Oh, a storm is threat'ning
My very life today
If I don't get some shelter
Oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away
It was a glorious Monday morning when Tim awoke to find he'd slept through both of his alarms and that he was currently running 23 minutes late for work. Not only was he late but Monday mornings were when Art handed out assignments for the week and asked for progress updates on ongoing cases, he's very particular about his marshals not missing them. Bolting upright with a muttered curse and practically rolling out of bed he struggled to find a pair of clean pants. He got dressed in record time, and possibly dislocated his shoulder trying to pull his shirt on. Running out the door he forgot his gun and badge on the kitchen counter and only remembers them when he's already three blocks away. Then, when he got to work the coffee pot was empty and he had to slouch to his desk hungry, uncaffeinated, and a whopping 45 minutes late, a fact which did not go unnoticed by Raylan who glances over towards Tim's desk and gives him a shit eating grin. He hated it when Raylan made it to work before him.
"Had a tough morning Tim?"
Tim doesn't bother to dignify the question with a reply, just flips his desk mate off and starts to boot his computer. He's just settling in for some boring but safe paperwork that will hopefully stem his run of bad luck when he hears the sound of the glass door to Art's office click open and heavy footsteps sound on the floor. He groans and drops his head in a mound of case files and unwritten reports. Maybe if he just hides Art will forget about him. The footsteps continue to sound.
"He's walking over here isn't he."
It's not so much a question as a prayer and his voice is already resigned. He hears the barely restrained glee in Raylan's voice when he replies.
"Oh yes, he's definitely comin' over here."
"How mad does he look?"
Raylan pretends to think for a second and Tim has the sudden urge to strangle him.
"Remember that time when Nelson spilled an entire pot of boilin' hot coffee all down the front of Art's favorite shirt?"
he nods, not liking where this is going.
"Looks angrier then that."
Tim's glad for the mountain of paper which serves to muffle the rather colorful curse he lets loose. He hears a throat clear and finally pulls his head off of his desk. The look on Art's face is somewhere between 'terrifying' and 'apocalyptic'
"Ah, Deputy Gutterson, how nice of you to join us this fine morning"
"Look Art, I'm really sorry 'bout this it won't happen again."
Art smiles and Tim's empty stomach drops straight to his feet.
"Well I sure hope not if you like havin' a job here. Care to share what was so terribly important it kept you from your work this mornin'?"
Tim sighs and mumbles
"Sleptthroughm'alarm"
Art's smile doesn't change, if anything it brightens in intensity just a little bit.
"Wanna speak up a bit Tim? My ears aren't what they used to be y'know."
Tim sighs. Looks like there's not getting out of this one.
"I uh-I slept through my alarm."
Art's eyebrows rise in mock surprise and he turns to Raylan.
"Well ain't that a damn shame. He slept through his alarm."
Raylan leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and Tim hates him for how much he's enjoying this.
"It really is Art. Here I was thinking Tim was a role model for the rest of us, to bad he's turnin' out to be a real disappointment."
Art nods sagely and turns back to Tim.
"Well Raylan, you know what this here disappointment has earned himself?"
"What would that be Art?"
Art slaps down the file folder he'd been carrying down on Tim's desk
"Custody of the newest resident of Lexington, Kentucky Mr. Darren Wyatt."
Tim feels like screaming. With the luck he's had today a witsec op is probably going to end with a bullet in him.
"Plane lands at 10:15, I'd get a move on if I were you. Wouldn't want to make a bad impression on Mr. Wyatt would ya now?"
He can hear Raylan snickering and gets a little satisfaction when Art says
"If you're enjoying this so much Raylan I'm sure Tim could use a hand."
That shuts him up real quick.
Tim glances at his watch, it's already 9:30 which doesn't give him much time to get to the airport. Wistfully he says goodbye to the thought of a cup of coffee and a real breakfast as he stands and collects his jacket off the back of his chair. He's grabbing the file from his desk when Rachel walks by and deposits a cup of coffee and a paper bag that on further investigation reveals a cinnamon roll and a bagel in front of him.
"A little something for the road."
"Rachel, you're an angel."
She smiles and turns away, walking towards the kitchen, a little extra saunter in her step.
"Oh you know, I do my best."
Jacket, coffee and keys in one hand and breakfast in the other he heads for the door readying himself for an unpleasant day. He's stopped by Art sticking his head out of his office and calling out to him.
"You be careful now Tim."
Tim turns and nods, giving Art a sarcastic two fingered salute.
"Ay-ay Captain"
Before once more making for the door, Art calls out again though all trace of humor gone from his voice.
"Now I'm serious here Tim, this guy Wyatt's wrapped up in some nasty shit. Don't let yourself get wrapped up in it too."
Tim nods again, serious now to and a little confused by Art's warning.
"I promise I'll be careful."
When he gets to the car he throws the file on the passenger seat and sets his drink and breakfast down in the cup holders. The drive to the airport is only about half an hour but considering this mornings track record of being on time he'd better get started now. As he drives he reaches into the paper bag and gets to work on the cinnamon roll, it's covered in dripping white glaze (just the way Tim likes it) and soon the tips of his fingers are covered in the sugary sticky stuff. When he hits a red light he gives a his fingers a quick lick and trying his best not to get icing on the crisp white paper he flips open the folder on the seat next to him and gives the documents a cursory glance.
The first thing he see's is a mugshot clipped to the rest of the papers. Turns out that Darren Wyatt is one ugly son of a bitch. He stares out at Tim with small wide set eyes that even in print look baleful and angry. The rest of his face isn't much better, he looks like a bull dog without any of the charm, a big square head with flat features and an under bite. It's a face that's seen more then it's fair share of violence both on the giving and the receiving side. Blurry blue ink tattoo's are visible over the neckline of a white t-shirt and on the knuckles of his meaty hands which are wrapped around a placard and from the quality and color they look like prison tat's to Tim. His assumption is proven true when he looks closer at the paper the picture is clipped too which turns out to be an arrest record. From what Tim can surmise his new responsibility has been in and out of the system since he turned 18. Mostly for theft, with a few B&E's scattered in and even one charge of aggravated assault. Recently though it appears he'd gotten into the big games, and his latest offense for possession with intent to distribute got him a nickel in Baraga Correctional. Apparently Turner was rolling with the Seven Mile Blood's now, and when he got caught with seven kilos of powder cocaine and one offense already on his record he'd offered to turn on his employers for reduced time. One line on his record catches Tim's eye, apparently Turner had been a prime suspect in the murder of his pregnant ex girlfriend, but the DA hadn't been able to make the charges stick. Tim grimaces and flips the file shut, the cinnamon roll suddenly heavy in his stomach. This asshole had probably killed a pregnant woman, not to mention all the other shit he'd done in his years on this planet and now Tim was stuck protecting him.
The whole thing just sat wrong, it was shit like this that made Tim hate these sorts of details. Some scumbag goes and murders somebody and because they just happens to know something about an even bigger scumbag they get off easy. It's all bullshit in Tim's opinion, but that's the job he signed up for. Pulling into the airport parking lot he turns off the car and sits back, rubbing at his face. For all that he overslept he still feels exhausted. All he wants is for this day to be over so he can go get a drink or two and then crash. Unfortunately standing between him and a nice glass of Kentucky bourbon is Darren Wyatt and his bull dog face. Tim lets himself sit for a second longer and pushes himself up and prepares himself for what he is sure is not going to be a pleasant meeting.
It just takes one look at the face of the Detroit marshal to know that Darren Wyatt is going to be more then a little bit of a handful. He's just as ugly in person as he is on camera and heavily built, well defined muscles showing through the thin cotton t-shirt he's wearing. The marshal pulls Tim to the side for a moment to sign over custody and while Tim initials the paperwork he points back to Wyatt with his chin.
"He's a real piece of work ain't he."
The woman gives him a long suffering look and shakes her head.
"You have no idea. Don't think I've ever been happier to sign over a detail before."
Tim laughs a little, and signs at the bottom. He hands over the paper and shakes hands with the women.
"Have a safe trip back."
She nods,
"Thanks, you too."
Tim's about to turn away when she continues
"And hey, watch yourself with this one. He bites."
Tim nods back and watches her disappear back into the airport. Shaking his head he walks over to Darren, it's like people don't think he can handle himself all of a sudden. Maybe he should go to the gym more often, start one of those protein diets.
"Mr. Wyatt, I'm Deputy Gutterson. I'll be escorting you to your safe house today."
Wyatt doesn't reply, just gives a sharp little nod. Up close his eyes are flat and black and dead, they remind Tim a little of shark eyes. Opaque and lifeless but disturbingly intelligent, it's hard to tell what's going on behind them and that gives Tim the creeps. He doesn't like not knowing what people are thinking. As they walk through the busy airport Tim can feel those dark dead eyes on him and he gets the distinct impression that Wyatt is sizing him up. In response Tim stands a little taller, settles his features into stone. He's met guys like this before, both during his time in Afghanistan and during his work as a marshal. They think for a second you're weaker then them they'll tear into you, keep pushing and pushing to see how far they can push and more often then not it ends badly. If you show them you're not to be messed with though they won't even try. Tim knows he's not a big guy, not particularly tall or obviously muscular. It's easy to categorize him as a pushover. He used to hate it, go strutting around trying to prove how tough he was and got himself in a lot of trouble. Now though, he's recognized it for the asset it is. Guys go into a fight expecting it to be easy and he has the element of surprise. He thinks though, that Darren Wyatt isn't the type to underestimate someone no matter how small they look.
When they get to the car Wyatt goes for the passenger door, but Tim stops him with a raised hand.
"Sorry, transports go in the back seat."
"That's some bullshit right there."
And we're off to a great start Tim thinks dryly. He can tell this is a test, Wyatt looking to see if he's the kind that'll give easy or not. He draws himself up.
"It's just protocol."
Wyatt frowns and doesn't remove his hand from the car door.
"I've been on an economy class flight for three and a half hours with a some goddamn baby screaming the whole time. I'll sit in the front if I goddamn want to."
Wyatt's voice is growing louder, echoing in the mostly empty garage and people are starting to look in their direction. Tim just shakes his head, feels his hand unconsciously draw towards his gun.
"Listen, you can either sit yourself in the back seat of this car or I can cuff you and shove you in there. Which one do you want?"
There's a second where Tim thinks he might actually have to handcuff him but eventually Wyatt draws back and turns to the back door of the sedan, glaring at Tim the whole time. Tim gets into the front seat. Only a half hour ride cross town to the safe house and then he's done.
As it turns out a half an hour drive with Darren Wyatt is a long one. Tim wonders how the marshal who escorted him from Detroit survived three and a half hours with him. He'd have probably thrown himself out the goddamn plane if he had to do that. Wyatt is quiet for the first ten or so minutes of the trip, Tim keeping a careful eye on him in the rear view mirror. When he finally speaks each word is carefully enunciated, he rolls each one around in his mouth like he's tasting it before spitting it out. The first thing he says is:
"This place is a shit hole."
Tim shrugs.
"Kentucky isn't for everyone."
The second thing out of Wyatt's mouth is:
"Can we stop at a liquor store. I'm aching for some whiskey."
"I'm here to protect you, not take you shopping. Go to the liquor store on your own time."
Wyatt leans forward in between the seats, arms resting on the padded backs evidently bored with the scenery. Tim tenses when he feels Wyatt's fingers hanging centimeters from his shoulder and resists the urge to slap them away. Wyatt looks over and grins, predatory and mean.
"So, you ever killed anyone with that shiny gun hanging on your belt."
"None of your business."
Wyatt leans back still grinning, and Tim relaxes a little.
"Oh but it is marshal. I need to know that when push comes to shove you're gonna have what it takes to protect me. To pull the trigger."
Tim ignores him and focuses on the road. Wyatt just laughs
"I'll take that as a yes."
and Tim feels his fingers tighten on the steering wheel. Wyatt keeps talking that mean feral look still on his face.
"I bet you like it don't you, the killing. I've met guys like you before in prison. You can see it clear as day, no regret in their eyes. That shit gives them a hard on. What kind of gun do you like to shoot? You a handgun kinda guy? Or maybe you like those long range rifles."
Tim tries his best to keep his face schooled into careful impartiality but he can't help but flinch just a little at that. Wyatt's eyebrows raise and he smiles a little wider.
"So I got myself a sniper huh? You military? Got that clean cut look about you."
Wyatt looks out the window, amiable and flat like he's talking about the weather.
"Used to have a friend who was a vet. Looked just like you, all tidied up and respectable. Nobody knew that he went home and beat his wife, drank himself to sleep every day. Ended up blowing his face off with a .22. Is that what you do, Deputy Gutterson? Do you drink a little to much, like to beat your girlfriend up every now and then?"
Tim's fingers are white knuckled on the steering wheel now.
"Shut up."
Wyatt just keeps talking, eyes on Tim's face on the mirror now. And he reminds Tim of a lion that's smelled blood and is going in for the kill and Tim's the unlucky prey that's about to be slaughtered.
"Is that why you joined the war? So you could go to Afghanistan, Iraq, and kill all those dirty hajji's and nobody could say shit about it?"
Tim swerves hard and pulls into a seven eleven parking lot, throwing the car into park before twisting back to face Wyatt.
"You better shut your mouth right now or I swear to god the next person I put a bullet in will be you."
He tries to keep his voice calm but it's pretty much a lost cause at this point. He can feel the anger bubbling in his stomach and forcing its way up his throat and he just glares at Wyatt's smirking face.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hit a nerve. No offense meant Deputy."
Tim wants to hit him but he's pretty sure that would be frowned upon so he settles for clenching his fists so tight he feels his nails dig into his palms. He made a mistake, showed Wyatt where his weak spot was and he's lost ground now.
"No more talking."
He turns back to the front of the car and takes a deep breath before turning on the radio. Slowly and deliberately he puts the car in drive and pulls back into traffic. The radio is playing what seems to be top forty country hits and he sees Wyatt grimace in the backseat. Reaching out he turns up the radio louder and feels a little satisfaction when Wyatt glares.
The rest of the ride is silent, Tim stewing in his own fury and Wyatt in the back with that infuriating little half smile on his face. When they finally pull up in front of the safe house Tim has to resist the urge to slam the car door with a petulant child when he gets out.
"Follow me."
He stalks across the dying brown grass of the front yard, not bothering to check if Wyatt's following directions and goes up to one of the two copsz
"Hey would you mind gettin' him settled in for me."
The cop looks at him, and then uncertainly at his partner. He's young, can't be more then 21 or 22 and looks a little to small for the uniform he's wearing
"Ain't the marshal's supposed to take care of that business?"
Tim sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Usually yes but if I have to stick around this guy one minute longer you're gonna be cuffing me for homicide, you catch my drift?"
The kid just stares at him, his mouth a little O and a helplessly innocent look on his face. The other cop steps in, older and more experienced.
"We'll take care of it. Wouldn't want to be the one arresting a US Marshal anyway's. You get yourself gone."
Tim sends a grateful look his way.
"Thanks, you saved a life today."
The older cop laughs and chuckles and slaps him on the shoulder and turns to lead his partner into the house.
Tim walks back to Wyatt who's still standing by the car staring blankly into the distance.
"Those two gentleman inside will be gettin' you settled. Here's my number, call if you see anything suspicious or have any concerns about your safety."
Tim says, handing him his card. Wyatt stares at the little square of cardstock for a second before slipping it into his pocket.
"What if I don't want them to get me settled, I want you?"
Tim just shrugs,
"Tough shit. I got other things to do then babysit you."
And with that he walks to the car and gets in the drivers seat, turning the key in the ignition. When he pulls out of the driveway Wyatt still standing there, staring at him through the windshield with his cold shark eyes and a little smirk on his lips.