Title: The Edge

Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is just for fun.

Rating: M. For language and a little bit of violence.

Warnings: Yeah, the violence, I suppose.

Summary: This story takes place shortly after my previous one 'Gravitation Is Not Responsible For People Falling In Love'. It is its own thing though. It's Tim/Raylan slash of the melodramatic variety. Sort of Tim-centric.

Author´s note: This is just another fix for me. Because I can't get them out of my head. As far as the plot goes… it's all over the place, for which I apologize in advance. Suspension of disbelief is needed for everything. Also, no one has looked this over for mistakes except for me, so they are to be expected.

Tim told her once, that one of his coping methods to get back into the regular rhythm of society when he got out of the army, was picking up random skills. He's fluent in Spanish, even though he speaks it with a god awful accent, he is a car engine genius and he most definitely knows how to cook. Rachel's sitting by the kitchen table in her mom's house, chopping tomatoes, watching Tim's back as he sips his beer and stirs the pot on the stove. It smells absolutely fantastic. Her mom is in the middle of a rant about the necessity of always using fresh chili, Tim is agreeing with most of it. They've gotten along famously since the first time they met. He likes her brutal honesty, she likes that he calls her ma'am. He looks happy here, with his usual swagger and an easy, genuine smile. She's not sure why she's been concerned about him this last week. Something to do with his eyes; tired and focused somewhere too far off.

Tim is good at his job. He's smart, able, trustworthy to a fault and there's no one she'd rather have at her side when things get rough. He has an edge though and she can't quite figure it out. There's the obvious; the battle scars, the guilt, the blatant addiction to challenge. He gets twitchy and miserable when work isn't hard enough. It's been better since Raylan. She hides a smile by stuffing a piece of tomato in her mouth. He raises a questioning eyebrow at her anyway, but she shrugs it off. Raylan Givens stormed into their lives, messed everything up and still managed to make it interesting. Of course, neither he nor Tim ever so much as hinted that they're in any way more than fellow marshals and drinking buddies, but Rachel sure as hell isn't stupid. Hungry, is what she is.

Dinner is great. Even Nick, who's become a typically morose teenager, is in a good mood. They're having coffee when that worn down look comes over Tim again. She's just about to ask when he gets up and tells them it's time for him to head back home. Her mom smears lipstick all over his cheek, hugs him and tells him that he better get some damned sleep. Rachel just smirks from the door. He winks at her. She thinks that part of his allure is that she'll always try to find that edge. The tragedy, she's sure, is she never will.

He finds Raylan asleep in his bed when he gets home. He keeps saying it's because the bar is too noisy at night, but they both know that's bullshit. It's been a bad week and he's keeping Raylan awake just as efficiently as crappy live bands and drunken brawls would. He hangs out by the door for a while, watches Raylan's chest rise and fall peacefully, before moving outside to crawl into his favorite chair on the porch facing the backyard. Last couple of nights he's avoided sharing the bed. The official reason is that he figures at least one of them should sleep enough to be fit for work and it is true… but it's not the whole story. The stubborn, knucklehead son of a bitch doesn't like it one bit. They even had a fight about it. Tim says it's because Raylan is really a big softie who likes to cuddle, but he knows that's not it. It's because he's worried.

Tim is not ashamed of his occasional remnants of PTSD and he won't make excuses for it either. It is what it is. The dreams he fears, the ones he doesn't want Raylan to have to see, they're something else. Something far older, far more primal and paralyzing. Destructive in a way no war related flashback's ever been, going back to when he was still a crooked teethed little kid. He's worked hard to keep that shit out of his life and it stays buried, for the most part. It'll sneak in through the cracks though, hit him like a freight train and leave him all broken up for a while. Raylan has seen him trapped in those dreams a couple of times. It freaked him out real bad. He was still subtle enough not to ask what it was all about, but they're past that point now. He'll pry in to it and Tim will tell him… and he's not sure how that's gonna play out, so he'd just rather not.

Tar black clouds sweep by and cover the moon. Tim pulls the blanket he brought from the couch over his shoulders. It's early summer, windy enough to make the leaves sing. It's nice. He doesn't bring his gun with him out here. He'd rather not end up shooting one of the neighbors by mistake. He misses the weight of it against him though, feels sort of naked without it and rubs absently at the tattoo on his forearm, for comfort. It might be a little… off, but fact is that he likes looking at the world through crosshairs. He likes the mindset it forces him into, detached and focused. It allows him to make decisions based on calculation, not emotion. Emotion is sloppy and acting on it, in his line of work, can get real ugly. This isn't work. This is where he'll fall asleep in a plastic chair, wake up thinking he's in the middle of combat and put at bullet in Mrs. Rowan from next door. He chuckles quietly into the dark, imagining her uproarious face, and then he remembers shit like that is not supposed to be funny. He wraps the blanket tighter around himself, even though it's not cold at all, drifts in and out of one of those dreams where he's bleeding desert sand, and comes to feeling almost rested.

It's too early for Raylan to be up yet, but he misses him. He's never loved anyone so fiercely before and it still throws him for a loop, how easy it is and how infuriating at the same time. He's still amazed at how it's actually Raylan; his coworker and friend - the Harlan cowboy who drives him nuts with all the goddamn bullheaded crap he keeps pulling - that makes him feel this way. Protective and soft and yeah… maybe a little bit happy too. He toes off his shoes, slips in under the sheets and slides up against Raylan's back, kissing him awake. He shudders when he feels Tim's cold skin.

"Did you sleep on the porch?"

"Did you want a blowjob?"

They're stuck in traffic, on their way to talk to the brother of Bartholomew Harris, who earned the status of wanted fugitive the day before yesterday, and has successfully evaded their search for him since then. He's not smart enough to stay lost for long though, Raylan's already bored with him. He fishes a Snickers bar that he stole from Tim's office-stash of sweets from his pocket and takes a huge bite. They missed breakfast. Good thing his partner's got a sugar addiction of epic proportions. Said partneris currently power-napping against the shotgun window. Raylan thinks there's no fucking way he's letting him sneak off to spend the night on the porch again, that shit can't be healthy. He's oddly grateful for the traffic holdup. Tim get's about an hour worth of rest before Raylan nudges him awake. He rubs at his face, runs a hand through his hair and checks his gun.

Bartholomew Harris had stabbed a skinny looking collage kid to death behind an Italian restaurant, then left his corpse wedged into a damp corner to get all chewed to hell by rats. It had made for some very interesting crime scene photos. His brother, Matthew, lives in a house as big as a small mansion, in the fancy suburbs of Lexington. The doorbell plays Mozart. Tim rolls his eyes and bites his bottom lip, like he does when he's trying not to turn a serious situation into a joke. Raylan gives him a somber look, for good measure, and gets another eye roll in return. They're grinning stupidly at each other when the door opens. It's a kid. No more than seven and looking like a gust of wind might lift him off his feet. He's wearing a sweater west and khakis. Raylan could picture him sitting in a rocking chair, watching CNN and smoking a pipe, easily. He crouches down to eyelevel.

"Hi, there. You're not Matthew Harris, are you?" Kid shakes his head "no."

"Who might you be then?"

"I'm not supposed to say." He speaks with a lisp, probably on account of missing two front teeth.

"Well, my name is Raylan, this here is Tim… we're here to talk to your daddy. Is he in?"

"I'm not supposed to open the door."

"Oh, that's okay. It is your house, after all. We don't mind waiting out here while you go get him."

The kid seems to think things over thoroughly, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Then he reaches out a careful, bony hand. Raylan smiles and shakes it.

"I'm Johnnie."

"Pleasure to meet you."

He turns around to show them in. There are finger shaped bruises all over his tiny little neck. Raylan thinks he might throw up at the sight of it, but he doesn't. Tim's seen it too, judging by the depth of his frown line and the tension in his movements. Matthew Harris is in the lounge, doing pushups in pinstriped boxers, right next to a glass-table dusted in mounds and lines of white powder, late eighties techno roaring from the speakers. He's startled when he sees them, stands up, taller than Raylan and built like a brick wall.

"Mr. Harris? I'm deputy marshal Givens, this is deputy marshal Gutterson. We're here about your brother, Bart. Do you have a minute to talk?"

Matthew doesn't answer. He glares at the kid. "What did I tell you about the door, Jonathan?"

"Not to let anyone in."

"And then what did you go and do, you little faggot?" He punctuates his sentence but slapping the boy so hard he stumbles into the wall. Johnnie gathers himself quickly, with clearly practiced ease and disappears without a word, somewhere into the shadowy confines of the huge house. When he's gone, the brick wall-man turns his attention to them. Looking more annoyed than anything else and this is going to end in a complete shitstorm. Raylan can feel Tim seething at his side; he's usually cool as a cucumber, until he's not… and then violence gushes out of him like a flood. Absolute and unyielding and there is no getting in the way of it. It happens faster than fucking lightning. Tim stalks forward, cat-like, kicks Matthew behind the knee, sending him to the floor with a painful crack, forces his head back with a thumb in the eye and wedges his Glock under his chin. It's loaded. Raylan's trigger finger tingles. Tim's voice contradicts his actions. It's smooth and soft around the edges.

"When did you say you saw Bart last?"

A couple of tears slide down Matthew's cheek, he swallows thickly. "I… I don't…"

There's a moment when Raylan feels a sickly sense of justice at the scene playing out in front of him. A moment where he really fucking enjoys watching Tim like this; dangerous and balancing with razor-sharp precision on the edge of control. It's magnificent. Then he remembers that this is way past crossing a line they're really not supposed to cross, and steps up next to his furious partner, putting a cautious hand on his shoulder.

"Mr. Harris, this can be over real quick and easy for you if you just give us something to go on. Anything, really, and we'll leave you to whatever it is you were in the middle of doing before we got here."

There's unabashed hate in his unoccupied eye, he stares at Tim who stares right back. When he talks, he spits the words out like poison. "If you call off your goddamn pitbull I might."

Tim doesn't waste any time. He backs off, turns around and walks right out. Raylan keeps a hand on his gun, but Matthew's all out of fight, it seems. He's rubbing his no doubt sore eyeball, shaking all over.

"What makes you think I won't press assault charges against your friend, marshal?"

Raylan glances over at the copious amount of cocaine on the table. "Go right ahead, I'll wait here while you make the call." A few seconds pass.

"He's got this friend… Charlie something… Dale. I think. Charlie Dale."

The car ride back to the office is tense. Tim's driving. Raylan is sucking bits of peanuts from his teeth. "We'll call child services." He says.

Tim snorts. "Yeah, foster care might just be what turns his life around for the better."

This particular brand of sarcasm always manages to piss him off. He reckons it's because it makes him seem so cold. He knows better than that though and swallows the angry reply sitting on the tip of his tongue, keeps his gaze fixed on the passing cityscape instead. They make it to the parking lot before Tim speaks again.

"I know, I lost it. It's just…" He runs a hand over his face, dark circles harsh against the pale skin under his eyes, shakes his head hopelessly. Raylan get's it. "I know."

Charlie Dale turns out to be a valid lead. They find Harris just before sunset, in a basement not far from his brother's house, watching the news on a flat screen with a bowl of popcorn resting on his beer belly. He seems genuinely surprised at getting caught and doesn't even reach for the revolver that's stuffed down the back of his pants. It's anticlimactic. They go home all jittery from the excess adrenaline and end up getting each other off, quick and rough, up against the hallway closet.

Most nights Tim sleeps just fine, but it's been an awful week. It doesn't get this bad often enough for it to become routine, but Raylan has been around long enough to figure out how to deal with it anyway. The trick is to leave him to it, no matter how painful it is to witness, let him wake up on his own and wait until the fog clears. Until his eyes lose the frantic edge and he can focus. It's his que to speak. He goes for determined, but it comes out soft.

"Tim… you awake?"

"…Raylan?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Where's my gun?"

"You don't keep it next to the bed anymore, remember?" A tire had backfired outside a few weeks back and Tim had put two bullets in the bedroom wall. They'd laughed about it, but he'd taken to putting his sidearm well out of reach after that. His legs are twitching, not all the way awake yet, Raylan can tell, and he's seconds away from bolting from the bed which will make the whole scenario much worse. He risks putting a hand on Tim's knee. He flinches away from it but there are no fists flying in his direction, so he counts it as a win.

"Hey… tell me what you see, alright?"

Tim's fighting it, moving away from him, searching the shadows for god –knows-what, hands grasping at nothing, feeling empty without a weapon, no doubt. Raylan gives it another go. Puts more force into his words.

"Come on now, you know the drill. Tell me what you see." Time passes by slowly, silent, apart from their breathing.

"I… uh… the window. It's dark. I see my boots, no… wait… your boots. The alarm clock, shit… it's late. I'm sorry…"

Raylan nods and smiles a little, relived. He pulls Tim in close, lays them back down under the covers and lets out a shaky sigh against his stubbly cheek, whispers something sappy about how it's alright now. Nights like these aren't too bad. Tim will go back to sleep, safe in his arms, and wake up asscrack-early muttering about how he hates it when Raylan coddles him, go for a longer run than usual and come back looking wrecked but content. Then there are those other times. When all fences come down and he screams himself mute. Nights like that leave him panicked and sobbing, curled in on himself and unable to stand any kind of touch. Raylan suspects those dreams have nothing to do with war, but he's wary to ask. He's not sure if he's worried that Tim will tell him the truth, or that he won't.

He thinks about the tiny little Harris boy in the big house, runs a thumb over Tim's bruised knuckle, adjusts his grip to hold him a bit tighter and get's a displeased grunt from somewhere between his shoulder and the pillow. Tim has talked about his father. Enough to establish that he knows where Raylan is coming from with Arlo, but there's more to the story than he's let on. Raylan has his scars from childhood, sure, a couple of belt buckle lashes and a broken carpal bone that itch when the weathers changing. But he's seen the cigarette burns on the inside on Tim's thigh… and that's something different. That's malice on a level not even Arlo, in his most drunken rampage, would have been able to think of. He kisses Tim's hair, then his forehead and his left eyelid. Yeah, he's scared to know the extent of it, but that won't keep him from making damn sure he'll figure it out, some day. For now though… they're okay.

Rachel makes a point of smirking at them when they arrive together in the morning. They need to know that she's got them all figured out. Not that she'd ever blow their cover or that she wouldn't fight tooth and nail for them, if it came to that. She just doesn't like being kept in the dark. Raylan holds the door open for Tim who bumps into his left shoulder and lingers half a second too long, smooth and subtle. She resists shaking her head. They're really kinda obvious, when you know what to look for. Art must be letting it slide, cause there's just no way he's not noticed.

They're bickering about something completely unimportant all the way from the entrance, through a detour to the coffee counter, to their desks. Tim sits down with a satisfied grin on his face, looking like he's won this round. Raylan adjusts his hat and clears his throat.

"Hey don't think that I don't know where you keep your secret stash of candy. And don't think I won't use that information against you."

"Raylan, I hate peanuts. Why do you think you keep finding Snickers bars, huh?" There's a beat of stunned silence. Rachel moves over to them, all business like, amused and somewhat amazed at their level of childish.

"Oh. So you knew that I knew then. "

"Well, I thought that you knew that I knew that you knew, and I liked it that way, asshole. "

Raylan's looking at him with such fondness it hurts to watch, in a good way. She clears her throat but can't keep from smiling, in spite of herself, when she slaps the stack of files on Tim's desk.

"How about some work? "