himself to company and pizza and the fact that he'd be forced to order a vegetarian special on thin whole wheat crust with fucking soy cheese. The day just wouldn't end fast enough.
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