Author's Note: I just couldn't leave it alone. Another story knocking. Thanks to Corby1 for one of the underlying plot lines. (I hope it satisfies your imagination.) This story deals with a lot of veterans' issues and it's meant honestly, respectfully, gratefully, humbly and kindly. Though I can't begin to understand what it's like to be there and then come back here, it's a conversation that needs to be had more often, even if we get it wrong.

I like the idea of shipping Tim and Cassie, there's something ironic about a hard church mouse and a soft sniper, but that'll have to wait for another story or maybe season 5. I'm sticking with tried and true O/Cs here so if you don't like her, bail out now.

…and Nothing Shall by Any Means Hurt You

(Chapter 2)

Tim would choke whenever he heard the words 'walk the straight and narrow' – not physically, just emotionally, like he needed to cough up a jaded hairball. 'Walk the straight and narrow' – people would say it like it was a cure-all for life's moral ambiguities. If only it were that easy. One foot in front of the other and keep your balance. Big deal. He could do that drunk. His moral life was more like a vertical than a ridge line, a cliff face that he clung to by the last knuckle on each finger, one-handed on a crimper with a nasty slope. A crimper was the term climbers used for a hold that you could only get the very ends of your fingers on, and that was what he had to work with. Tension was the only thing that kept you hanging from that hold. If you shifted your weight even slightly one way or the other, moved your foot to find a better purchase, tried to stand up straight without something higher to grasp hold of, you could lose your grip and fall.

Tim was scrambling for a new hold. Something about shooting Colton Rhodes had precipitated a shift in his weight and he felt his position more precarious than it had been in a while. He couldn't settle back; he couldn't see a way forward. His legs were getting shaky and his fingers were slipping.

It was a long drive back from Harlan with nothing but his thoughts.

When all was said and done and Lexington was in the headlights once again, it was too late for an office celebration, and besides, Raylan had already had his applause when Drew Thompson was brought in the day before. A second round for a trailer whore, even a sweet one, would seem a bit of overkill, especially when the lead investigator had a suspension looming. Raylan called from the office, back with Rachel and Ellen Mae ahead of Tim who'd had to stay to give his statement. He suggested a quick drink at the bar.

Tim didn't feel like company but agreed anyway out of habit, then eyed that splash of blood on the front of his shirt. In the parking lot at the courthouse, he took off his jacket and pulled the shirt over his head, glad he'd worn a clean T underneath, balled up the offending article of clothing and dropped it in the waste bin by the elevator. He decided against a trip upstairs to the office and jogged straight over to the bar. Their usual table was free. He took the seat facing the door and quickly downed a shot of bourbon, and another, paying as he went, then ordered a beer to sip to cover the smell of whiskey while he waited for Art, Rachel and Raylan to appear.

There was a part of him satisfied that he'd dealt with Mark's killer but another part, a larger part, dissatisfied. There was no balance in the final tally. He had pushed the questions he had about the circumstances of Mark's death well into the background behind the pressing grief and the call for vengeance and the anger, and now that the killer was dead he had nothing to blind him to the fact that he was mostly angry with Mark and he knew too that once the spike of anger receded he'd be left with even less pleasant emotional debris – relief sullied by guilt, disappointment and a sense of futility, and mostly the latter.

What was Mark doing back at the dealer's house? It was too soon. He was buying. There was no doubt, no other explanation. Tim knew, coldly, certainly, Mark was buying again. The anger drained away before he finished his beer and he took a minute to examine the relief and disappointment hidden underneath. He'd been there every time Mark called – two years now – and dealing with Mark's struggles was putting himself in the path of his own fears. He was relieved to be done with it, yet the relief too passed quickly and now cloying futility was all he had left.

Tim took another long drink of his beer, thirsty, and watched the other three Marshals step into the bar. Rachel smiled over at him. Art was bending Raylan's ear about something while Raylan cast his eyes around, checking the other patrons. Tim lifted his jacket off of the chair he'd set it on, freeing it up, and slung it on the back of his. Colton Rhode's sunglasses made a dull thud against the wood, a dull thud against all the futility.

Art insisted on a round of bourbon as a toast, cheerfully clinking glasses, and a second to seal the case shut, finally. They hashed it all out again, what it meant for careers and Raylan's future in the Marshals Service. Tim contributed little, the scene with him and Colton playing out over and over in the splash of amber in the bottom of his fourth glass. He eyed that splash, agitated. If he finished it he wouldn't be able to hold back from ordering another. He ran a hand over his mouth and eyed that splash again, impatient, wishing the other three would leave so he could either finish it, go home and continue drinking there or maybe order another here. He started to fidget, nervous about letting his mind wander with any clarity. Raylan ordered a third, asking with a smile around at the others if anyone would like to join him. Tim nodded and the splash disappeared, a moment's respite while he waited for the next glass.

"Were you making that up?" Art was looking at him. "Tim?"

"Sorry?"

Art turned around, checked the scene behind him. "Thought maybe there was some pole dancing going on that I was missing."

"Nah, he's watching the bartender," Raylan said, smirking. "Making sure he don't short us on the shots."

Tim allowed half his face to grin, pointed at Raylan. "It's an arrangement we have. Whoever's facing the bar…" He rolled a hand and let Art and Rachel finish the statement for themselves.

Rachel was the only one not laughing.

Raylan took it back to the original topic. "Art was telling us about the conversation you had with Boyd's man, Colton Rhodes, when you had your little showdown on the highway. Didn't realize you were an aspiring novelist."

"Oh, yeah. It's my backup career choice in case they figure out I really don't know how to shoot."

"So were you making that up about him being an MP and losing somebody and getting into some confiscated drugs?" Art repeated the question.

"Nope. I made a few phone calls and got the details. It's biographical, that bit. Makes the story more realistic. I'm aiming for Top 10 on the New York Times bestsellers."

"Who'd he lose?" Raylan asked, liking a good tale.

"Friend. In Iraq. It happens."

"And he really called you Deputy Dawg?" Raylan grinned at the reference.

Tim nodded, made an amused face.

"And what was it you called him?" Art asked. "I couldn't make it out."

Tim hesitated, pushed his empty glass into the middle of the table, sat back in his chair. "Bagram," he said, unable to avoid answering.

The others had to lean in to hear it. Tim mumbled.

"I still can't understand you," Art repeated.

"Ba-gram." Tim said it again, harshly, getting angry.

"I don't get the reference."

"Something he said when I ran into him at the VA," Tim hedged. "Bagram's a shitty, dusty air base in Afghanistan. Should have set my novel there. You don't need many adjectives – just shitty and dusty."

"What were you doing at the Veteran's center?" Art pushed.

"Oh, it's always a good time at the VA," Tim replied. "I can't stay away." He stood abruptly and fished out his wallet, his fingers brushing up against the sunglasses. He dropped some money on the table and left before the waitress dealt out the next round.

Asleep on the couch with a movie playing later that evening, but not late enough, meant a poor sleep. And he paid for it, awakened by the violence in his own head at 3am, a nightmare he'd managed to forget about the past year. He curled up, replaying the scene with him and Colton, a loop, spinning, unproductive, spinning. He was angry with the man, jealous that he'd gone out on his own terms at Tim's expense. Why couldn't someone just shoot him instead? That would stop the loop.

He couldn't seem to stop it himself.

"That guy you shot, you good?"

The next morning wasn't making much sense, lack of sleep, a hangover, and something else hanging grotesquely distorted just outside his perception. But Raylan's words cut through. It was the offhand way he said it that cut, almost an afterthought. Raylan had things on his mind, a suspension, maybe a promotion, definitely a girl.

Tim got it. It was cool. He had no intention of unloading on Raylan anyway. What was the point? And besides, there was nothing he wanted to talk about. "He called it," he replied, matching casual for casual. He might as well have said it was justified. A loud rationalization to his ears but what the hell, Raylan wasn't really listening.

"Well, if you need someone to talk to," the older Marshal added absentmindedly, thinking about what he didn't know about babies.

"I got Rachel," Tim said, his voice down, down under Raylan's in perfect mimicry – 'You got Rachel.'

Rachel didn't even look over, distracted by pink. But that was okay, too. Tim wasn't going to unload on Rachel either. This was his. He owned it in a way they never could, not unless some country invaded the continental United States and made a run for Kentucky.

And he thought, pink? That was the sort of inane topic that got him on edge. Who the fuck cares what color you paint the baby's room? It's not likely to scar the kid for life. Paint it fucking orange.

"I could've told him that," he grumbled, worried that everyone could read his anger, disguising it by hiding in the crowd.

He didn't look up when Raylan walked out. He envied him the suspension.

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