"Now, what sorta trouble you been stirring up, Raylan?" Jo asked, leaning in the doorway of the Marshal's locker room. She might as well apply for the Marshal's Service at this rate, given the frequency with which she'd grown accustomed to visiting this particular office.
The three male Marshals were all there, listening while Tim rattled off an exceptionally long rap sheet in a bored tone. Art and Raylan set about packing numerous rifles and bulletproof vests into a duffel bag. It looked as though they were preparing for some great hillbilly war.
Halting in his motions, Raylan pinned his fellow deputy with an accusatory look. "You told her?" He griped in obvious agitation.
Tim simply scoffed indignantly and shrugged his shoulders, file in hand. He hadn't spoken to Jo at all the past few days, but this seemed to be an emerging trend. He was going to be blamed for all the shit she just happened to know.
"Hey, now," Jo called, coming to the junior deputies defense and drawing attention back to her person. "Constable Bob called me about the break-in, and the warden gave me a ring after Arlo shanked an inmate. Y'all would be horrified to know the number of people who got me on speed dial." She smiled proudly at her own assertion. Only Ellstin Limehouse rivaled Jo in the innate ability to acquire loyal snitches to the cause. Though, her cause was keeping tabs on her troublesome brother, while Limehouses held the intent of keeping intruders out of Noble's Hollow.
Raylan chose to ignore her untimely intrusion altogether and returned to the matter at hand. "Are you sure you want to go with us, Art?" He asked doubtfully.
"He's got a point, boss. I mean, hell, their dogs in the pound," Tim added in support of his inquiry.
"You know the best barbecue I ever had was in Versailles," Art mused, handing another shotgun to Raylan. "That's where Waldo is. I don't wanna miss out on that brisket."
"Why don't you tell us why you're going?" Raylan hummed in consideration. "Of all the fugitives that have come across our desk of late, why you gotta go on this one?" Clearly, the looming threat of retirement had stirred a sense of adventure in the Chief Deputy, but Jo wasn't supposed to know anything about that.
"Because for 30 years, this office dropped the ball on apprehending a federal fugitive that was collecting a draw check," Art announced, slamming and securing the weapons locker. "And I, personally, wanna be the one to cross that off the books."
Raylan and Jo shared a skeptical look from across the room. No way were his motivations as simple as righting this particular occupational wrong.
"And also that mystery-bag thing's giving me a little bit of a Marshal stiffy," Art added mockingly.
"That's a nice image," Tim drawled sarcastically.
"Lovely, Art," Jo said through a grimace. Imagining Raylan's boss with any kind of stiffy, metaphorical or otherwise, was less than ideal.
"We are gonna stop for lunch before we get to the Truths' in case you shoot one of them," he instructed Raylan while passing the heavy duffel bag to Tim, who quickly shouldered it. "Then we won't get to go after. Jo, you want us to bring you back some?" Art asked politely.
"Oh, you know, I can always go for a side of sausage," she grinned mischievously, while suggestively elbowing Tim in the ribs. He quickly pushed her off him. There was that Boy Scout shyness she loved to taunt.
Tim and Raylan exchanged an unamused glance, partially at Art's declaration of stimulation, and partly at Jo's inappropriate insinuation, before exiting the locker room. Jo trailed behind them with a self-satisfied smirk. "Try not to get pissed on by any teenagers while you're out hunting fugitives," she teased from the rear.
While the male Marshals headed for the elevator, Jo lingered in front of Rachel Brooks' desk, waiting patiently for the deputy to finish her phone call.
Once the headset was returned to its receiver, Rachel shifted her eyes up and appraised her visitor wearily. "How can I help you, Jo?"
The pair were always cordial, but their busy schedules hadn't allotted much time to form a steadfast friendship. Jo had been hoping to change that. She really needed to converse with someone aside from Raylan and Tim; they could be real downers.
"What's the saying, when the cats away the mice will play? I was thinking you and I could get a drink once the day dies down," Jo offered with enough levity to imply she wouldn't be insulted should her request be denied.
Brooks mulled it over for a moment, before nodding her head in agreement. "How does five o'clock sound?"
Jo chuckled. "Sounds perfect. I love a good early evening buzz," she commented before taking leave of the Marshal's office.
Jo wasn't lying. She did enjoy a stiff drink after a long day. It was one of the tendencies she, Tim, and Raylan shared, an arguably problematic affinity for hard liquor. The trio was probably too cliche in their trauma, but Jo tried not to dwell on the implications.
Jo arrived at the bar before Rachel and ordered a bourbon. It was no Pappy Van Winkle, but it'd do in a pinch. She swirled the glass in rumination while awaiting the female deputy's arrival. Jo had, admittedly, been avoiding Tim for the last few days. Due in no small part to the item currently burning a hole in her blazer pocket. Maybe some liquid courage would finally give her the push needed to actually present the object to her blonde headed Marshal.
Jo's reverie was thankfully interrupted by Rachel occupying the barstool aside hers. She waited patiently while her companion placed her own drink order.
"So, Brooks, I hear you left your husband," Jo commented casually after watching Rachel take a long pull from her glass.
The woman in question absentmindedly fiddled with her earrings before asking, "who told you? Raylan? Tim?"
"Actually, it was Art," Jo admitted after sipping from her own tumbler. "He's worried. Thought you might need someone to talk to." The open-ended offer for a willing audience was there, Rachel would just have to decide whether or not to take it.
Rachel scoffed at the notion of her boss's concern. "I'm fine," she assured, studying the amber liquid in her glass. "It's just-" She searched for the words to properly convey exactly what had gone wrong in her marriage.
"He doesn't understand?" Jo provided. She'd been through this scenario enough times with Raylan and Winona to know that there was an inherent divide between law enforcement and their civilian partners. Outsiders couldn't comprehend the thrill of the chase, nor the drive that kept them enraptured despite the imminent danger. It's just the way things were.
Rachel released a heavy sigh and drained her drink before motioning to the bartender for another. "Exactly," she concluded, simply.
"Are you having second thoughts?" Jo asked gently. She'd never been in this particular situation, but divorces were notoriously hard, regardless of how inevitable they appeared.
Rachel inclined her head to the contrary. "No. Not really."
Jo picked up her glass after it had been refilled, sipping it graciously. "Good. I've always considered relationships finished the moment the thought lingers. No sense in backtracking once the impulse has come to stay." It was true; Jo had a nasty habit of bailing on lovers the instant the going stopped getting good. Better not to waste anyone's time, she felt.
When the conversation lulled, Rachel took the opportunity to relieve her love life from being the chosen topic of discussion. "How pissed was Raylan when he found out about Tim?
The question drew a hearty laugh from Jo. "He stomped in, made a big ol' scene," she confessed, taking another swig from her tumbler. "Has he been right at work? I'd hate to have to kick his ass for acting foolish."
Rachel only smiled warmly and shook her head. "He's been the same," she assured evenly.
Jo snorted at the short answer she received. "Shady, lazy, and ever difficult, then? Well, I suppose that's to be expected." Raylan was nothing if not consistent in his improper behavior.
The drinks and conversation flowed freely after that. The two reminisced about college, Rachel at Ole Miss, and Jo attending WVU. Neither had intended to call Kentucky home for long, but here they were. Victims to strange circumstances, indeed.
Rachel spoke about her nephew, Nick, who was doing well, despite his father having been thrown back in prison for the part he played in the birthday chase. Jo's theory had proven correct thus far, just because one's parents were screw-ups, didn't mean their children were resigned to the same fate.
"Are you ready to be Chief when Art retires?" Jo questioned abruptly, her voice holding a barely perceivable slur to match her slightly glassy eyes. She'd set out to get a nice buzz going, and she'd arrived at her destination in a timely fashion, which also meant her tongue was looser than usual.
Rachel looked taken aback by the unexpected question. "You think I'll be the next Chief Deputy?" She asked uncertainly.
Jo scoffed loudly at her noticeable doubt. "Obviously. Who else would it be? Not Raylan, he's a perpetual mess who can barely manage himself. Dunlop is a right idiot, and Tim's too sarcastic to be taken seriously," she commented while finishing off her bourbon.
A familiar male voice droning from just over her shoulder had Jo swiveling around on her barstool in surprise. "Tell us how you really feel, Jo." The man accompanying the statement approached the bar with his hands carefully tucked into the waistband at the back of his slacks.
Jo hadn't told Tim where she was going to be, yet here he stood. For a moment, she entertained the idea that he'd tracked her phone to determine her whereabouts, then she remembered Rachel's earlier trip to the bathroom. Shifting her eyes, Jo pinned the female Marshal with a reproachful stare. "You called and tattled on me," she said more as a statement than a question.
"You've had a lot to drink tonight. I figured you'd need a ride," Rachel commented impishly. She and Tim shared a silent nod before the former settled her tab and wished them both a goodnight.
"Well, come on, Marshal. Apparently, my chariot awaits," Jo said snidely, throwing several bills down on the counter. She stumbled off the stool, her feet uncooperative when hitting even ground for the first time in hours. Tim quickly caught her arm to steady her, and Jo would have been embarrassed had that part of her brain not been dulled by all the alcohol she'd consumed. She let him usher her out of the bar, through the parking lot, and into his SUV without any fuss.
Tim had been unexpectedly silent through the whole ordeal, and Jo found it disconcerting in her inebriated state. "Tell me about your day," she requested, in an effort to fill the stilted silence.
Jo's eyes closed, and she let the wind from the open window waft over her flushed face while Tim told her about their visit to the Truth's. Turns out, Waldo Truth had gone splat in the streets of Corbin, and Drew Thompson had faked his own death to escape into the wind. "Sounds like some real D.B. Cooper shit," Jo pondered aloud.
They'd pulled into her driveway not long after, and the pair sat quietly in the still-running car. Jo let her head loll on the headrest to appraise Tim. "You coming in or what?" Her voice held an air of challenge, but the only answer she received was a deft nod and the motor being cut off.
Their awkward silence extended into the house, where Jo grew agitated by Tim's wordlessness. Whatever he was pissed at her about or preoccupied with, she wished he'd just come out and say it. A confrontation would be preferable to him just standing there like a mute statue in her living room.
She fiddled with something in her blazer pocket, feeling the cold metal under her fingertips, running them along the jagged and uneven edges. "I was thinking this would make things weird, but you're already being weird, so here you go." Jo extracted the item and tossed it at him nimbly.
Tim didn't flinch when he caught it expertly, his brow scrunching in confusion as he inspected the object in his hand. "What's this?"
Jo couldn't help but roll her eyes at his query. She would have thought it was apparent, but Tim always seemed to insist she use her words, rather than rely on his inferencing skills. "It's a key. It's your key. How can you hunt fugitives all day but not figure that one out?" Jo taunted with crossed arms, aiming to ease the tension.
Tim seemed to consider her words for a moment longer before swiftly pocketing his new key. Rushing forward, he swept Jo up into his arms. She expelled an ungraceful yelp at the abrupt action, clutching to his shoulders when her feet were unexpectedly lifted from the ground. Her momentary shock gave way to jovial giggles as she was carried into the bedroom.