It'd been almost an hour since he got to the hospital.
They'd run Tim through the ER doors just as soon as they got in, where some lady in scrubs had kindly informed Raylan that he couldn't go in there. He'd stood outside the door for a good five, ten minutes, not really knowing what to do with himself – he didn't have anywhere to go, and didn't have the energy to go there – until that same woman that'd barred him from the door came back out, spotted him, and took pity on him.
She'd ushered him into what Raylan was calling the 'not-as-big-an-emergency' room, where there were cots all lined up along the walls and curtains hanging from the ceiling, and spent the next half hour patching him up. So far as Raylan could tell, that mostly just meant bathing him in antiseptic and slapping on butterfly bandages on all the cuts and scrapes he had all over from the broken glass and metal shards. He only had two that needed stitches: on the underside of his left forearm, where he'd dragged across some meshing crawling through into the pocket, and that wasn't too bad, just about three inches from his elbow and not too deep; and the cut on his temple where he cracked it open. If the nurse was to be believed – and he figured she was, her having gone to medical school and his having not – he had a hell of a concussion, but, and he quoted, his egg was just scrambled, not cracked. She rattled off a bunch of instructions, things to look for, and he remembered maybe half of them, then sent him to one of the bathrooms with a scrub top since his shirt'd been unsalvageable and a blanket, because he "looked a little shocky."
He managed to get cleaned up alright, washed the concrete powder and sweat and grime off him as well as he could. Must've scrubbed his hands for ten minutes just on their own.
For all the good it did him. He could still see flakes of red under his short fingernails, and there wasn't any amount of scalding water in the world going to make him forget the feeling of blood on his hands. Tim's blood.
Eventually, he wound up in the waiting room, feeling a little more alive than he did before, if no less settled. His head was pounding a steady rhythm with his heart, his foot bouncing on the ground. The new was on, covering the bank robbery-turned-collapse, and since he didn't seem to have the energy to get up and change it himself, he was making a point of ignoring it. They had it on mute, so it wasn't so hard.
The playback in his head was a hell of a lot harder.
Part of him wondered if this was what Tim felt like, waking up from those nightmares of his. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see it. Every time he breathed, he could smell it. Every time he swallowed, he could taste it. The concrete, the smoke, the copper of blood on his tongue….
He shook his head to clear it, only to remember that was pretty high on his list of shit he shouldn't do for the next good while. It felt just about like it was about to topple of his shoulders, and his gut joined in on the fun with a sick little churn that had him swallowing thickly. Nerves – because that was what the real problem was: nerves; he was losing years of his life waiting to hear about Tim, if not from stress, than from the receptionist fixing to kill him if he asked again – and a concussion did not good bedfellows make, and trying to reconcile the nervous energy with the pressing urge to never move again, ever, thank you very much, was making him even more ill-tempered than he already was.
Which is probably why, when a hand lands on his shoulder, he just about bit its owner's head off. He had the quip all lined up on his tongue, ready to fire—
Only to stop short. The quip died on his tongue, irritation going with it in a surge of, first, surprise, but then, ultimately, relief.
"Winona." It came out sounding half like a sigh, half like a question, and he felt this weird sort of wave in the back of his head, not quite like he was about to pass out, but like his head did give it some thought. He waited for it to pass before he pushed himself to his feet. "What're you doing here?"
Winona was frowning, and Raylan could feel her eyes giving him the once over. Taking in the bloody jeans, the scrubs, the gauze pad taped across his temple and the bandage wrapped around his arm. He knew he looked a mess, and Winona seemed to agree with him, because she had that frown line on her brow that usually set off warning bells in Raylan's head.
Only, they were all rung out at the moment.
He didn't get the usual chiding, anyhow. "Art called me," Winona said. "Told me you'd be at the hospital and you might need some new clothes." She let out a breath, pressing her palm flat against the front of her forehead like she did when she was trying to get her composure back. Or keep it. "God, I thought for a second—" But she stopped, like she couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence.
She didn't need to. "I'm fine," Raylan told her, and hoped she couldn't hear how much of a lie that was. "Couple of bumps and bruises. Nothing an icepack and an aspirin won't fix." Which was mostly true.
That wasn't the problem, though.
Winona's brows furrowed. "So then…what're you still doing here?"
And it would've been amazing, how just that simple question could seem to squeeze all the air out of Raylan's lungs, could make his gut turn and his mouth go dry…if it wasn't so damn awful.
"Tim," he managed to say through the vise around his throat. It came out hoarse and hitched, and he saw a flash of concern in Winona's eyes that he wanted to send off quick as possible. He wasn't the one needed worrying over. So, under the pretense of scratching his brow and clearing his throat, he swallowed back the shitstorm in his chest. "Tim was there, too, in the cave-in." That was better. Not good, but better, and shit, he'd take it.
Comprehension dawned in Winona's eyes, her lips parting into a small 'o' around a quiet gasp. "Well, is he—is he okay?" she asked, her hand going to her hip. She was aiming for casual, but she seemed to've gone a little stray of the mark.
Not that Raylan was one to talk. That knot tightened, and he shook his head, not really giving a damn about the ache that surged up in his head. "I don't know," he tried to say, but his voice caught towards the end. He felt his eyes burning, and he bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose like he could somehow stave it off. "Shit."
"Oh, Raylan," Winona breathed, her voice somewhere in between sympathetic and exasperated. He could just about picture it on her face, even without looking. And then she had a hand around the back of his neck and an arm around his waist, hugging him, and it was just too damn easy to sink into it. To wrap his arms around her thin shoulders and rest his chin on her head and just…shit, just breathe.
He didn't talk. Wasn't sure he could've if he wanted. But his eyes were burning something fierce, and he blinked, because this wasn't him. He didn't do this shit.
He did now.
It took longer than it should've to get himself under control, and even that felt tenuous, strained, ready to shatter to a billion pieces at the drop of a hat. It was the best he had, though, the best he could do, and when he let his arms fall from Winona's shoulders and sank into one of the shitty waiting room chairs, she didn't ask questions, just let him go and sat down next to him.
For a long moment, neither said a word. Raylan could feel Winona's eyes on him as he ran his hand through his hair, rubbed his eyes, sniffed, and he knew when he raised his head that he wasn't foolin' anybody, especially not Winona, but she didn't mention it.
"What happened?" she asked instead. Her voice was soft, patient, like he could answer if he felt like and ignore her if he didn't.
Truth was, he didn't feel like much of anything. But he answered her anyway, if only because it gave him something to do. "Got a tip on a fugitive this mornin'. Tim and I went to check it out, and…well, I guess the long and short of it's that shit hit the fan. The guy wasn't alone, and he and his buddies were packin' C4. They were gettin' ready to blow the place, and there wasn't a whole hell of a lot I could do about it. But Tim…" Raylan let out a ragged-sounding chuckle, hanging his head and scrubbing at his face. "Shit, I don't think I've ever seen him move that fast."
Tim tended to do things on his own time, after all. Had that carefree saunter down to a damn art, couldn't be bothered to be in a hurry for much of anything. But not today. Today….
"He saved our asses." The words just kind of tumble out; he hadn't really given them much thought, but now that he has, he knows they're right. And he can't help thinking about all the other times Tim's saved his ass. Too many to count.
"He's a good Marshal," Winona said.
Raylan bit back a snort. Good. "Better'n good." He felt a weird flash of something that felt a lot like pride in his chest as he said it, but he was just so grateful to feel something else to give it much thought. "You should've seen him. Took a damn bullet, still OK Corral'd it with me. South-pawed, too. Kid's a damn crack shot." Among other things. Many, many other things. The thought sobered Raylan. "Then the second cave-in happened. I was tryin' to get a hold of Art, and I—" He swallowed thickly, voice catching on the lump in his throat. "And I left him. I was just—I wasn't gonna be gone more'n a minute. I didn't think…."
This time, he was the one who didn't care to finish what he was saying. Or else, couldn't. Because what the hell was he supposed to say? He didn't think the place would cave in again? That the whole ceiling would fall on Tim? That he'd be trapped under there, have his leg all torn to bits, because Raylan didn't have the good sense to move him?
"Hey."
Raylan was snapped from his increasingly-violent thoughts by a hand on his shoulder, and he lifted his throbbing head to look at Winona. She was looking right back at him, a sad look in her eyes.
"Whatever happened, it wasn't your fault."
"How would you know?" Raylan shot back, maybe a little sharper than he should've.
Winona didn't seem to care, though. "Because I know you, Raylan," she said firmly. "I know you did everything you could, and then some. Which is more than most people would've."
"Wasn't enough."
"Sometimes it's not." And when Raylan shot her a frown, she just met it with an earnest look. "You're just a man, Raylan. I know it's hard to wrap that pretty little head of yours around," she paused to ruffle his hair, a hint of a fond smile on her face, "but sometimes, it's out of your hands."
This time, he did snort. "And sometimes, it ain't," he muttered.
Winona raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Instead of an answer, Raylan just reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a card, passing it over to Winona. She took it, and he could tell when she'd gotten to the good part – he'd memorized the damn thing by now – because her eyes went a little wide.
"Oh," she said simply.
"Oh." That was considerably more civil than his reaction had been. When the paramedic had pulled that little nugget out of Tim's wallet, he'd nearly had a conniption fit. It was all his health information. His name, address, allergies – penicillin and coconut, Raylan knew without looking, and seriously, who the hell was allergic to coconut? – his primary physician, and all that other shit, which made sense. Raylan had one like it in his own wallet, thanks to some bright idea by one of the girls in records.
What didn't make sense was that, listed under his primary contact, was Raylan's name and number. Under his primary contact. Which would've made maybe a little more sense if they were recent, but Raylan knew they did these things almost a year ago, back when he and Winona were still in their on-again stage. And okay, he knew Tim didn't have a whole hell of a lot of close friends, but—
"So, how long have you two been seeing each other?"
—what?
Raylan turned his head enough to look at her like she'd grown a second head. "Who told you we're 'seein' each other'?" he said.
He regretted the words just as soon as he said them.
"Shit." He hung his head, if only to avoid seeing Winona's smile, but then he gave up and looked back up at her, trying to decide between being shamefaced and sheepish. It wasn't that he was ashamed of it, of him and Tim; he was just feeling a little sorry this was how Winona was finding out about it. And, truth be told, a little nervous about what she'd do with knowing. He really didn't think he had a fight in him tonight. "How'd you know?"
But Winona kept right on smiling, and Raylan had the sudden, optimistic hope that maybe there wasn't going to be a fight.
"You mean besides you pretty much telling me just now?" she asked, and there was just a hint of a tease to her voice that made Raylan's lip twitch. It was hard to appreciate the humor when there was still a clamp on his chest, but it was pretty damn easy to appreciate the distraction.
He nodded stiffly, mindful of the bass drum somewhere behind his eyes. "Besides that."
"Honestly, I didn't," Winona said. "Kinda figured something was going on, though, when you came by to visit Maddie and I saw him sitting out in your car."
It occurred to Raylan that he should probably be a little embarrassed, getting caught red-handed like that. But he was too caught up in remembering that day. It'd been after a hard bust. Guy locked himself up in his house, threatened to kill his own kid if they didn't back off. Tim'd been the one to take him down, and while normally that was enough for one of their little impromptu get-togethers, that hadn't been it. The man'd been a real asshole: warrants out for assault, harassment, and he'd beat the shit out of his wife and son. They'd both seen the bruises all over him, and while Tim didn't talk about his childhood – what little of one he had before they stuck a rifle in his hand and pointed him towards the Taliban – Raylan knew those lash marks on his back and the cigarette burn on his wrist, the one under his rifle tattoo, well enough to put a few things together.
They'd spent the night at Raylan's apartment over the bar, eating pizza, getting drunk on premium booze, and watching High Noon.
The more he thought about nights like that – no sex, just…company – the more he realized they'd been something more than lovers a lot longer than he'd thought.
"So, does he know?" Winona asked, effectively snapping him out of his little daydream. Which was a damn shame, because it was probably the happiest thing to pass through his headspace in going on twelve hours, now.
"Know what?"
Winona gave him a deadpan look, eyebrow like 'you know exactly what I'm talking about, Raylan Givens, so don't give me that.'
She had very expressive eyebrows.
"That you love him," she said.
He was surprised to find he was strangely okay with hearing the l-word tacked on with Tim. It was one thing for him to admit it to himself; another to admit it to another person. But what the hell, he shrugged. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" She didn't sound all too pleased with his answer. "Well, have you told him?"
"Sort of."
"How do you sort of tell someone you love them?" she asked, but then seemed to reconsider. "Never mind. With you, I don't doubt it."
Raylan narrowed his eyes. "I might have…quoted a song to him," he admitted, and even the situation being what it was couldn't keep his lips from curling just a hint, mostly out of sheepishness and anticipation of Winona's response.
She didn't disappoint, letting out a snort that was somehow still ladylike. "Oh, Raylan," she said, shaking her head. "And what'd he say?"
Raylan's smile hitched up a little higher, but there was a pang in his chest. "He prefers the Helen Forrest version," he said, but then his smile fell.
Winona chuckled softly. "That's Tim, I guess." She'd only met him a few times, far as Raylan knew, but it didn't take long to figure out that Tim was a quirky son of a bitch. It was the other stuff that took a bit longer.
"Yeah." Raylan's voice was hoarse again, and he bent over, elbows propped on his knees. "That's Tim."
Beside him, Winona sighed. "Oh, Raylan," she said again, and this time, it was pure sympathy on his account. If he'd been in any better a state, he might've taken the time to appreciate how supportive she was being, findin' out her ex-husband and father of her child's head over boots for his coworker. His male coworker. But as it was, it was all he could do to take a breath and let it out, focusing on the feel of her hand rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades. He stopped, though, when she patted him on the back and stood. "Alright, here's what you're gonna do." When he looked up, she had her hand on her hip and a duffel bag in her hand which all but popped him in the face with. "Take your clothes, go change. I gotta call Gayle and tell her I'll be out for another couple hours."
And that was when it occurred to Raylan. "Shit, Madison." He felt a sick surge of guilt well in his— "Ow!" He jumped to his feet, holding his ear. "Did you just pinch me?"
"Well, I'd have smacked you upside the head, but it looks like someone already beat me to it," Winona said matter-of-factly – not to mention completely unapologetically. "You've got a lot on your mind, Raylan. It's okay. You're not in the runnin' for World's Worst Daddy just yet."
"Just yet," Raylan echoed, but it didn't have quite the self-reproach to it he felt before.
Winona must've been able to tell, because she nodded, and with one hand on her hip, she pointed towards the bathroom. "Good, now go."
And Raylan started to, but he'd just started to turn around before he turned back. "You're a hell of a woman, you know that, right?" he said. Even if she did, he felt it needed saying. He still loved her, he guessed. He really did. But their relationship was one of always feeling like he needed to be better, just to make her happy.
With Tim, it was more about just being happy, and maybe being a little better for it.
Winona's lips curled into a smile. "Oh, I know," she replied. "Now get your ass in that bathroom, before I change my mind about beating you."
Wisely, Raylan did as he was told.
