Tim Gutterson gave a weary, relieved sigh as he killed the car engine and sat for a moment, staring at the front of his house. The day had been long, tiring even though Tim had barely left the office, the drama and craziness surrounding fellow US Marshal Raylan Givens just taking it out of Tim.
He watched the front of the house, smiling as the dogs raced out of the partially ajar door with happy barks, Tim sliding out of the SUV to meet them.
The little one, Max, a beagle cross, was the fastest, the wolfhound Roscoe trotting along behind at his own happy pace. Tim crouched to meet Max, the little dog hopping on to Tim's knees and licking his face like Tim was burger meat, shoving his head under Tim's hand to get that behind the ear scratch he loved so much.
Roscoe tried the same, albeit at a slower pace, the long legged dog all but knocking Tim on his ass as he forgot he wasn't a puppy anymore. Max was shoved easily aside with a vague yelp of protest, but Tim gave Roscoe a nuzzle before pushing him back and standing up.
He reached back into the SUV, grabbing his bag before locking it up and heading inside. The dogs ran literal circles around him, Max yapping away while Roscoe just sort of followed the smaller dog with a look of bemused happiness on his fuzzy face.
Beyond the front door, Tim set down his bag and took a deep breath, smelling freshly cooked dinner.
"That you?" Sam called from deeper in the house, the kitchen, probably.
"Nope, I'm a murderer" Tim shouted back, shrugging out of his jacket "I saw the open door and thought I'd get my murderin' on"
"Well darn" Sam called back "I guess my time has come. How was your day?"
The dogs had grown bored of Tim, racing off into the house to play.
"Insane" Tim called back, sitting on the seat by the door to begin undoing his shoes "The Feebs came after Givens for being corrupt and the Lexington PD came after him for murdering Gary Hawkins"
"What?" Sam was shouting, Tim hearing pots and pans rattle as they were moved.
"Yeah. Neither is true, obviously. Givens thinks this Detroit mob dude was behind both but we spent all day running interference for him. I pity the bastard for the shit he gets, but he needs to think about how he acts and all the shit it causes"
"You're not in trouble are ya?" Sam called.
"no" Tim answered, smiling slightly "Not me, I just messed with people all day"
"Isn't that all you do?"
"Ha!" Tim called sarcastically, dumping his boots on the ground.
He sat for a moment, eyes falling on a photo on the table of he and Sam, the last time Tim had come home from Afghanistan.
Tim was in uniform, smiling awkwardly, one arm in a sling, one half of his face still bruised and healing. The last thing he'd done in Afghanistan, at the very end of his last tour, was get thrown off the top of a Humvee by an errant grenade, breaking his collar bone, concussing the shit out of him and only just avoiding actually killing him, so his homecoming had been a relief for a bunch of reasons.
Sam's hair was longer in the picture, dark curls framing those stunning, almost lime green eyes Tim had fallen so hard for back in the day. Tim himself had longer than normal hair, too, grown out enough to show just how thick and shaggy it was. They were a young looking pair and the picture didn't help age them, both looking stupidly young.
Tim took his badge off his belt, unclipped the two guns, in the holsters he wore and put them both in the drawer of the hall table, locking it securely. He carried many more weapons than that, but taking them all off was a long enough process that it could wait.
"How was your day?" he called out, rising to his feet to start towards the kitchen "Were the kids at school nice to you?"
The kid in him reminded him to sock surf on the hardwood floor and Tim followed the orders, taking a small running start to get some real distance on it.
"Awesome" Sam was calling "That kid Chesney, he won the short story award, five thousand bucks and his story gets published and he'll get paid a little for every copy of the anthology they sell. I got a call from the Principal about starting up a creative writing group and maybe being able to get paid extra for it."
"Wow, good for Chesney" Tim said as he entered the kitchen. He could really smell the food now, something spicy and full of flavour "And extra pay? Holy shit, is he dyin'?"
Sam turned to greet him, lime green eyes full of love, holding out an arm for a hug and Tim relaxed into it with a relieved, relaxed sigh.
"You need beer and food. And Breaking Bad is on tonight" Sam stated.
"When will Walter White learn?" Tim asked with a smile.
"Go set the table" Sam ordered "It's steak so find the actual steak knives, butter knives wont do and if I have to tell you again I am never cooking for you ever again"
"Butter knives are just as dangerous as steak knives in the right hands" Tim pointed out as he headed for the cutlery drawer "it's all about the strength and the angle. I had to use a spoon one time to subdue this dude. A kitchen knife is just a kitchen knife 'til you…well, give it to me. Then it's a weapon"
"When you say stuff like that, it freaks me out" Sam told him.
"Yeah, but freaks you out sexy wise" Tim smirked "You can't pretend my badassness isn't a turn on"
"I can't. But I want to be able to eat my damn steak" Sam stated "You want garlic bread?"
"Does the pope shit in the woods?" Tim asked.
Sam chuckled, turning back to the food as Tim began to rummage for the right cutlery.