Thankyou for the reviews! There is a little bit more of Marion to explore yet (pun only partially intended) – which we will do here before we move the story along.

Chapter 2

The noise of a car backfiring shot through the relative silence and his eyes snapped open, taking in the pertinent facts quickly. It was light, but only just (a little after 5am if his interpretation of the shadows was correct) and he was alone. Fuck he thought, sighing and quelling the disappointment at not even seeing her in daylight let alone getting her number and rolled up into a sitting position, levering his feet to the floor. "Fuck," he swore as his body complained at the beating he had allowed it to get. Then his eyes registered that none of his clothes were on the floor and he groaned, falling back onto the bed. Raylan was going to love this.

After hearing her voice he had found his eyes kept on turning to her reflection and he had watched her with interest when she'd pulled herself out of the booth to make a trip to the restroom. She was relatively tall for a woman, equal to his height even; she was slim but with curves in the right places and she'd moved like an athlete, soft footed and balanced. He'd been turned on. So he'd kept an eye on her when she returned, secure in the dimness of the bar that his scrutiny would go unnoticed, watched her sitting back and stretching out those legs to the seat on the other side of the table. He had wondered what she'd say if he went over there and asked to sit.

"Another one please Walt," he'd said, his voice sounding loud in the sudden silence between performances, to distract himself from the sudden allure of that option.

"Are you sure you should?" Walt had asked with some concern.

Tim hadn't blamed Walt, he knew that the bartender had some sort of rough affection for the quiet, well spoken man who sat on the end of his bar and drank all by himself most nights of the week without ever once confiding in him as others were prone to do. But there were only two things that were going to get him to sleep tonight and he was too picky to take what was on blatant offer and too reluctant to attempt to find an alternative – so alcohol it had to be. He had looked at Walt, his gaze a shadow of his sniper's glare but all that was needed.

Walt had poured his drink, leaving the bottle next to the glass at just a touch from him. He'd looked up into the mirror just as the stage flashed a light on the audience and their eyes had met. Hers were brown, and framed by long dark eyelashes, free from any suggestion of makeup. They had widened momentarily as they had met his but then she had offered him a polite smile and he thought that it had been a coincidence – that she hadn't just caught him watching her. She took a sip from her drink as if nothing had happened but in a short time her bottle was empty and she was standing. Then she had been intercepted and he had felt it necessary to intervene – of course if only he had known then what he knew now. He'd even fell for the jibe at the accent he winced and wondered if he had been specifically targeted – and if so why.

He pulled himself back up into a seated position and gingerly pushed himself to his feet and padded into the bathroom. He examined his face and winced – there was already a purple mark forming around one eye and although he could will it open, it wanted to be half closed and his bottom lip was split. His chest was worse, having been the recipient of several boots as well as a number of punches. He lifted his arm and examined the pattern left by the metal rings, testing his fingers by wiggling them. Everything still worked so that was something. He reached over and turned on the water, pleasantly surprised that hot water started running almost immediately and stepped under it, hissing as the water hit the open wounds on his back. He tore open the packet of cheap body wash and lathered himself up, sparing some to run through his hair and then drenched his face under the spray, holding still for a good couple of minutes to let the water do its work.

He turned the water off and rubbed himself vigorously with one of the small, lintless towels, dropping it when drenched and using the other to wrap around his waist. He wondered whether the desk clerk would take a half naked man seriously and ring the Marshal Service as requested rather than the police. He wondered whether he really wanted to ring Rachel, Raylan or even Art. He stepped out of the bathroom and froze – staring in disbelief at his gun on the floor.

What type of scam would leave a loaded handgun on the floor? he wondered, bending down to pick it up and confirming that it was in fact still loaded and apparently untouched. A smart one that didn't want to get into a world of trouble he answered himself and then his lips quirked. They were going to have a coronary when they looked in his jacket pocket then.

A noise at the door attracted his attention and he stepped quickly to the side, holding the gun ready at his shoulder. The knob jiggled again and the door wobbled; he frowned wondering what was going on – had they come back? Realised the shit they were in and trying to get back in to return his stuff? The door suddenly released and he grabbed the figure that stepped in, yanking it into him and pointing his gun at the open doorway.

Marion dropped the bundle of clothes and closed her hands over the well built arm, tensing and ready to throw – then her eyes caught up and she took in the crumpled and empty bed, the still steaming bathroom and the sensation of towelling behind her legs. "Tim?" she demanded, trying to turn her head.

"Expecting someone else?" he growled into her ear and she felt the cold steel of a barrel pressed against her ear. "Or did you decide to come back for it after all?"

She'd been unnerved by the eye contact over the width of the bar. Picking up strays, even if he wasn't a cop, for some casual sex really hadn't been on her to do list that night. Not before. So she had finished her drink, giving in to the cautious internal voice that told her to get out of there before her hormones took over, but the redneck had put an end to that plan. He'd been big, not overly tall, but wide – a barrel of a man with thick arms built like a brick shithouse had come to mind; the stereotypical arsehole; bald head, stubbly cheeks, leather vest, studded wrist cuff, biker boots and leering grin although he did have nice eyes. He was the dictionary's graphical definition for redneck racist, sexist prick.

"Hey there sugartits," he had said as he leant a large paw onto her table. "Hows bout ya 'ave a drink with ol' Bo?"

She had eyed him consideringly, trying to assess exactly how drunk he was and how much she was going to have to hurt him because there was just no such thing as a fair fight with a bloke his size. She glanced at the three thugs who were standing in a loose formation behind Bo – they were large, sporting tattoos that spoke volumes of general intolerance, with various stages of crew cut and oozing anger management issues. She heaved a sigh and stood, observing with dry amusement that he was slightly startled by her height even when he straightened. "Well as appealing as the thought is," she had said calmly "I am afraid I shall have to decline."

"Ah – ya can't do that sweetcheeks," he protested good naturedly, "I've been watchin' ya all night".

"I believe I can," her voice had cooled due to anger, at herself for not noticing his scrutiny as much as him for being an arsehole, and she had stepped around him.

For a big man he moved quickly and he had blocked her way. His leer changed to a frown, not yet over the rejection (which she doubted he had even heard) but in puzzlement. "Ya speak funny," he stated. "Ya a yankee bitch?"

His lips had twisted somewhat at that: she was somewhat discomforted with the fact that he was paying attention to her and that you are even watching him at a time like this – focus Marion focus! Again Marion had acknowledged the rightness of that voice and resolved to end this quickly. Attention was something she didn't need.

She had offered a slight smile to man. "Not quite, I am a tourist though which explains our language discrepancies. I said no." She had dropped an extra note onto the table with a glance at the waitress, "you enjoy your evening."

The waitress, trained very early in the art of self preservation and violence avoidance, had caught the concept and held out a beer to the man from the order in her tray. "Here Bo."

"Thanks sugar," he had said, reducing the slur in apparent appreciation of her largesse. And really with the notes all being the same blood colour goodness knows how much she just threw away. "So what ya doin' here?"

"Just enjoying the music, having something to eat," she had replied, willing to give him another thirty five seconds if it could be ended peacefully.

"Horseshit to that," he had snorted. "Ya some type of cop?" he had demanded suspiciously, looking at her clothes.

Marion had snorted if only he knew! but struggled to think of something that would explain her presence. "I was waiting for someone to join me; it seems that won't be happening tonight." She had known it was the wrong thing to say as soon as it was out of her mouth.

"Well hell sugartits," he had exclaimed. "That prick has stood ya up? Bo will make ya forget all about 'im!" He had reached forward and dragged her close to him.

She yanked at his arm, spinning out from under it to glare at him – Tim let her go but lifted the gun to her face. Her eyes narrowed and she put her hands on her hips. "And I was going to apologise for the smell of the detergent!"

Tim frowned at her reaction, or lack of reaction; there was a suggestion of a cloying floral smell in the room now, and he glanced down at the ground. He saw his clothes – amongst hers, looking like they had previously been neatly folded but now in a crumpled pile from where she had dropped them. He looked up, starting at her hiking boots without socks, up her bare legs, all the way up her bare legs to the hem of his jacket which hung a little loosely off her. He lowered the gun. "You washed my clothes?"

"And dried them," she snapped. "I wasn't sure that you really wanted to take the smell of that place into wherever it is you worked," she continued in a slightly uncertain voice. "Although," her voice sharpened again and she gave a pointed glance at the gun. "Perhaps I needn't have bothered?"

"And my wallet?" he queried.

She took the three steps over to the bed and yanked open the bedside table, his wallet and phone moved within it. "I did take some shrapnel out of your pants pockets," she said. "The machines didn't take notes."

He reached over, pulling the key from the lock and closed the door. "Sorry," he apologised, placing his gun on the tiny table.

She frowned at him for a few moments. "You thought I had worked you over?" she said slowly. Her eyes widened. "You thought last night was a setup!"

He winced slightly at the tone of accusation. "Sounds funny doesn't it," he tried.

"No it does not," she snapped. "I am not a whore."

His eyes lit with some amusement that that was the component of the issue that she latched on. He bent over and picked up the pile of clothes, walking over to her and leaning in as he pushed them against her. She held herself stiffly. "That's good – because I don't know that I could have afforded a night like that," and he captured her mouth with his.

Marion felt her irritation dissipate under his lips, a whole different reaction igniting in her belly, but she pulled away, snatching the clothes from him and turning to the bench against the wall. "Hmph," she snorted.

She had woken at dawn as was normal for her, but the arm around her back, the fingertips on top of her other hand and the firm body entwined with hers had not been normal. She had kept her breathing deep and even, her eyes closed, assessing the environment around her. There was a hand attached the to arm, fingers were light against the small of her back, her hand was curled around a defined pectoral muscle. There was some minor road noise and breathing in line with the movements under her hand only – no-one else was in the room. Memory came back bloody hell she had thought and had opened her eyes slowly. Her hero. His face had been tipped towards her a little; he had almost a boyish face when at peace although it was marred by the marks that Bo et al had inflicted on him and the sun had brought out the touch of ginger in his hair that she hadn't noticed during the night. He smelt of an interesting combination of bourbon/whiskey (she never could be sure which was which), blood and the sweat of a man who had exerted himself – it was not at all off-putting and something within her responded. Down girl, down.

"I believe the lady indicated that she would like to go now," he'd said in a quiet voice that somehow still managed to penetrate through the noise of the room. It had distracted both her and Bo and they had both turned to look at him; remarkably steady for a man that had consumed that amount of alcohol, feet spread apart just enough to keep him balanced, neither leaning left or right, forward or backwards. To the casual observer he had looked relaxed, but she had seen the tenseness in his frame, how his muscles were braced. His hands were loose near his waist and she had frowned she hadn't seen any evidence that he was carrying when he came in. She had ignored the acerbic internal voice that had suggested that was because she had been too busy perving on his arse to pay proper attention and had opened her mouth to assure him that she was able to take care of Bo and his mates by herself.

However Bo's response had overtaken her opportunity and there simply had not been an opening in the pissing contest before she found herself being pulled towards the door for the issue to be sorted. Bo was carrying – a big arse knife on the edge of his hip – but it was that hand that was holding her arm so she allowed him to think he was in control and followed him outside, shivering involuntarily as the night air hit her arms. His eyes had flicked to her; bugger noticed everything she had thought somewhat balefully before a sudden movement made her mouth open to shout a warning.

He hadn't needed it. He had sidestepped the blow that came from the side of him, whirling and planting a solid set of punches that cracked into the thug's kidney and dropped him to his knees with a cry. He had stepped back as Thug 2 advanced on him, ducking the roundhouse fist that hammered towards him and letting loose with another two quick blows to Thug 2's belly – taking the wind from him. Thug 3 had paused a moment and then stepped in, a flash of metal on his knuckles gleaming and catching Marion's attention. He saw it as well, but was effectively hemmed in by the bodies of the other two and so closed his arms around his head. The blow from the knuckle dusters was a sickening thud and Marion winced – but he dropped his arms immediately and let loose with a couple of quick blows, one which caught Thug 3 under the chin and he dropped like a stone.

Thug 1 had roared out a curse and launched from his knees into the slighter man, taking him down to the ground where he let loose with several blows that thumped savagely into the his ribs. Thug 2 had stepped forward, still gasping but able to let loose with savage kicks to the man on the ground. That was when she decided enough was enough.

Tim wasn't convinced that she actually was pissed, but he turned away to let his body breathe and lay back down on the bed, propping his head up on his arms and watching as she dumped the clothes in a pile on the bench.

"You have a gun," she said baldly after a brief struggle with herself.

"I do," he accepted.

"Why?" she met his eyes in the mirror.

"You don't know?" he queried instead.

"I didn't look in your wallet," she replied truthfully, her lips twisting slightly as she added, "just stole the coins in your pocket."

"I'm a Marshal," he said. "Federal police," he added in case she wasn't familiar with the title.

"Like Tommy Lee Jones?" she sought clarification.

"If you want," his mouth twitched. "Just without the hat." That was Raylan.

Her own lips twitched but she dropped her eyes, chewing on her lip as she refolded the clothes, hanging his shirt over a chair and laying his jeans along the bench. She bent over slightly and he tipped his head to the side, catching a glimpse of red lace. He had been drunk the night before but he had no recollection of those – he actually thought that he'd removed some fairly utilitarian underwear from her.

"Laundrette busy at this time of the morning?" he enquired, tracing the slight curve of her buttock with his eyes.

"No," she said still slightly sourly. "I had it all to myself."

"I would have thought that there'd be a crowd," he tried again.

She shrugged, still facing away from him although there couldn't be that many clothes still needing to be folded. "A little bit too early I suppose – I can't imagine that the residents in this area are early risers."

"I'm jealous of my jacket."

That got him a reaction and she turned, a smile teasing at her lips. But she hesitated.

"Is it that much of a problem?" he asked quietly.

She stilled again. Yes of course it fucking is – it would have been safer if you'd been a cop. He's got nothing on you reassured the cautious voice, contrarily now entirely flipped over on the whole issue. She'd never been one for regret. "No," she replied with a sigh. "It's certainly better than some of the alternatives. It was just a surprise," she shrugged. "I wouldn't have thought a clean cut lawman would have associated with the riffraff in a place like that."

"I just drink there," he assured her, slightly huskily – her shrug had picked his jacket up a little and the hint of red lace had started his body simmering. "I don't associate with the riff raff."

Her body reacted to the tone in his voice and she looked him up and down, the bruises even more apparent in the daylight but not distracting from the tone of his chest and stomach. Down girl – he's damaged said an internal voice. I'll be gentle she promised and took a step forward, reaching up to the zipper she had pulled to the very top. "Really?" she said softly. "So riff raff isn't your style?"

He allowed her the dodge because she was sauntering over to him, twisting her legs so that her hips moved provocatively, and her hand was slowly pulling the zipper down and exposing flesh. The simmering started to boil.

Marion lifted one leg up high and laid it on the other side of his hip on the bed, licking her lip as she saw his gaze follow the movement; his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed and she saw his arm muscles flex as he clenched his hands. She gave him a slight smile and sat down on top of him, the hardening bulge under the towel directly on her centre sending an almost electric response burning through her. His arm muscles clenched again. The zip reached the bottom and she laid her hands on the bed, walking them forward until they were under his arms, her body reacting more to the heat in his gaze as he moved his arms and pulled apart the jacket to see her naked torso and red lacy panties.

He groaned as she placed her lips against his, moving his hands up and over her breasts, feeling them fill his hand and stroking at the soft curves and the buds which immediately thrust themselves out. She moved her head, tracing down his jawline and to his ear lobe. "These are new," he whispered as he traced the top of the panties.

She shrugged, which did wonderful things to the parts of her bust still in his hand. "They were in the dryer," she lied; riff raff she might be but wearing someone else's or yesterday's underwear was just not on. These were the sexiest pair she could find amongst the half briefs that otherwise filled her suitcase. Of course she had put them on before she had found his warrant card. Should have just kept on going of course, but leaving a naked marshal alone in a motel room without his id wasn't the best way to make sure the encounter was forgotten. "Figured I might get hit by a bus between the laundrette and here and should have clean undies on."

He chuckled, taking a deep breath as her lips found his nipple and her hands traced down his chest, moving one of his own hands to trace the rest of the outline of the red lace.

"I'm afraid that I was never a boy scout," he confessed with some difficulty after several minutes.

Marion pulled her face back to look at him with a puzzled frown evident.

He smiled and lifted up to gently kiss her lips. "I'm not always prepared," he explained.

Her face softened into a grin. "Well you see – you had such a lot of shrapnel in your pockets and there's another machine there that's not used for washing or drying."

His eyes widened.

"I might have given it far too much, what with your bloody dimes and quarters and such, but it did give me something," she continued.

"Did it just?" he grinned and pulled her head back down to his.

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The TLJ and the hat reference is of course to 'The Fugitive'. I may have allowed some TWD fangirling to escape my fingers – it won't happen again!