Tim sure broke some speed limits on his way over to Tate's house. He really hadn't noticed the time until Art had mentioned it, but now that he knew, he was truly worried about Raylan's well-being.

He steered his car into the dead-end street that ultimately turned into the gravel of Tate's driveway.
Tim parked at the end of the road, where the asphalt ended and the gravel began. Parking here meant he could go up to the house a little less noticeably.
He stepped out of his car, took his gun out of its holster and checked the magazine. It was filled to the brim with bullets, as it should be. Tim sighed in nervous anticipation, before straightening himself up to his full height and tensing all his muscles into activity. He started down the driveway, gun at the ready.

Even from a distance, Tim could see Raylan's car parked in front of the house. So whatever had happened to the marshal, Raylan had at least made it here.
Tim crept closer, making sure to keep to the side of the driveway and out of the most direct line of sight from inside the house.
He slowly stepped onto the porch. So far there had not been any sure signs that something was wrong, but his gut told him a whole different story. Gun at the ready, he loudly knocked on the front door.

"Mr. Tate? Marshal's office, open the door!"
Tim took a step back to create some more space between himself and whoever would answer his knock. He held his gun with both hands now, one forefinger gently resting against the trigger.
"Mr. Tate, Marshal's office," Tim repeated when nothing happened.
This time he heard movement from inside, and not the kind he had hoped for. It sounded like someone stumbling around and glass breaking.
"Raylan, you in there?" Tim took a step forward and tried the doorknob. The door clicked free from the lock. Tim pushed it open, and immediately raised his gun in front of him, ready to fire at anyone who would appear in his line of sight.
Tim stood unmoving on the threshold for a few seconds, watching for the slightest of movements and listening for any sounds.
"Raylan?" He called out to his partner again, but the house remained eerily quiet.
Tim cautiously stepped over the threshold and into the hallway, followed by another slow step forward.

It happened in a split-second…

At the end of the hallway, a door on the right-hand side led to the living room. Suddenly a man came crashing out of it, handling a rifle.
The blast from the rifle echoed through the house. The man had fired it way too soon, though, making the bullet tear through the wooden doorframe, before it hurtled in Tim's direction.
The bullet hit Tim in the left shoulder. It tore into his flesh just above the armpit, about the only part of his shoulder which was left unprotected by his bulletproof vest.
His reaction was instantaneous. Driven by nothing rather than pure instinct and trust in his skills, Tim fired one bullet back.

He didn't miss. He never missed.
The bullet hit the man in the forehead, dropping him dead to the ground instantly.

Tim stumbled back a few paces until his back hit the wall. He groaned in pain as he looked down at his injured shoulder. It was a long time since he had been shot, the last time had been in Iraq, and he had forgotten how much it hurt. He groaned under his breath, as blood started to stain his shirt.
Getting hit was quite unfortunate. An inch to the left and his vest would have taken the bullet, an inch to the right and the bullet would have only grazed him. The only luck he had had, was the bullet tearing through the doorframe first, which meant it had already lost most of its velocity before embedding itself in Tim's flesh.

Tim quickly recollected himself. Right now, he still had no idea if this was the only perp in the house. For all he knew, there could be a dozen more assailants trying to off him.
He pushed himself off the wall, adrenaline taking over from the pain. Holding his gun in front of him, he carefully made his way to the living room. The man who had shot him now had a bullet in his brain, so Tim had no doubt that man was dead. He had killed dozens of Taliban this way over in Iraq, and none of them had ever gotten back up, so why would this one?
Tim looked down as he passed the man, but the eyes definitely had the glazed look of the dead.

Tim turned into the living room in a swift, fluent motion. He had expected to be met with another assailant or another gun, but instead looked down upon the lifeless body of Jimmy Tate. The witness lay sprawled upon his own living room rug, blood all around him, and three bullet holes in his chest.
"Shit…" Tim didn't even need to check a pulse to know Tate was dead.
He quickly cleared the living room and the attached kitchen, but found no one else.

Tim moved back to the hallway and to the foot of the stairs. Slowly and attentively, he moved up the stairs, gun at the ready in front of him again. With each step he took, more and more of the first floor landing came into view. Then his eyes spotted something which nearly gave him a heart attack.
"Oh, fuck!"


Raylan slowly came to. The pain to his stomach was immense, and he immediately knew he had lost quite some blood. He had probably been out for a while, and hoped furiously Art or Tim would start missing him by now, and would decide to come looking.
Raylan carefully tried to move his arms and legs. All seemed to work fine. Good, this meant the bullet had at least not damaged his spine.
He was just contemplating about trying to drag himself to the stairs to have a look at his attacker's condition, when he heard it: a loud knock on the door, followed by a familiar voice calling out.
"Mr. Tate? Marshal's office, open the door!"

"Tim…" Raylan groaned weakly. He recognized his partner's voice out of thousands, and this was truly the voice of a saviour to him. But Raylan also worried. He knew he hadn't been able to kill his attacker, so that meant Tim would probably be met by the same rifle that had welcomed him earlier.

Raylan had to do something. He could not allow Tim to be led to slaughter like this.
It took him a few attempts and a lot of biting through excruciating pain, but Raylan finally managed to roll himself onto his stomach. The pain it caused was so intense that it left him seeing black spots and the urge to scream out. Especially screaming out was something he wanted to prevent at any cost. It might throw Tim off his guard, and might betray to the assailant that Raylan wasn't quite dead yet.
Raylan stretched his arms out in front of him as far as they would go, and tried to drag himself forward. It was painful, and he had only been able to move a few feet, when he heard it…

A gunshot.
Another gunshot.
Someone or something falling to the floor.
Someone groaning in pain.

Raylan kept quiet. He could still hear stumbling from downstairs, but he couldn't possibly determine whether it was Tim or the assailant.
The footsteps from downstairs came closer, and Raylan knew that, whomever it was, would eventually come looking upstairs. He painfully maneuvered himself onto his side again, so he would have a more unobstructed view of the top of the stairs. Someone was definitely coming up, Raylan could hear the steps creak underneath their feet. He closed his eyes. If it turned out to be the assailant coming up the stairs, it would be better they didn't immediately see Raylan was alive and conscious.

"Oh, fuck…"

Raylan's eyes flew open. He saw Tim clearing the last few steps and come running in his direction.
"Tim…" Raylan groaned weakly, "you're not dead."
"They sure tried." Tim dropped to his knees beside Raylan and had immediately spotted his partner's injury.
Raylan gritted his teeth together as Tim took a better look at the gunshot wound.
"Ah, shit…" A slight hint of panic was audible in Tim's voice. He took out his phone to place a call. There was only half a second of the line ringing when it was already answered.
"Tim?" Art took the call.
"Send a team over here," Tim instantly got to the point, "we need crime scene guys, coroner… and an ambulance."
Art uttered a string of curses on the other side of the line before he continued.
"Please tell me Raylan needs the ambulance, not the coroner."
"He's alive. He took a bullet to the stomach," Tim answered.
"How serious is it?" Art asked.
Tim hesitated, because he knew Raylan could hear Art speak on the other side of the line.
"It's serious." Tim decided to speak the truth.
"We'll be there in ten," Art concluded the conversation.

Tim turned his attention back to Raylan.
"I gotta keep pressure on that," he mumbled, more to himself than to Raylan.
He jumped to his feet and disappeared into the bathroom further down the hallway. Only a few seconds later, he emerged again, carrying an armful of towels.
"Don't you dare," Raylan mumbled weakly as Tim sat down on the floor beside him again.
"I have to, Raylan. You want to bleed to death?!" The undertone of panic in Tim's voice had become more pronounced, which was unsettling.
Tim took a few towels from the stack and fumbled them together. He didn't hesitate, and pressed the towels into Raylan's wound.
Raylan started a scream in pain, but bit his teeth together to keep it in and diminish it to a loud groan.

Keeping pressure on Raylan's wound made Tim's own gunshot wound sear and throb. He wasn't sure for how long he would be able to ignore his own pain, but, for now, he wasn't releasing the pressure. It could mean the difference between life and death for Raylan.

Raylan was starting to feel real bad now. Tim's hands were firmly pressed onto his stomach, trying to slow the bleeding. This had always been something Raylan wished Tim would never have to do for him. He had heard only snippets of what Tim had seen in the war, but it was enough to know that situations like these might bring back bad memories.
Raylan was pulled out of his thought, when he heard Tim's breath get shaky beside him. He slowly opened his eyes and looked up at his partner. Beads of sweat lined Tim's face, and his eyes looked moist, as if he was about to burst into tears.
Even though his vision was getting blurry from the blood loss, Raylan was able to make out the dark stain on Tim's shoulder.
"W-were you hit?" Raylan's voice sounded croaky and weak.
Tim only nodded curtly with tightly clenched jaws.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Raylan asked softly.
"And then what?!" Tim immediately regretted the harshness in his voice.
"Sorry…" He added softly.
Raylan tried to produce a smile, but could only manage a choky cough.
"I'll be fine," Tim mumbled, refusing to meet his partner's eye.
Raylan knew this could only mean one thing: Tim was anything but fine. He himself was in no state to do anything about it, so he fiercely hoped Art or Rachel would notice once they got here.

Tim and Raylan sat silently for a while. The both of them suffering quietly from their injuries.
Even though Tim's best efforts, Raylan was still losing a fair amount of blood, and the effects of it were becoming crystal clear. Raylan was pale as a sheet, with a thin sheen of sweat covering his face, neck and chest. He was shivering constantly now, and black spots blurred his vision ever more. The world was starting to drift far away. He could not fight it much longer: he was going to pass out again.

"Raylan? Stay with me."

He heard Tim talk to him, but he had no strength left to re-open his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Tim…" Raylan breathed out, and sank away into unconsciousness…


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