Art Mullen truly hates this. Waiting on an update on one of his deputies. Especially when it's Raylan. He knows they've brought Raylan out of surgery, that he's come round once, and that they are settling him into a room. He knows the damage is bad, how bad remains to be seen.
Raylan will recover, they will get him back. It's how long, and how much pain, and just how Boyd Crowder was involved. Because Art knows that as night follows day, Boyd Crowder was involved in this.
And that Boyd was not the one who shot Raylan in the back.
Shotgun, fairly close range, pellets had torn hell out of Raylan's shoulder, broken his shoulder blade. But the who and the how and the why, none of that matters until Art's seen Raylan with his own eyes, seen his deputy awake, even if he was spaced out on painkillers and hurting.
As crazy and uptight and stressed as Deputy US Marshall Raylan Givens makes Art, he loves the boy. Not as a son, but something like an annoying younger brother, not that he would ever admit it to Raylan's face. Raylan's brave, loyal, hard-headed to the extreme, an incredible shot and the source of a whole forest-worth of paperwork which has made Art's life distinctly more difficult but never dull.
A doctor comes over and says a lot of words that Art doesn't really hear. But he nods anyway, and heads towards Raylan's room. No idea what he will find, the slight queasiness in his stomach doing nothing to settle his nerves. He pushes the door open.
They've dimmed the lighting, presumably to help the patient rest. From what Art can see, that's a forlorn hope. Raylan is lying half on his side, half on his back, stack of pillows behind him, supporting his injured left side, there's a line of tiny stitches across his cheek. Dressings on the side of his neck. He's swathed in bandages, his left arm immobilized across his chest, the sheet pulled up covers more bandages supporting his two broken ribs. He looks like he's been run over by a truck.
The hazel eyes are half-open, he's drugged up to the gills, even if Art wanted to there's no way he could question the exhausted man in front of him tonight.
"Ray-Ray." Art says softly, perhaps a little too shell-shocked to realise he's used Raylan's nickname, meaning to leave if Raylan's too exhausted to see anyone.
Something resembling Raylan's normal cock-eyed smile crosses his features. It flickers out at the tug of the stitched cheek wound. "Hey." His voice is croaky, the country twang more evident. His eyes slip closed.
"I'll come back." Art feels uncomfortable with the rush of feeling that's hitting him hard, like a shot of George T on a cold day.
"Stay." It takes Raylan a couple of tries to get that word out, and Art knows he's not going to abandon his deputy.
He pulls up a chair, it's going to be a long night.