Lena stares hard at the bed in front of her. The last ten minutes have been a merry-go-round of indecisiveness. This is stupid. She throws the dress in a heap on the bed and pulls on a pair of dove-grey slacks. The dress would be trying too hard; there's no reason to wear it. She gets to the zipper and nearly changes her mind again, but the sound of the front door opening makes the decision for her. Lena takes a last look at her hair and make-up in spite of herself, swiping once more at her eye shadow even though it's already symmetrical.
She finds Tim in the kitchen, and Raylan is out on the porch chatting to someone on the phone.
"Hey."
"Hey."
This is where they are now. 'Hey.' Lena's not sure if it's 'Hey, I'm happy to be in your presence' or 'Hey, I've said hi and now we don't have to talk anymore.' Or maybe it's just 'hey,' nothing attached and she's just driving herself crazy by trying to read into it.
Things have been easier. He says 'hey' whenever he comes on shift and 'see ya' when he leaves. Sometimes he even asks 'how's it going?' He doesn't place himself on the opposite side of the house from her anymore, but he's always reading, which to her is one of the universal signs for 'fuck off.' It's driving her nuts. Maybe it's her own lack of courage when it comes to him that's driving her nuts.
Lena had discovered a new coffee place on Tuesday. She'd woken up early, and instead of rolling over and trying to go back to sleep had gotten up and resolved to go find something for breakfast besides raisin bran. On the way home, already loaded up with pastries from several bakeries (it really is true what they say about food-shopping on an empty stomach), Lena had driven past High on Art & Coffee. Because she'd been hangry she immediately judged it to be pretentious and hipster. Because she felt guilty for that, she swung a u-turn, walked in, and ordered a black cherry hot chocolate with extra whipped cream on top. It was amazing. She ordered a second hot chocolate for the drive home, and while she waited Lena dithered back and forth about whether to get something for Tim as well. She almost did. He'd probably have liked the coffee – it smelled a bit like what she used to bring him back in Bagram – but decided against it at the last minute, feeling like it might be weird. She didn't want things to be weird.
But today isn't going to be weird. It's going to be normal. Because it's just coffee, that thing everyone drinks in the morning and that is totally normal to offer people. Everyone likes it when you give them coffee.
Lena strides over to the coffeemaker with a casual nonchalance that says 'I do this every day' and not 'I got this coffee maker so I could make you coffee so you'd talk to me.'
"I'm going to make some coffee." She loses her nerve, and instead of following that up with 'would you like some too?' like she meant to, Lena leans out the back door and asks Raylan instead, "Hey want some coffee?" Shit, now she seems rude.
Raylan holds the phone away from his chin and gives a quick nod.
Lena turns back to Tim, pretending that she doesn't feel her face growing hot. "You want some too?"
"Nah, it's fine." Tim heads back into the living room. "Already had my fix."
When he's out of sight Lena lets her head fall forward against one of the wooden cabinets. Coffee, you idiot, you were supposed to offer him coffee without making it awkward. You had a plan. It was a really easy one. You managed to screw up 'hey, want some coffee?' Great going, dollface. Each self-flagellating remark is punctuated by tap of her forehead against the wood, as if enough taps can shake loose whatever mental deficiency has led to this failure. On the bright side, thank all the gods that she wasn't stupid enough to wear the dress. Now that would have been embarrassing.
The back door slides open and shut. "Hey Lena?" It's Raylan come back inside. "That was Art. He said he had something he wanted to talk with you about. Would you mind coming to the office?"
"Yeah, sure." Lena gestures at the coffee pot that hasn't yet begun to drip. "You got time, or did you want to head out now?"
Raylan pulls his jacket back on. "We can grab some on the way. I know a place that's fast. Tim can have that pot; lord knows he was bitching enough about me not stopping somewhere on the way over."
Lena looks at the wall separating the kitchen from the living room. Great going, dollface.
o.O.o
They take the Marshal's black town car to City Hall. Without the need to concentrate on driving, Lena has time to ponder the fact that Chief Deputy Mullen wanted to speak with her in person rather than over the phone. It doesn't bode well.
The serious look on his face, like he's preparing to deliver bad news, doesn't bode well either.
"Miss Carlan," Mr. Mullen greets her, holding the door to his office. Lena bites her tongue at the 'miss'.
"What's happened?"
"Cuttin' right to the chase, aren't we?"
"Sorry." Great, now she feels like an errant child in need of an etiquette lesson, "But if it couldn't be said over the phone…"
"I'm just givin' you a hard time." He rubs a hand over his head, lowering himself into the chair behind his desk, "Well then. Someone called today looking for our witness." Lena likes that he said 'our.' It's comforting to know there's a mutual concern.
"Who?" Obviously it wasn't John. "Do you have the number?"
"They claimed to be from a senator's office."
Lena blinks, the fear deflating, although Senator Johnson's office would have –
"They said I should get in touch," Art picks up a piece of yellow notepad paper from the top of his desk and passes it across, "if I came across him in the system."
Lena takes the paper, turning it towards her to read the name and number. Cheryl DeLaney. It's not immediately familiar. Lena digs out her cell phone and types the info into an encrypted email, then texts Oona.
Sent you an email. Need answers now.
She gets a reply about fifteen seconds later.
You know texting me about an email you just sent me is dumb. My phone does actually tell me when I get emails.
Don't waste calories texting. Lena rolls her eyes and waits.
A few minutes later her own email dings, a red number one bubble appearing over the icon.
Senate aide for Robert Stratford. Not Johnson.
After shooting off a quick Thanks Lena picks up her purse. "What exactly did she say? Word for word? Please."
Mr. Mullen stands with her, sensing the urgency. "She said that she'd like to talk to Mr. Faheen, and would I be able to facilitate a meeting."
Asked if they could talk to Sayeed, not whether or not he was even there. Lena wonders if it was a fishing trick, or if they're really that certain he's in Kentucky. In the end it doesn't matter whether she or they are certain; Lena's not taking any chances.
"Sir, I think they might make a try for him."
To her relief, he nods. They might be a small office, but they're not a sleepy one, nor does he brush off her concern. "Raylan, you and Tim are gonna take the day and night shift for a couple days. Pack quickly." Then to Lena, "You two stay in the house."
o.O.o
Tim eyes the coffee resentfully. He's tired. And possibly slightly hungover. Sometimes he can't quite tell if it's lack of sleep or a hangover. Or maybe it's both. It smells good though, the coffee, and still fresh enough that if he had a cup now it would taste just as good. There's cream in the fridge; he checked. Tim hates the fact that he still associates the smell of good coffee with sunrise in Bagram, with her. He hates that she offered it to Raylan first.
Tim looks outside at Faheen sitting on the back porch sipping a cup of that same coffee, unconcerned about its origins, while he reads on his phone. He's almost always on his phone or laptop and rarely speaks to anyone else, even Lena. The only times he leaves the house are to attend prayer and to occasionally shop for food, and never alone. Tim supposes if he couldn't escape people he'd isolate himself too. Then he remembers that that's exactly how being in the Rangers was, except he liked constantly being surrounded. Tim cocks his head, trying to see what Faheen's reading.
The doorbell rings, and Tim forgets about the cell phone and coffee. If that were Raylan and Lena returning then he'd have heard the garage door. If it were anyone else from the Marshals, they'd have knocked, three hard raps, probably also would have texted or called beforehand to warn him they were coming too.
He cracks the back door quietly, motions for Nelson and Dougherty to keep eyes out, and waves Faheen over to him. The Afghani slips his shoes off in the doorway, and Tim orders him in a low voice to go in the bathroom and stay in the tub. The bell rings a second time. Tim stands at the edge of the hall just around the corner from the living room, peering out to face the front door, gun drawn.
The bell dings two more times. Whoever's outside isn't getting the picture that no one's home. At least they don't seem inclined to break in.
Tim eats those words when ten seconds later he hears a noise at one of the front windows. There's a scrape, like someone's just removed the screen.
Tim slides down the hallway, stopping every couple feet to listen. There's the wooden slide of a window sash in its frame and then a thud and then footsteps. He stops, raises his pistol.
A bedroom door opens and a head pokes out.
His heart takes one great pounding beat and then stops. Jesus Fucking Christ.
"Lena, what the hell!"
She stares back at him and the gun, still and wide-eyed. "Raylan took my keys. I –"
"Then knock!"
Her face contorts. "I rang the doorbell!"
"You're supposed to fuckin' knock!"
"What the – it's the same thing!"
Tim leans against the hallway wall. Did no one seriously explain to her she had to knock? Or maybe she forgot. Fucking Christ, he could have shot her. Tim flicks on the safety and lets the gun fall to his side. He feels jittery. "You're supposed to knock three times. And next time you forget your keys, call." His heart is still pounding, so it's sharper than she deserves.
Lena glares. "Okay, yeah."
"Sorry, it's…someone should have told you."
"It's fine." There's an edge to her voice that says she's still pissed he yelled. "I was going to call but I'd left my bedroom window open, and since you didn't answer…"
Tim nods, still shaken, and heads back out to the porch to tell Nelson and Dougherty to stand down. He takes two steps into the kitchen when the back window shatters and a bullet sails into the base of his neck.