Every inch of Tim's body was aching, but his leg was pure agony. Although his memories of the event were hazy he was sure he had stepped in some kind of snare, there was a deep gash in his leg which throbbed with every movement.
Not that he was in any kind of position to move much. He was lying in a bath. She had cuffed him with his own cuffs to the taps in the bath, his injured leg was propped on the edge.
He tried to move again, call out to her to help him, but she was too far gone, far away into some world all her own. He had watched her break apart as she dragged him into the house. He tried to tell her he was a lawman, but he was dizzy and disorientated and hurting, and she wasn't listening. She was mumbling some gibberish about aliens and government. She dragged him across the floor with the strength of insanity and dumped him into the bath tub. He didn't put up much of a struggle as she found his cuffs and cuffed his wrists to the taps.
He hadn't eaten since before the operation that had gone so badly wrong, and she refused to come near him only peered at him from the doorway. The only water came from his desperate attempts to suck up enough moisture from the leaking tap. His leg was infected. He was hot and cold, and sick, and terrified. Because she was mad, and she might just leave him in the tub to starve.
He only wanted the pain to stop.
He prayed. To Art, and Raylan, and Rachel… please find me, before it's too late, I don't want to die here. It was Raylan that he saw the most, Raylan was smart and persistent and devious in ways that even the most determined criminal couldn't avoid. Ray-Ray, I need your help…
They were all worried, Tim's rifle found in an alley, some kind of medieval looking snare with blood on it, now confirmed to be Tim's blood, and no sign of their missing agent. The Marshals were out beating the bushes, and Raylan was beside himself.
Fear and anger were fighting a monstrous battle in Raylan's head. They had begun with the apartment block next to the alley, and drawn a blank, Raylan tamped down on his fear and pinned his most charming smile to his face, forcing himself to be calm and pleasant when he really wanted to shove every unwilling, grudging resident up against the wall and demand what they had done with his friend.
Tim was alone, injured, no idea how badly, and it was all Raylan's fault. He should have been with Tim when the operation went wrong. They were busy rounding up the players they could catch. Tim had seen one guy sneaking away, hollered to Raylan and Raylan had just let him go.
The crime scene people had swept the alley in a fingertip search, while Raylan had fidgeted, and chafed and found it impossible to settle. When they'd found the remains of the flash-bang and Raylan could see his partner, dazed and dis-orientated, stumbling into that evil looking trap, practically hear Tim's scream of pain as the trap sprung, trapping his leg. Or at least, he hoped it was Tim's leg, he didn't want to think of how bad the injuries would be if it was an arm.
Dragging his thoughts away from injuries and mutilations and other horrors which he couldn't begin to articulate but swam at the edge of his consciousness like circling sharks, Raylan focused his attention on his other partner. Rachel was as desperate to find Tim as he was, perhaps she would be able to keep his mind off the horrors.
Rachel's face was pinched with distress, and her normal calm assurance was shaken to its core. It was the first time they had lost someone from the office.
Not lost. If he started to think that Tim was lost, he wouldn't be able to function. He looked down at his hands, seeing the tremors there. He'd had the yips before, but that was more about the pain in his side when he was recovering from the gunshot wound sustained saving Loretta from a mistake which would have cost her her future.
It was Tim, he thought with a savage twist to his gut. Tim who had seen that he was flooding and afraid and too damn scared to admit to himself that he was afraid. Tim who had dragged him out of the office to go see Wynn Duffy. Tim who had held his fear up in front of him, shaken it hard, given him the long, scary look at who he was. Tim had given him his mojo back. He had never found the words to thank Tim, or acknowledge that Tim had done more for Raylan than Raylan had ever done for Tim.
Then there was that thing about boasting about Tim's skills to everyone they happened to be aiming at. Standing next to Tim, drawing down on criminals, talking about the apricot, and Tim's incredible marksmanship, better than Raylan's. Seeing Tim take shot after shot, dead centre, dead on. Raylan owed his life to Tim's marksmanship. That day at Mags Bennett's place, Doyle would have killed him for sure. He didn't need to see the shooter to know that it was Tim's shot that saved him.
He was drifting, so cold, the world around him faded and indistinct. Perhaps he was dying, he didn't want to die, but he couldn't hold on anymore. Ray, please!