It's done! That became one hell of a long chapter, but I managed to fit everything in it, and now the story is over. Obviously, there are still some questions to be answered at the end of it, but that was all on purpose. Got another idea at the ready. Justified just inspires me like nothing has in quite some time.
While we're at it, I actually got Season 1 on DVD, and as it turns out, my mom loves the show, too. Justified fever is contagious, whohooo!
Now, I don't want to bore you with my ramblings anymore. I just hope you liked reading this story as much as I liked writing it. Merry Christmas again.
Enjoy!
The Key to Every Door
Chapter 4
It was the 24th of December, and Art Mullen was not excited, he was anxious, mainly because his Deputy Givens, who he'd sent down to Harlan to talk to his sometimes-old-friend-sometimes-arch-nemesis-sometimes-both Boyd Crowder had not returned by now, and he wasn't answering his cell phone either.
Art looked at his watch. It was 4:16 pm. Raylan had left the office before nine this morning, and since he always drove too fast, it never took him longer than three hours to get to Harlan, three and a half tops, same for the way back. So if he'd only asked Crowder a couple questions like he was supposed to, he should have been back by now. Unless, of course, he'd run into trouble.
And the way Art knew Raylan, that most likely was exactly what had happened.
Sighing angrily, Art grabbed his jacket and got out of his office, looking around.
"Tim?"
"Boss."
"You, uh, heard anything from Raylan yet?"
"Nah. I thought he was down in Harlan askin' shit?"
"Yeah, he was. Is, still, I think. But he should have returned by now, don't you think?"
"He might be stuck in traffic."
"He would have called."
"He might have run into something that needed dealing with."
"He would have called."
"Did you try calling him?"
"Didn't pick up, went straight to voicemail."
"The reception up in the hills is a disaster, you know that."
"Yeah. I know."
Art chewed on his bottom lip.
"You think something's up, Art?"
"I do, actually."
"Well, I can't say I blame you… that's Raylan, right?"
"Yeah… yeah, he is. You know what, pack up your stuff. We're goin' to Harlan."
Tim sighed and got out of his chair. "Yessir. I didn't have anywhere to go tonight anyway."
"Right" Art groaned. "It's Christmas Eve. The Wife's gonna have my head… shit, Raylan, the situations you get me into!"
If they drove down to Harlan now, and they probably had to look for Raylan, and possibly clean up his mess after him, as they always did, it would be a long evening. Add to that the long drive back, and he wouldn't be home before midnight.
Well, Art thought to himself. It wouldn't be the worst Christmas Eve he'd ever had. A dead or fatally injured Raylan would be, though. And so they got on the road only a few minutes later, with back-up, and Art called ahead, to ensure there would be an ambulance and a ton of paramedics at the ready if need be.
The first place they went to was Johnny Crowder's bar, which was closed. Art knocked on the door, in case someone was in the back room and didn't hear them, but there was no reaction. The next obvious stop would be Ava Crowder's house, so they drove there next.
When Art knocked on the door, Tim right behind him, they could hear someone running, and the door was practically ripped out of its hinges. Ava Crowder had a hopeful look on her face that instantly deflated as she recognized who was standing at her door.
"Oh" she said, disappointed. "Hello, Chief. Merry… merry Christmas."
"And merry Christmas to you, too, Miss Crowder. Why you looking so disappointed to see us?"
"Well, I… I kinda hoped it was Boyd."
Now Art just knew something was up. "Why, is he not here?"
"Nah. Him and Raylan, they left 'round noon, and they ain't back yet, and honestly, I'm startin' to get a little worried."
Ava looked seriously upset, and Art felt it creep up on him, that old familiar feeling of dread.
"So they didn't tell you where they were going, then."
"They didn't tell me nothin'. Didn't even tell me they were goin' somewhere at all, just took off." Ava shook her head. "God, Boyd, you idiot!"
"Why didn't they tell you?"
"Cause I didn't want Boyd to go anywhere today. Obviously, it's Christmas Eve, and he had to puke this mornin' so he ain't exactly at the top of his game, and just…"
Ava sighed. Art nodded, always the consoling envoy of bad news.
"But Raylan was here, today."
"Yeah, round noon. Said he wanted to talk to Boyd, ask him a couple questions."
"That doesn't sound too bad" Tim intercepted.
"So Boyd said, alright, an' let Raylan in, and they stayed here, at the door, and I went into the kitchen, I had some cookin' to do that's getting' cold now, cause Boyd ain't here to eat it. I didn't hear what they were talkin' about, if that's what you're hopin' for. As I said, I didn't even hear them leave."
"Shit." Art's shoulders sagged. "Can you think of anyone who might know where they went?"
"Well, I could always ask Danny if he heard somethin'. Kid hears funkin' everything, it's almost scary."
"If you could do that, Miss Crowder. That would be great."
Ava nodded. "Alright. Just a second."
She left the door open as she ascended the stairs to go knock on some door. Art turned around and Tim mouthed a questioning "Danny? Who the fuck is Danny?" at him, and Art could only shrug and think the exact same thing.
They heard muffled voices exchange a few words, and then Ava came down the stairs again, a young man dressed completely in black and looking like he sometimes slept under a bridge just for the hell of it in tow.
"That's Danny. Danny, that's Chief Mullen, Raylan's boss, I think you've already met Raylan. That there is another Marshal, Deputy…" She looked lost for a moment.
"Deputy Gutterson." Tim touched the tip of his cap in an uncannily Raylan-like way, and Art shuddered, thinking they all spent way too much time with each other.
"Gutterson, right." Ava smiled an apologetic smile at Tim. "They're here because Raylan's been gone since noon and hasn't been heard of nor seen since then, and Boyd, too. I know they talked and left, most likely with each other, but hell if I know where they went."
The guy named Danny looked at them with a perfect "What the hell do I care?"- expression and didn't say a word. Ava sighed and put a hand on his shoulder.
"It's okay, honey you can talk to these people, they're just tryin' to help Boyd."
At that, he looked at her, a question in his eyes. "You jus' said Raylan" he mumbled.
"I know what I said. They'll help both of 'em, ain't that right, Chief?"
She looked at Art, clearly hoping for some help on this matter.
"Yeah! Yeah, we're, uhm" he cleared his throat, trying hard not to show his utter confusion, "we're looking for Deputy Givens, see, and this is the last place him or Cr– Boyd have been seen, so it's likely they're together in some shit that we're just trying to get them out of. Both of them" he emphasized.
Danny looked like he was positively brooding over what to tell them. It seemed that kid wanted to help Crowder, for what reason, Art had no idea. Obviously he was living here, with the Crowders. That alone made him suspicious to Marshal eyes.
"The Marshal was here, asked Boyd 'bout them bombings in Harlan an' surroundings, an' Boyd said he didn' know shit, but I'd heard 'bout people talkin' 'bout some shady-lookin' fella movin' in on Mags Bennett's old store, so I told 'em."
Art still tried to filter through those mumblings when Tim said, "Mags Bennett's old store? That's where they went?"
"S'all I got."
"Then it's all we got, either." Art turned from the door, calling out to his people. "Everybody, we're driving into Bennett County, up the hill to where Mags Bennett had a grocery store before she died. Those who don't know the way, just follow Tim, he's been there before. Move!"
"Chief" Ava said, and Art looked at her. "If you find him, let me know if he's alright, will you?"
"Yes, Ma'am" Art said. She smiled thinly, clearly worried sick, while he left the porch and walked up to his car. It was a thin lead, but it was all they had, so he had no chance but to follow through on it with everything he had.
The drive into Bennett County took entirely too long for Art. It was like those nightmares he sometimes had, where he was running and running and just not moving forward one inch. He just hoped they weren't too late, that Art was seeing ghosts and the whole deal was not as serious as he was picturing it all in his mind. Maybe they'd just been locked up somewhere. Or maybe they'd been taken. Maybe they'd burst into the store, and all they'd find was a dead Raylan and Crowder was gone, or the other way around…
The Chief couldn't stop those thoughts. His fingers were gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Contemplating a Christmas Eve with a hurt or dead Raylan wasn't much fun, and when they finally stopped in front of what was once a grocery store with the Bennett family name on it, he could not get out of his car fast enough.
Tim was beside him, weapon drawn, the Ranger training taking over – his face did not give away an ounce of what he had to be feeling in that moment. They'd all become friends in the office. The possibility of losing someone was never a pleasant thing to think about, but it was still always a possibility. Even more so since they had Raylan Givens on their team.
They pooled around the open door that had been ripped out of its holdings some time ago. It was dark in there, not much to see. Flashlights were pulled out of pockets. The electricity had long since been turned off on that place.
Tim looked at him. The other Marshals were collecting behind them. Art took a deep breath and nodded at Tim who himself breathed as calmly as you please and then stepped through the door, weapon at the ready, shouting, "US Marshal Service! Drop your weapon!"
Art followed behind him, weapon drawn, searching for signs of movement, of life, or possibly danger, with his flashlight. He heard the other Marshals call "Clear!", one after the other, and his heart sank. So the lead had been false. That Danny kid had either lied to them, or Raylan and Boyd had never come here. Or they had, and left. Maybe not on their own volition. Art's mind was running havoc, imagining the worst possible outcomes all over again, dread spreading like wildfire.
"Shit!" he shouted.
"Yo, Art!" he heard Tim. He couldn't see him, so he stalked through the trash and waste that was covering the floor and rounded a corner. He found Tim, pointing his flashlight at a double-door pantry, and another Marshal who was crouching in front of something he was illuminating on the floor. Art crouched next to him, despite the hell it gave his knees.
"What the hell is this?"
"It's cell phones, Sir" the young Marshal answered. "And guns. This looks like the Marshals' service weapon."
"Shit" Art said. "That's Raylan's phone."
He picked up the dusty phone. It was turned off. "Huh."
The other phone on the floor was an older model, though not turned off. It might have been Crowder's, for all Art knew. He illuminated the floor in front of the pantry. Traces in the dust that looked like something had been dragged to or from the closet. He looked at Tim.
"The closet" he said. "Get that goddamned closet open."
Tim nodded and took off. Art looked at the pantry doors: Massive wood, who knew how thick. You couldn't hear through it, most likely, but he was willing to give it a try.
"Raylan!" He shouted the familiar name and thumped his fist so hard on the wood that his entire hand hurt.
Nothing. No reaction.
And then…
"Art?" Heavily muffled, a voice managed to urge through the thick wood.
"That you, Raylan?"
"Yeah, Art, it's me! Boyd's in here with me, he ain't doin' so well!"
"Don't you worry 'bout it, we're gonna get you outta there!"
The immense relief Art felt almost knocked him off his feet; he'd found Raylan, Raylan must have been okay, he'd said that Crowder wasn't well, but hadn't said anything about himself… Art's thoughts briefly turned to Crowder. Ava had said that he'd puked this morning. He might have been sick. Being locked up in a closet for who knows how long couldn't have helped any with that.
Tim returned with two crowbars, a tool box and another Marshal, who was even taller than Raylan and looked like he could have wrenched the door open by himself just like that.
"Raylan's in there" Art said. "Crowder, too."
"I thought so. Already called up the ambulance, they'll be here in five minutes."
"Okay then." Art clapped his hands and turned to the door. "How are we gonna get that sonofabitch open?"
The tall Marshal looked at the locks. Iron bars, bolted to the doors, with iron nooses that were locked together by a very heavy padlock, one in the middle, one at the top of the closet, one at the bottom.
"Looks like fuckin' Fort Knox" the Marshal said.
"Yeah, well, get it open, I don't care how!"
"We could always loosen the screws, get them iron bars out of the door. I got a couple drill bits in there that'll work just fine."
"That's good, do that." Art thumped on the door again. "Raylan, you still there?"
"Where else am I gonna go, Art?"
"We're gonna start workin' on the locks now, Raylan, you'll be outta there soon!"
"Good to know."
Tim and the tall Marshal started working on the door. Every iron bar had been attached to the wood with three screws, which meant eighteen screws in total that all needed to be unscrewed individually. The waiting drove Art near crazy.
"Paramedics are outside, Chief" he was informed.
"Good."
Apparently after they'd unscrewed the bottom and middle iron bars, the tall Marshal seemed to be at the end of his line as well, because he just grabbed one of the crowbars, wrestled it between the already slightly loosened doors, and, with a few powerful pushes, wrenched the remaining iron bar out of the door. Wood splinters rained down on him as he opened the now broken double doors, and him, Art and Tim pointed their flashlights into the closet at the same time.
And there they were: Raylan, and Boyd Crowder. Both were drenched in sweat and dirty as they get. Raylan was lifting his hand in front of his eyes to shield himself from the lights that head to be unbearably bright after hours in complete darkness. Crowder had his eyes closed, his head leaned against the wall, a pained expression on his face.
"Art?" Raylan's voice sounded rough, but infinitely relieved.
"Yeah. It's me, asshole." Art couldn't keep the grin from his face as he reached out a hand to Raylan, who took it and used it to pull himself to his feet, stopping halfway and groaning in pain.
"Jesus" Raylan huffed.
"You alright there, Raylan?"
"Honestly, I feel a little uncomfortable… My back is fuckin' killin' me. My head, too."
With effort Raylan managed to raise himself to his full height. Even in the simmering half-darkness created by the dozens of flashlights, he looked utterly exhausted.
"Anything else? What the hell happened?"
"We were, uh, ambushed, I took a hit to the head, but it's nothing, really… Boyd, you okay there?"
Art changed his gaze to Crowder who had not moved one bit since they got the doors open, and he actually felt a pang of worry for the other man.
"I'mma… I'mma need a minute, Raylan." Crowder sounded weak, and like he was forcing something back.
"Tim" Art said, "would you get a paramedic inside for Mr. Crowder, please?"
Tim headed outside. Raylan stretched and breathed deeply. "Oooh God, that feels so nice. Air." He sighed. "You know, Boyd, you can vomit now, it's okay."
Boyd made a strangled sound that could have been a laugh. "How kind… of you, Ra-Raylan."
A paramedic came inside, with a kind of small flood light with handles. He set it on the floor next to Crowder, and suddenly half the room was illuminated enough for the Marshals to be able to turn off their flashlights.
"Mr. Crowder, how are you?" the paramedic asked while he slipped on gloves.
"Mighty fine." Even now Crowder still managed to sound condescending.
"Can you tell me what happened, please?"
"We, uh, came here, lookin' for someone, then I was hit… on the back of the h-head…" Crowder pushed a hand to his forehead and groaned.
"Then we sat in there for what felt like a fuckin' eternity" Raylan ended the story.
"How long were you in there?"
"Gee, I don't know, Art, I didn't exactly time it, you know. The dick took my cell phone."
"I know, it's right there." Art pointed at the spot on the floor.
"Oh." Raylan furrowed his brow. "An' my guns, too. An' Boyd's phone. I thought that bastard had stolen them."
"So you took a hit to the head?" the paramedic asked Crowder.
"Yeah."
The paramedic carefully palpated the back of Boyd's head. When he touched what had to be a lump of respectable size Crowder flinched and hissed, jerking his head away.
"Okay, that seems to be quite the swelling. You experienced any pain?"
"What does it look like, asshole?" Now Crowder seemed to shed his calm demeanor in favor of getting pissed, and Art couldn't fault him on it – that had been a pretty dumb question.
"Any dizziness?"
"Yes."
"Nausea?"
"Yes."
"Vomiting?"
"No, thankfully" Raylan intercepted. "But it was a close call."
The paramedic flashed a pen light into Boyd's eyes. "What is your name?"
Boyd sighed, enduring. "Boyd Crowder."
"What day is today?"
"It's the 24th of December."
"Day of the week?"
"It's Monday, the president is Obama, two and two is four. I ain't concussed, goddamnit."
"Okay." The paramedic, his nametag identified him as Steve, turned off the penlight and stowed it away in his bag to grab Crowder's wrist, likely to feel his pulse.
"When did you last eat or drink something? Either one of you" he said, looking at Raylan.
"Well, I had coffee and a bagel before I left Lexington, which was… holy crap, more than ten hours ago!" Raylan made big eyes at his just turned on phone.
"You, Mr. Crowder?"
Crowder seemed to dwell on that question. "Not sure… yesterday… round noon, or something?"
"That explains it, Mr. Crowder, I think you're severely hypoglycemic and exhausted, you should come outside so we can start you on an IV-"
Crowder didn't listen to what Steve had to say about all the fancy things that needed to happen. He grimaced, then turned to the side and threw up directly in front of Art's shoes.
"Jesus!" Art jumped back. "Alright, I'll take that as my cue to leave. Come on, Raylan, I'll have a paramedic check you outside."
"Okay." Raylan sighed. "See ya, Boyd."
Boyd spat on the floor.
Outside, Raylan sat himself on the edge of the opened trunk of Tim's truck and had a paramedic tend to him; his blood pressure, it seemed, was quite alright, if not a little low, but a quick test showed that he also was hypoglycemic, and dehydrated as well. The paramedic pushed a tall bottle of water and a bagel in his hands and told him to finish it, "all of it" and that he would be okay if he followed these orders and rested for the next two days.
Art had been quite worried, he wouldn't lie, he still was. But Raylan shoved the bagel into his mouth in record time and immediately asked for another one, and Art started to lose some of his worries.
"So" he said and lowered himself next to Raylan, who was just finishing the water bottle. "Would you mind tellin' me now what the hell happened?"
And Raylan told him, and to his credit, he got a little sheepish when he got to the part where he asked Crowder to come along. "I just thought it would be better not to head into it by myself." Raylan shrugged. "You always tell me not to do that."
"I'm not even gonna deem that worthy of an answer. There were millions of possible things for you to do that would have had an entirely different outcome than you being locked up in a goddamned closet with Crowder for six and a half hours on Christmas Eve."
"Yeah, well." Raylan shrugged. "We all make mistakes, huh?" He sounded like he himself knew what bullshit that was.
"That's true, Raylan, just, some of us, we learn from our mistakes. You think you might wanna, I don't know, start learning? Mmh?"
"Yeah. Maybe." Raylan played with Crowder's phone, that he'd taken outside alongside his own. "I know I rushed into it and it was stupid. Hell, all of that trouble for nothin'. The guy's long gone and we don't even know who he was, let alone if he was the guy I was lookin' for in the first place."
"That's right." Art looked to the sky. It had stopped raining, and the sky was clearing. "And all of that on Christmas Eve."
Raylan flipped open Boyd's phone. "Jesus! Thirty-two missed calls."
"From who?"
"Let's see… Ava, Ava, Ava, Ava, Johnny, Ava, Ava, Ava, Ava, Ava, Ava, Ava, Ava, Johnny, Ava, Daniel, Ava, Ava…" He looked up. "Maybe I should give Ava a call."
"You go on and do that. She was worried sick when we came to her door asking where the hell you are."
Raylan nodded and walked a couple of steps to talk more privately, and Art turned his gaze on the front of the former store, where Steve the Paramedic was carefully inserting an IV in the crook of a very pale-faced Boyd Crowder's arm in the back of an ambulance. Art sauntered over to them.
"How you doin', Mr. Crowder?"
"I have been better, Chief" Crowder said, still sounding like he'd been run over by a truck. Steve passed him an oxygen mask and Crowder closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing for a while.
"Talked to Miss Crowder, to ask where you and Raylan were, and she was worried sick about you. Said you'd been ill this morning and weren't up to your game."
Boyd's mouth crooked into a half smile. "Always worried, she is. You, uh, mind givin' her a call, to let her know where I am an' that I need someone to pick me up?"
Steve had to have listened in, because he intercepted here. "No, Sir, you have to go to the hospital. You almost fainted on the way to the ambulance-"
"Fainted?"
"I tripped." Crowder's expression was positively murderous.
"-and if you were really already sick this morning we have to do tests, you could have something serious-"
"Bullshit" Crowder interrupted, and Art saw Steve's mouth snap shut at his tone. He'd felt it, too, that sudden desire to take a step or two back. In a situation like this it was easy to forget that Boyd Crowder was a dangerous man, but he'd do quick to remind you of it. Crowder had lowered the oxygen mask, and although he was still pale and exhausted and looked like he might actually keel over any second, he was able to fix Steve the Paramedic with a glare that would have made Raylan himself think twice about gainsaying him.
"I feel like shit cause I haven't eaten in a day an' a half, which was stupid, I admit to it, an' spent all day locked up in a stuffy closet. All I need is a good night's sleep an' some of Ava's fine food in me. No hospital, no tests, no nothin'. We clear here?"
Steve nodded, looking upset. Art sighed. "You sure about that, Mr. Crowder? No offense, but you look like shit."
"Feel like shit, too, Chief, an' no offense taken, but I am indeed sure about that. Hospitals don' do me no good when I ain't shot."
"Well, if anyone should know that, it would be you. Raylan's on the phone to Ava right now, by the way."
"Thank you."
"No problem. Talk to you later, Mr. Crowder."
"Chief."
Art strolled back to where Raylan was now leaned against the side of Tim's truck, trying hard to placate a seemingly very upset Ava.
"Yeah, he's not feelin' so great at the moment… no, although he might've, if we'd been freed any later, no, he just vomited on my boss's shoes… no, of course that ain't funny. Sorry. Yeah. … Nah, don't, the boy didn't have nothin' to… okay, but… yeah, I know, but… Ava… Ava…"
He caught Art observing him and rolled his eyes skyward. Art chuckled.
"Ava! Would you calm down, alright? Boyd ain't… no, I guess it's not, but… yeah, Mag's old store. If you want, I'll… Okay, see-"
He stopped and stared at his phone. "She hung up on me."
"Well, seems like she really, actually cares about Boyd Crowder."
"She does."
Raylan sighed heavily and wiped a hand through his face. He'd provisorily gotten off some of the dirt and grime, but the man clearly needed a shower. Also, he looked dead on his feet.
"Hey, Raylan."
"Yeah?"
"You, uh, got any plans for tonight?"
"Well, I had, but… getting locked up in a pantry and begging Boyd not to vomit on me kinda put a spoke in my wheels."
"Now can you imagine, it put one hell of a spoke in my wheels, too. You're gonna have to explain that whole thing to my wife."
"Shit, Art. My day's been hard enough, don't you think?"
"What I wanted to say, I guess, was that now that my plans for Christmas Eve have been fucked with, and yours, too, and since Tim doesn't have anything planned, or so he said, I figured maybe the three of us could have a drink somewhere before you take a shower and fall asleep for the next twelve hours."
Raylan didn't say anything for the next minute or so, and Art was sure he'd refuse, saying he just wanted to drown himself and forget this day ever happened, but he was surprised.
"You know what, Art, I think I'll take you up on that offer. Sounds real nice. Tim up for it?"
"He will be once I ask him."
"Cool, Art. Thank you."
About half an hour later a beat-up turquoise Sedan pulled up and before it had even fully halted Ava Crowder burst out of the passenger side door.
"Raylan? Where is he?"
Raylan pointed to the ambulance next to the opening of the store. "Right over there, in the ambulance."
Ava rushed by them. The kid that had given them the directions, Danny Art thought his name was, got out of the car at a more leisured pace and took his time to lock the doors like he was afraid one of the countless Marshals running around was going to steal the ugly-as-fuck vehicle. Sticking his hands into his coat pockets like Art had seen Crowder do countless times, he walked past them slowly, a black wool hat pulled down nearly to his eyes, his black 5 o'clock shadow and black hair covering his face so that all Art could see clearly of him was his nose.
Him and Raylan saw Ava throw her arms around Boyd, who didn't have the strength to hold them both upright and had to hold himself steady on the door of the ambulance. Ava removed the oxygen mask and they kissed, though Boyd pulled back quickly and said something that made Ava laugh. Danny stood nearby and looked like he didn't really want to be around this many people, but when Boyd waved him over he came, and Boyd put a hand on his arm and said something, Art would have liked to know what that had been, because it made Danny's posture ease immediately, like a weight had been taken off of his shoulders.
Steve the Paramedic, who now looked like he was afraid of Crowder, was waved over and reluctantly removed the IV, and Crowder stood up, with help from Danny, and grabbed his dirty jacket that had been discarded on the floor of the ambulance, and the three of them made their way over to where Art and Raylan stood. They looked… Art smiled. The three of them almost looked like a family. A crazy, criminal family, but a family nonetheless.
When they reached Tim's car, Boyd detached himself from his company and shook Art's hand. "Chief, in the name of Raylan and I, I would like to thank you for comin' to our rescue."
"Like I didn't already thank him for that" Raylan said. Boyd only grinned at him, his many teeth a light in the dark. He still looked shaky, and like walking hurt. Art had heard Steve the Paramedic ask him about possible muscle spasms and Crowder had reluctantly admitted that his back had cramped and that it had been quite painful. But now that Ava Crowder was here, he already seemed much better, as if her bare presence helped him heal.
"It's still nice to hear, Raylan, so thank you Mr. Crowder, it was my pleasure. You have a nice Christmas Eve, or what's left of it, anyway."
"Oh, we gon' have a fine evenin' alright. Raylan, you wanna join us? We got 'Groundhog Day' on DVD and days worth of Ava's divine cookin'."
"Naaah, thanx. Art already invited me to a drink. 'Sides, 'Groundhog Day' ain't even a real Christmas movie."
"Well, we can't watch 'Die Hard' every year, Raylan."
Raylan huffed and made a face like he'd been caught. "You don't know everything, you know" he said.
Boyd nodded thoughtfully. "Obviously I don't. Still, I been told you have my phone. I wonder if I can have it back now."
Raylan passed it to him. "There you go."
"Thanks a lot, Raylan." Boyd flashed his teeth again before him and his company went over to the old Sedan.
"Merry Christmas" Boyd said before he got into the back seat. Art lifted a hand and waved good bye.
"Well, that was nice" he said.
"What was?"
"You and Crowder, bein' civil and all that. You coming to Harlan without shooting anybody, that's nice, too. When you didn't come back and didn't answer your cell my imagination ran wild, you know."
"Yeah, I know." Raylan rubbed the back of his head. "Sorry, Art."
Art felt like giving him hell about it a little longer, but it was Christmas Eve and he refrained. Raylan had a lump the size of a baseball on the side of his head that had to be hurting something awful.
"It's okay. I'll let you sweat on it when you're back up to a hundred percent. It ain't fun kicking you while you're down."
"I'm moved" Raylan said, but he smiled.
"Hey, Tim!"
Deputy Gutterson came over to them. "You rang?"
"Me and Raylan are gonna get something to drink when we're back in Lexington. My Christmas Eve plans have been fucked up as it is, so why not draw it out a little? You wanna join us?"
Tim shrugged. "Sure, why not. You got a place in mind?"
"Well, how does my office sound?"
"Sounds good."
They all got in their separate cars, Raylan bunking with Art since he was obviously way too tired to drive his Lincoln back to Lexington himself. Art had one of the Marshals take it. Ten minutes into the drive, Raylan was already fast asleep in the passenger seat, and Art smiled at him and sighed.
Raylan Givens, the Christmas Miracle, he thought and shook his head at that. Thankfully, it had not become the worst Christmas Eve he'd ever had.
It sure as hell wasn't the worst Christmas I ever had - I actually think it was one of the best, ever!
Now, with this story it all went kinda backwards - all I knew was I wanted Boyd and Raylan in a closet together for a couple hours^^ The rest of the ideas I had to wrestle around with to fit the closet in the middle of it. And it all came to me by itself, once I stopped thinking about it too hard, and just listened to some country and let my imagination run its course. Seems like that's the best way to do it. Again, I hope you enjoyed, and if you're inclined to review, I won't be inclined to say no.