When the cell went to voicemail for the sixth time, Art started to admit that he was worried. Shooting the woman had hit Raylan a lot harder than Art was ready to admit last night. What with the heavy tranquillizer knocking the stuffing out of him and the strained and odd conversation they had on the drive to Winona's house, Raylan was in a worse condition than Art was comfortable with. He wished that he had insisted the paramedics take Raylan to hospital, get him fully checked out and a night in a hospital bed.

The tired, drawn, stumbling man that Art had dropped off outside of the pretty, empty house was barely aware of where he was.

Art's calls had started at 8 am. Giving the man a chance to get his head down for a few hours. No answer. Six calls in two hours. And no answer.

Art had a bad feeling after the first went to voicemail, but he persisted. Until he couldn't persist anymore and it was time to get help.

He stepped out of his office and beckoned to Gutterson. Tim gave him the puzzled frown and lift of his chin, "Art?"

"Can you go and check on Raylan, discreetly?"

"Trouble?"

"Maybe." Art gave him the basics, Raylan shot full of some tranquillizer, had to take a shot which he didn't want to take. It messed him up some.

Tim nodded and the next time Art looked around, Tim had gone. Vanished. But that was a sniper's job, stealth was a very big part of it.

xxxxxxxx

The house looked empty, but Tim had the feeling that Raylan was there. He walked up to the front door. Knocked. The house was open, but then it was empty and he knew that realtors were in and out all the time. "Raylan?"

He wasn't hard to find. Sitting on the kitchen floor, long legs stretched in front of him, still dressed in the clothes that Tim guessed were what he was wearing the day before. Jeans, tee shirt, plaid shirt over the top. A piece of paper clutched in his hand, and this sad, confused, devastated look on his face.

"Raylan." Tim crouched down in front of him. "Watchya doin' down there?"

Raylan didn't answer, didn't move except for a slight motion of the hand holding the paper.

Tim stared down at the shattered husk of the big, strong, tough cowboy marshal and thought he would choke from the lump in his throat. He didn't even need to see the specifics of what the note said.

"You been there all night?" he said quietly, in a gentle conversational sort of way. The faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

"We need to get you out of here."

Another nod, this time Raylan's head turned, and his eyes looked into Tim's. The pain in them devastating to Tim. Raylan was sitting there on the floor with a comical look on his face, as though someone had just kicked his guts out.

From what he could see of the paper clutched in Raylan's hand, Tim pretty much guessed that was what had happened.

A plan. That was what he needed. There was no way in hell he could fix this from the house.

First he had to get whatever was left that was Raylan's, and then he had to get his friend out of there, because you never left a man behind and Raylan Givens was no exception. He had to ring in to Art and tell him he had found Raylan, he would choose his words carefully, because he knew Art hadn't given him the whole story from the night before and he was reluctant to expose Raylan without knowing what kind of number the events from the day before might have done on the exhausted, traumatized marshal.

He put his hand on Raylan's shoulder. The man seemed to barely recognize that he was there, "Ray-Ray, I want you to stay here. I'm just going to check around for anything that's yours that's still here. Okay?"

Tim was surprised that the old nickname came so readily to his tongue, but the pained hazel eyes were looking at him, and again that little nod. So he must have done something right. Tim wasn't about to pretend even to himself that this wasn't freaking him out. Raylan was strong, cocky and confident, this shattered, broken, silent Raylan was a creature that scared the living daylights out of Tim.

Once he was certain Raylan understood and was on board with the program, Tim went in search of the bedroom. A pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, and tee shirts and that was pretty much it, a bag which already contained some underwear and socks. Tim swiftly packed, carefully checked around to see if there was anything else left. But the place was empty.

He took the bag to the car, and slung it in the trunk, the few seconds gave him time to call Art out of earshot for Raylan.

Art answered on the first ring.

"I've found him."

"You have?" Maybe that was a question or it might have been a statement, but Tim offered up the only explanation he could think of.

"The house is empty, Art."

There was a pause. "How's he doing?"

"Really not good. I'm going to take him home with me, he can't stay here."

He could hear the resignation and worry in Art's tone. "Take your time."

Tim had every intention of taking his time. He wasn't going to leave Raylan until he had coaxed even a single word out of him. And even then, it kinda depended on what word that was.

This was Raylan. Fuck knew what that word would be.

He walked back into the kitchen. Raylan was still sitting on the floor, exactly where Tim had found him.

"Ray-Ray." He waited until he had Raylan's eyes on him and held out a hand. For a moment he thought that Raylan would ignore it, but some kind of instinct made Raylan put his hand in Tim's and accept the assistance up from the floor.

Silent, drawn, devastated Raylan was breaking Tim's heart into little pieces. It wasn't genius to figure out that Winona's empty house meant that Raylan had been abandoned to his fate. Trouble was, that had obviously dropped on Raylan from a great height and collided with some other shit that he was already trying to cope with.

Tim steered Raylan towards the car, keeping a hand against his lower back. Raylan was a little wobbly, but Tim put that down to the lingering effects of the tranquillizer and the fact that Raylan had been sitting on the cold, hard kitchen floor all night.

A docile, controllable Raylan was weird, but given the circumstances, Tim rather hoped he remained that way until Tim got him safely indoors.

xxxxxxxx

It got more unsettling once Tim had guided Raylan through his front door. Raylan didn't want to be parted from the piece of paper, and unlike the house they'd just left, now he didn't seem to want to sit down at all. Nervously prowling around. He had gone from silent to monosyllabic, which was at least some sort of progress. Getting him indoors was simple enough, but settling him down again was different.

It was difficult to know how to deal with him for the best. Tim could be his usual self, only he felt that would be like kicking a sick puppy with a broken paw. Evil. Just evil.

The shambling around and monosyllabic answers, mostly in the negative, to questions about basic bodily needs was another stress reaction, and from the way that Raylan was now stumbling that he was about to hit that brick wall and drop like a stone.

Tim was sincerely hoping that he could steer Raylan in the general direction of a bed before that happened. Docile and controllable had not lasted long.

Finally there was a pause in the rambling, and Tim took the opportunity to move up close. "Ray-Ray, you need your bed." Long slow blink, over confused sad eyes that seemed to be trying to work out whether Tim had caused the pain that Raylan was feeling.

It could be a dangerous moment. Raylan was big and strong, as well as confused. If the wrong computation went off in Raylan's head, Tim could be on the receiving end of a nasty knuckle sandwich. But the eyes warmed a little, and Raylan's hand went to Tim's arm, gently, like he was afraid that Tim might not be real.

Shit. He was real messed up by yesterday and now whatever happened at home.

Tim guessed that a bunch of supplementary details would be too much of a burden. Raylan needed sleep. He put his hand on Raylan's back, "this way".

Left a bit, right a bit. Stop there. Let's get you out of your clothes. Under the covers. Here's a glass of water. Back to docile and controllable again, but in a different way, something was simmering beneath the surface. At least Tim had changed the sheets the day before. Not that Raylan would probably care. After all he had lived in that fleabag of a motel for months on end.

Since even offering Raylan an ordinary generic painkiller was out of the question because Tim didn't know enough about what he had been shot full of, Tim was just going to take a chance on closing the curtains tight, turning the light out and hoping that sheer exhaustion would just do the rest.

It seemed his analysis was pretty much correct. He was just about to slide out the door when Raylan called his name. He half turned. Raylan was looking at him, "Thanks."

It was the first indication that Tim had seen that showed that Raylan was aware of his surroundings.

Well, that was a bit more progress of a sort.

Now that Raylan was settled, Tim went to retrieve the bag from the back of his SUV, and then put in his call to Art.

He had just put down the phone when it rang. Rachel. Of course.

"Rache."

"How is he?"

"Out of it."

"And you." Tim closed his eyes, as if he could keep anything from Rachel.

"I'm fine."

"Define fine. I know you care about him."

"Yeah." Tim sighed. He did care. He had picked Raylan's ass up off the floor enough times. But each time he was needed. He couldn't help himself, Raylan Givens had just got to him in a way that very few people had before.

After taking the shot that killed Doyle Bennett and saved Raylan's life, he knew that somewhere along the line the caring had become more intimate. Dragging Raylan out of the office and back into the field crossed that final line. Tim cared.

He'd learned a lesson about caring a long time ago.

xxxxxxxx

It was six pm. Art and Rachel were on their way. Rachel was making a detour for food. Tim was glad of that. His fridge was mostly empty, and from the noises his stomach was making, it realised that he had skipped lunch even if he wasn't quite prepared to admit that.

And Raylan was asleep.

Tim had settled down to cleaning his guns. Checking on Raylan every twenty minutes or so.

Sleep was supposed to be a great healer. Somehow Tim doubted that. Art had said that the paramedic pretty much deemed Raylan good to go. But given how spacey Raylan was when Tim found him and the depths of sleep that he now seemed to be plumbing, it didn't seem like the Raylan Givens that he knew and loved.

Loved. Yeah… about that. Even when pissed at Raylan, Tim Gutterson was having a little trouble divorcing that feeling from the reality.

It wasn't that Tim didn't like women. He'd dated several, and bedded them too. It was simply that his body responded to men too. In the Army he had just learned to step hard on that feeling and it would just fade away.

Sadly, it seemed as though Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens did not come with an off-switch. Raylan was full bore, head on, and right there in front of Tim. Sometimes Raylan's shtick gave Tim inappropriate moments which Tim would carefully cover with off-key jokes. Like the Jamie Berglund mess. Cuffing Raylan, Tim could feel the coiled tension rolling off the older marshal. His hands were curled into fists, Tim could feel the resistance in Raylan's arms as Tim pulled his wrists back and gently snapped the cuffs on.

Then Jess Timmins had stepped behind Tim, pulled his arms back and roughly snapped Raylan's cuffs on Tim's wrists. Tim couldn't help hissing a little as Timmins squeezed the bracelets tight. Raylan gave him a look then.

And Tim felt the surge of feeling, Raylan's clever little play with the cuffs meant that Tim's pinched wrists held evidence of their prime suspect, prints and maybe even DNA. Damn if that wasn't some kind of sexy. Damn if that didn't make his heart beat a little faster.

Of course help arrived within fifteen minutes, and Tim made them print and swab the cuffs in situ to preserve the evidence, even though that gave him another ten minutes with his hands cuffed behind his back and a prowling Raylan itching to get back on the trail. Tim thought cold, depressing and unpleasant thoughts in an attempt to get his reactions to Raylan's inspired cunning under control.

This shit truly did make him hard.

Tim shook himself a little. Raylan wouldn't want to hear this. Putting Raylan back on his feet was the goal.

He was about to go and check on Raylan again when there was a knock on the door. Tim flipped a cloth over the gun parts on the table and went to answer it.

Art was on the doorstep. Tim had seen his chief in all sorts of states, angry, tired, resigned, irritated, but he was fairly certain that he had never seen Art Mullen really scared before.

"Art." Tim ushered him in.

"How is he?"

"Asleep." Tim looked his boss and voiced the thought that had been running though his head since he had found Raylan. "Art, I've never seen Raylan defeated before."

Art sighed, "Yesterday was rough."

"I think Winona left him." Tim still hadn't got a proper look at the sheet of paper that Raylan was holding onto so tightly.

Art's whole demeanor sagged at that. "I shouldn't say this, but last night, he talked about quitting. I didn't believe him." He sort of shrunk in on himself, "I should have."

Something cold slid down Tim's spine, knotted in his stomach. That was one place he really didn't want to go with Raylan. The possibility that the older marshal might quit had occurred. It was none of Tim's business, but Raylan was a marshal, Tim couldn't really picture Raylan any other way.

He hadn't realised he had voiced that sentiment aloud. But Art nodded. "Doesn't matter how restful it is when he isn't around…" he said, regretfully.

"I don't think he's even thought about what he wants."

"I'll just…"

Tim waved a hand in the direction of the bedroom door, "go ahead." He needed a moment.

He needed a moment or two to gather his thoughts, and take a long hard look at why the thought of Raylan not being there any more made him want to vomit.

He cared about Raylan. Well, so did Art, and Rachel and half a dozen others in the office. Raylan was popular with his charm and his doggedness and his willingness to go the extra mile for others. Even Arnold Pinter owed his life to Raylan's legendary stubbornness and nose for trouble.

Caring about Raylan didn't explain dragging him out of the office after he was shot, didn't quite right off the jolt of pure terror a split second before the training kicked in and he put one right between the eyes of Sheriff Doyle Bennett.

It didn't explain the jolts of boiling hot anger when Raylan did something against orders that was pure stubborn dumbass. Nor did it cover the moments when Tim wanted to grab him and shake him hard.

There were no excuses, or explanations, or cover-ups possible for what he felt when he saw Raylan take the news that Helen was dead. He wanted to hold him tight, and pull all that pain and grief right out of him.

Tim Gutterson was not the kind of man who indulged in lots of self-examination, neither was he the kind of man who lied to himself. Raylan Givens pushed Tim's buttons in ways that no one else had before or since. Raylan could make him mad without even really trying.

Damn. The next step was the L word, and Tim had never said the L word to anyone before.

xxxxxxxx

Art slipped quietly into the bedroom. It was mostly dark, so he left the door ajar not wanting to wake Raylan if the man was still asleep.

From the steady sound of breathing, even in the gloom Art could tell that Raylan was asleep. There was a crumpled piece of paper on the floor by the bed, and Art stealthily retrieved it. It might have been a little sneaky, but if they knew what they were up against, they might be able to help Raylan.

It was short and to the point. She was leaving. They could never work. She would let him be a father to their child, but that was all.

Art supposed she had her reasons, and Raylan was probably hell to live with, but Art wanted to tear into her for the cowardice of a three-line note, and leaving Raylan after what had happened to him. Which, to be fair, there was no way she could have known.

Damn, what a mess.

Art felt for Winona, but he needed to focus on Raylan. The triple whammy of being heavily drugged, forced to shoot to kill to save his own life, and then finding the note had dragged Raylan down to a very poor state, somehow Art needed to get him back together again.

Tim was putting away his cleaning materials, and he gave Art one of those strange little frowning nods, without a word Art handed over the paper. He watched the young marshal absorb the three lines, re-arrange the context in his mind, watched Tim's jawline tighten and the blue eyes suffuse with sorrow.

"Shit."