Art returned to the hospital some two and half hours later. His business back at the crime scene had taken longer that he had hoped it would. Luckily, Rachel had been able to take over the final administrative tasks, so Art could go to the station and collect a change of clothes for Tim.

On his way back to the hospital, Art received a phone call from Raylan's attending surgeon.
The surgery had been a success. They were able to remove the bullet and stop the bleeding, and no vital organs were hit. Raylan had lost a lot of blood, though, and a long road to recovery still lay ahead of him.

As Art had requested, Raylan and Tim shared a private room. He hoped it would do Tim some good to be able to see how Raylan was doing, and provide the young deputy with some much needed peace of mind.

A nurse escorted Art to the appointed room. It was in a quiet hallway on the hospital's third floor.
Just before Art could enter, a middle-aged man carrying a clipboard, exited the room.
"Chief Mullen?" The man turned to Art.
"Yes?" Art wasn't sure how or why this man knew his name.
"My name is Greg Stevens," the man continued, "I am the psychiatrist on duty tonight."
"Oh," Art understood, "thank you for getting here so fast."
"No problem," Dr. Stevens answered with a professional smile.
"I know you can't go into detail, and I don't need to know those, but will Tim be alright?" Art looked expectantly at the doctor.
"He will need time to process this," Dr. Stevens answered, "but I don't see why he shouldn't be alright in a little while."
Art sighed in relief. "That's good news."
"For now, he needs rest," Dr. Stevens continued, "he will be staying overnight. One of the nurses administered a sedative. It will make sure he has a good night's sleep."
Art expressed his gratitude once more, before saying his goodbyes to the doctor.

Art quietly entered Raylan and Tim's room. The lights were turned down low and daylight outside was fading, making it dimly lit.
There were two hospital beds on the right hand side of the room. The first bed, the one closest to the door, was occupied by Raylan. A screen next to Raylan's bed displayed several numbers, giving information about the unconscious marshall's vitals.
Most of the numbers didn't mean much to Art. The only one that made sense to him, and the only one he really cared about, was the number '90' next to a small pictogram of a heart. It meant Raylan was still there. That his heart was still beating in his chest, and that the attack of today had not succeeded in killing him.
Art's gaze shifted from the monitor to the man occupying the bed. Raylan was unconscious, and the doctors predicted he could remain that way ranging from a few hours to a few days.

Art passed a hand over his face, and blew out a deep breath. Today had been a close call, way too close for his comfort.
He walked further into the room and halted at the foot of the other bed, which was occupied by Tim. The younger marshall lay on his side, sleeping soundly. It was the sedative that had pulled him under, but Art was glad to know Tim had calmed down.
Just above the edge of the covers, Tim's bandaged shoulder was visible. His gunshot wound was in a painful area, but was anything but life-threatening.

Art turned around. On the other side of the room was a sitting area, consisting of a two-seater sofa and a low coffee table. He sat himself down on the sofa, and switched on the lamp.
The overdue case files he had grabbed off his desk were supposed to get him through the night, since Art didn't expect to be getting much sleep out here on this crappy sofa.
It was going to be a long night…


The screaming. That awful, blood curdling screaming. That was what would haunt him for months to come, and what would still haunt him sometimes.

It had taken Tim a long time to admit he could not process what had happened in Iraq. Events that had injured him and two other soldiers, and had killed five more.

One night in Iraq, about a week before the end of his tour, the American camp was attacked by rebels. Eventually, it was successfully defended, but not before one of the rebels had managed to set off a bomb in the middle of the camp. Five American soldiers were killed, fifteen others severely injured, of which Tim was one.
He was hit by shrapnel from the bomb, but before that he had already taken a bullet to the chest. Even though seriously injured, Tim managed to get off a few rounds, and, as always, he didn't miss.
When the last rebel dropped dead, that was when the screaming started. The screaming that would not leave Tim alone for a long time.

Tim jerked awake and sat upright in one fluent motion. For a moment, he was disorientated and didn't know where he was, but slowly he came to his senses and recognized his hospital room.

"Tim?" Art's voice sounded from the other side of the room.
The older man looked at Tim with a worried expression on his face.
"I'm sorry, chief," Tim buried his face in his hands, "I didn't mean to scare you."
He heard Art stand up and walk over to him. When Tim raised his head again, the older man was next to him.
"You okay?" Art asked.
"Yeah," Tim sighed, "it's just been a long time since I last dreamt of the war."
"Do you remember anything about your episode of this afternoon?" Art asked carefully.
"Vividly," Tim answered darkly.
"I think it's safe to say Raylan and yourself getting shot caused somewhat of a relapse in your PTSD," Art stated carefully.
"Undoubtedly," Tim grumbled, "still, this never happened to me before. I've been involved in several shootings since I joined the Marshalls, I've seen colleagues take bullets, but it never caused any problems. I just don't understand…"

Art could see this really bothered Tim. He sat down on the edge of Tim's bed, and looked sympathetically into his youngest deputy's eyes.
"In any of the other shootings, were you hit?" He asked.
Tim shook his head. "No."
"Were any of the colleagues your direct colleagues or people that you might consider friends?" Art continued.
"Not really," Tim answered hesitantly, not understanding Art's point yet.
"Raylan is your partner, and I know you consider him a friend," Art concluded, "perhaps that caused you to take this one a little harder. Also, Raylan didn't take a bullet to the arm or leg. No, the hit he took could easily have killed him."
Tim thought for a few seconds on those words. "I guess you're right."
"You should get some more sleep," Art changed the subject, letting this rest for now. "Do you need anything for the pain, or something to help you sleep?"
"No, I'm fine." Tim shook his head.
"Tell me if you change your mind." Art shortly patted Tim's leg, before retreating back to the sofa.

Tim settled back into his pillow. His eyes were drawn to Raylan over in the next bed.
His partner lay on his back, peaceful. If you didn't know about the more serious reason, one could just assume him to be sleeping.
Tim shifted his gaze back to the ceiling above him. Art was probably right: the reason he took this so hard was that it involved Raylan. His partner. His friend.
Still, it didn't feel good to relive all these feelings again. Feelings and a state of his head he believed to have left behind, and frankly, it was frightening this could still resurface so easily.
The conversation he had had with the hospital's shrink had done him good, and the talks to Art earlier today and just now that truly calmed him down, but the person he longed to talk to the most, was Raylan. Tim was sure that would give him the much-needed closure to eventually move on from this.


The next time Tim woke up again, the light of the sun had started to creep into the hospital room. His watch, which he always wore with the clock on the inside of his wrist, told him it was just past 6 am.

Great.
Even when injured and feeling lousy, he still wasn't able to sleep past 6.30 am.
Tim sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He rested his face in his hands, sighing heavily.

"Tim?"

He didn't know how many times in the past twelve hours his name had been spoken to him with an added question mark and an undertone of concern, but the voice that had spoken now, was one Tim longed to hear.

"Raylan?" Tim looked over his shoulder to the other bed. His partner still lay in the same position, but his eyes were definitely open and seeking contact with him.
"Hey, buddy." Tim moved and swung his legs over the other side of the bed, now facing Raylan.
"You were mumbling in your sleep," Raylan said softly.
"Yeah, I'm sorry. Bad dreams," Tim answered a little dejectedly, "how're you feeling?"
"Fantastic." The sarcasm dripped from Raylan's voice. "Never better."
Tim flashed a brief smile. "And seriously now?"
"Could be worse," Raylan answered, "bit dizzy, but that should be the blood loss."
"Hm," Tim hummed softly, followed by a silent nod.

Raylan watched his partner for a few seconds.
"Art told me what happened." He finally broke their silence.
Tim automatically looked round at the sofa, and only now realized that Art was no longer in the room.
"Where has he gone?" Tim asked.
"Had to go to the station. I woke up some time before you, and had a word with him then," Raylan answered.
Once again nothing more than that silent nod from Tim.
"Tim, you're evading the subject," Raylan remarked somewhat sharply.

Tim sighed heavily in response, his gaze directed at his knees. All he had wanted was to talk to Raylan, but now that the moment was there, he wasn't sure how much he wanted to share. How much he felt he could share.

"What happened?" Raylan pushed on.
"You were shot when you went to speak to Jimmy Tate," Tim said.
"I know what happened to me," Raylan said bluntly, "I meant you."
Tim took a breath as if he meant to say something, but swallowed the words before they were spoken.

Raylan pushed himself more upright. It was painful, but he felt the need to be able to look at Tim with a little more force.
"I relapsed…" Tim's voice broke over the last word.
"How come?" Raylan encouraged him to continue.
"I think because I took a bullet as well," Tim mumbled, "that hasn't happened since Iraq. And because it involved you."
"What about me?" Raylan didn't immediately catch the meaning of that.
"Well, you're my partner, my friend…" Tim answered.
"Oh…" Raylan said softly, feeling stupid that he hadn't caught onto that in the first place.
"But I'm okay now," Tim added.
"Sorry to say, but you don't look okay," Raylan retorted.
Tim looked up at him. The expression on his face held the middle between anger and utter depression.
"Tim, I mean no harm," Raylan said earnestly, "Art told me what happened in the hospital waiting room, and I just… worry."
"Thanks for the concern," Tim mumbled, sounding ashamed, "and I'm sorry."
"If it wasn't for you, I would probably not be sitting here," Raylan grinned, "so you've got a little credit."
"That was the thing that pushed me over the edge," Tim suddenly confessed.
Afraid that a reaction would shut Tim down again, Raylan remained quiet.
"Keeping pressure on your wound, getting your blood on my hands," Tim's voice had gone barely audible, "that's what took me back."

Raylan realized that he did not know what had exactly happened to Tim in Iraq. He knew Tim had sustained an injury during his tour and suffered from PTSD after he got back, but Raylan had never dared ask for any further details.

"What you did, saved my life, and I cannot thank you enough for it," Raylan emphasized, "I don't know what happened to you during the war, and I don't need to know, but it does bother me that I am the cause of your setback."
Tim shook his head. "I should have insisted on going with you the moment you got the call."
"And I probably would have refused that," Raylan countered, "you're not going to blame this on yourself, Tim. You acted when you had to, and you acted well."
"Do you think Art will be mad at me?" Tim asked quietly.
Raylan raised an eyebrow at his partner. "Why would he be? Because you had a relapse?"
Tim hummed softly.
"You're batshit crazy, you know that?" Raylan instantly reacted.
Tim looked at him with wide eyes.

"Of course he's not mad at you," Raylan continued, more gently now, "Art is the only person in the entire station who knows your full history. He decided to hire you and, as far as I can tell, you haven't let him down."
Tim pondered over Raylan's words. "Maybe you're right."
"Not maybe, I am right," Raylan retorted with a crooked smirk. He watched Tim closely, taking in every feature of his partner's slender stature. From the sad look in his eyes, to the slim fingers which had pulled a trigger so many times.

"Don't sweat it. Really," Raylan tried to sooth, "you should focus on recovering from this. Talk to someone, process it, and learn from it."
"I will," Tim said softly.
"I mean it," Raylan added, "I wouldn't want to lose you as my partner."


Thanks again for reading. All favs, follows and reviews are highly appreciated ;-)