A/N: a very huge apology for the hiatus on this story... :-(
But, I'll continue this now. Hope you'll still like it ;-) All favs, follows and reviews are highly appreciated.
Tim felt it happen, and it scared him beyond anything he had ever felt.
The feeling was suffocating, spiking his heart rate and constricting his chest. His breaths turned to short, wheezing hitches, leaving him feeling short of oxygen. Every muscle in his body was trembling now. The anxiety coursed through his veins at high speed, infecting him completely with it.
A heartbreaking whimper escaped Tim's lips as he scrambled to his feet. He stumbled over to the nearest wall and placed both hands flat against it, leaning into it with his head bent low and his back turned to the waiting room.
Art was alerted by the sudden wave of concerned murmurs rising up from the dozen other people in the waiting area. He turned around to look for the source of the commotion and immediately knew the shit had hit the fan.
"Tim?"
Art apprehensively approached the young deputy. If anything, this looked even worse than what Art had seen in Tim so far today. Of course Art knew about Tim's army history and how he suffered from PTSD after the war. Today's events had been trying enough without the possibility of it raking up painful memories of a war.
As Art got closer, he realized his suspicions might very well be true. Tim was trembling all over and Art could hear the wheezing of his breaths.
"Tim? Calm down, son, look at me." Art carefully reached for the younger man's shoulder.
Tim reacted as if he'd been burned. He spun round, pressing his back against the wall, and holding his hands at arm's length in front of him to keep Art at a distance.
Fuck. This was bad…
"Tim, calm down. We're getting you help. You're going to be okay." Art took a careful step forward to test Tim's response. To his relief, Tim did not react to it.
Good. Maybe there still was a chance to get this situation under control after all.
Art took another step forward, keeping a sharp eye on Tim. Even though Tim had had to surrender his sidearm at the crime scene, Art realized the back-up weapon was probably still in the waistband of Tim's jeans.
"Tim?" Art was finally close enough to take Tim's wrists in his hands. They felt like leaves shaking in the wind.
"I'm sorry, boss… I can't, I can't..." Tim crumpled to his knees, shaking uncontrollably.
"Let me help you, son." Art kneeled down in front of Tim, their faces now level.
"Please…" Despair dripped from that single word, and Tim's tears now started to fall.
"Of course..." Art gently squeezed Tim's wrists, before releasing them. He was sure enough now Tim would not attempt to hurt himself or others. Tim's hands fell limply onto his lap, as he sat crying quietly now.
Art looked over his shoulder. Just like he had hoped, some doctors and nurses had gathered behind him to assess the situation. He got to his feet and turned to the nearest doctor.
"This man needs immediate care for that gunshot wound," he began, "and do you have a psychiatrist on call?"
"Absolutely, sir," the doctor answered, "I will tend to this young man myself, and I will give our on-call psych a call."
Art nodded gratefully. "Thank you."
Art turned back to Tim. He hooked his hands under Tim's elbows and pulled him up on his feet. He slung Tim's arm around his shoulder to support him.
"We're going to exam room 3, I'll show you the way," one of the nurses said. She led the way to the side of the waiting room, and finally into a treatment room.
"The doctor will be with you shortly, she announced.
Art guided Tim to the treatment table and sat him down upon it.
"Thank you," Tim mumbled softly.
"Don't mention it," Art answered.
There was a little while of silence, before Tim spoke again.
"I'll hand in my badge tomorrow." He avoided to look at Art, instead fixing his eyes on his hands resting in his lap.
"Why the hell would you do that?" Art asked sharply, frowning.
"Like you would want someone like me on your squad," Tim scoffed.
"And why wouldn't I?" Art retorted.
"I'm a mess…" Tim mumbled brokenly.
"Right now, I can't disagree with that," Art answered with a hint of sarcasm. Tim looked up at him.
"What you've seen in Afghanistan is enough to traumatize even the strongest of men," Art continued seriously now, "I'm not surprised that seeing your partner injured and fighting for his life causes somewhat of a relapse."
"It means I'm weak," Tim almost whispered.
"No, it doesn't," Art quickly cut in, "it shows you care."
Tim remained silent as the essence of those words sank in.
"So… you're not doubting my mental abilities?" He asked cautiously.
"No," Art answered confidently, "I'd be more worried if this didn't affect you at all. Do I think you need to talk to someone to process this all? Yes, I do. But you're not alone in that. If I were in your shoes this would mess me up, too."
The corner of Tim's mouth briefly curled into a smile.
"Trust me," Art concluded, "I'd hate to see you leave my squad."
They were interrupted by a soft knock on the door and a doctor entering shortly after.
"Mr. Gutterson?" The doctor started. He was a tall, middle-aged man, whose brown hair started to grey at the temples.
Tim nodded to confirm he indeed was Mr. Gutterson.
"Good, I'm Dr. Berg," the doctor continued, "gunshot wound, right?"
"Yeah," Tim answered, calmer, "shoulder."
"Alright, let's have a look." Dr. Berg lay down the clipboard he was holding.
Tim carefully took off his shirt, leaving him with the tank top on he wore underneath. All were splattered with blood, both his own and Raylan's.
"Do you have a change of clothes at the station?" Art eyed the blood on Tim's clothes.
Tim nodded. "Yeah."
"I'll give Rachel a call to bring some over." Art announced, before leaving the exam room to make the call.
Dr. Berg inched closer to Tim. He felt and pressed the area around the wound. It hurt, but Tim didn't make a sound.
"Seems you were lucky," Dr. Berg sat back, "the bullet didn't go too deep. I should be able to remove it with just a small incision. It nicked an artery, which caused some bleeding, but the damage looks minimal. Also, your collarbone seems intact, which is the biggest plus."
"What's going to happen now?" Tim asked somewhat sullenly.
"I'm going to get the bullet out and dress the wound," Dr. Berg explained, "after that, I want to keep you here overnight. Get some fluids into you, some antibiotics to prevent infection, and maybe a blood transfusion. And as your boss requested, someone will come over to talk to you."
Tim didn't respond to that last remark.
Before the doctor could commence the treatment, Art returned to the room.
"They need me back at the crime scene to sign off on a few things," he announced, "will you be alright here for a while, Tim?"
"Yeah, I think so." Tim wasn't too happy with Art leaving. The older man's presence had been comforting, but he didn't feel like admitting to it.
"I'll be back in an hour and a half, two at most," Art assured him. He gave Tim a soft pat on the knee, before departing again.
"Alright, Mr. Gutterson," Dr. Berg started, "lie back, please. I will administer a local anaesthetic."
Tim complied, and lay flat on the treatment table.
"You may feel a little drowsy or dizzy. Those can be side effects, nothing to worry about." Dr. Berg injected the anaesthetic on a few points around Tim's wound.
Tim lay absolutely still as Dr. Berg extracted the bullet from his shoulder, disinfected the wound, and stitched it all up. He didn't feel a thing of it, but wasn't at ease. He found his mind wander off more and more. Mostly his thoughts were haunted by Raylan. Where would he be now? Would he be out of surgery yet? Would he be alright in the end?
"Mr. Gutterson?
Tim was startled by Dr. Berg calling his name. He hadn't consciously realized that he had his eyes closed until now.
"We're all done here," Dr. Berg smiled gently, "I will escort you to one of our rooms where you will have to stay overnight."
"Yeah," Tim answered timidly. He sat up, and felt the world spin slightly around him.
"That's normal," Dr. Berg had seen it, "you lost more than a pint of blood, so you might feel lightheaded for the next 24 hours."
"Doctor?" Tim asked, "do you know anything about my colleague, Raylan Givens? He was also shot, and should be in this hospital, too."
"He's in surgery. One of my very skilled colleagues is currently working on him," Dr. Berg answered, "once Mr. Givens gets out of surgery, he'll be sharing the room with you. Special request from your chief."
A brief smile crossed Tim's face. Of course Art would arrange that, and he was very grateful for it.
