Happy New Years!
Lena has terrible taste in music. It had started out benignly enough, new school country that had a rock and pop vibe, but it was still country enough that it didn't offend his tastes. Somehow it transitioned to whatever boyband monstrosity they were listening to now. Raylan doesn't say anything of course. It's her car. That and maybe if he gets on her good side she'll let him take a turn at the wheel.
"So I hear you know Tim from Afghanistan." As hoped, she turns down the cacophony to reply.
"Huh?"
"I said, 'you know Tim from Afghanistan?'"
"Yeah." There's a quiet smile that creeps across her face that speaks far more eloquently about that meeting than her one-word answer, but Raylan's not the type to pry, leastways not about that sort of thing. "Not sure I ever pictured him as a Marshal."
"Oh yeah, why's that?"
Lena opens her mouth to answer, but pauses, then says, "Guess I never really thought about it. What made you join the Marshals?"
"I wanted out of Kentucky."
She glances over at him, brows quirked as if to say And how's that workin' out for ya?
He decides to change the subject. "How'd you wind up working for the Feebs? 'Round here they don't really like us, kind of assholes really."
She smiles, no offense taken. "So I've heard, but I'm pretty new. Give it time. I used to work at the State Department. That was how I met Tim. But that required a lot of overseas stuff, and I wanted something closer to home."
"You miss it?"
"Sometimes," Lena chuckles, screwing up the right side of her face, "Is that bad?"
He thinks about his own path that led him where he is today and why he set foot upon it in the first place. He thinks about his fellow travelers and the places they've been. "No. Turn right up here."
Lena does, and soon they're pulling up the long drive to Arlo's house - he hasn't been able to bring himself to think of the place as home in decades, ever since he realized it didn't have to be - which is empty while its owner enjoys his stay at the state pen.
"Oh this is perfect." Lena steps out of the car, slowly turning in a circle to survey the land around them, which is nearly empty except for the house in the center of it. "Bet you never had to deal with the neighbors pissing you off making too much noise."
That was probably why Arlo had never sold the place even when he could have used the money. Misanthropic bastard if ever there was one. Raylan longs for the dense life of Miami. And the sun. "No, not really."
Lena pops the trunk of her car and stands back, one hand disappearing inside her coat pocket. "Out you go."
"I can't see anything." The muffled voice coming from inside the open trunk is in an ornery mood.
"You're blindfolded; I didn't kneecap you. Get out."
The man they'd hastily stuffed in Lena's trunk clenches his jaw, looking for a moment like he might argue the point. Wisely, he decides to do as he's told, awkwardly gripping the edge as he wiggles his way over the side. Raylan doesn't really see the need to keep the guy blindfolded. It's not as if he cares whether the sonuvabitch sees this house, and he already knows his captors.
Raylan guides their prisoner the rest of the way up the drive and into the house. While he guides the man to a chair, Lena disappears to the back of the house, reappearing after a few minutes with a few towels and his Aunt Helen's favorite sweet tea pitcher filled with water. She sets these on the coffee table and pulls a few zip ties out of her pocket. Raylan hesitates when she undoes the cuffs and binds their prisoner's wrists individually to each arm of the chair.
"We're going to need his legs too," she says tossing him another couple of zip ties.
Raylan's eyes flick over the towels and the pitcher of water. He'd agreed to let her ask the guy a few questions before they hauled him off to booking. "This how the FBI works these days?"
She doesn't look up at him, "Like you said: we're assholes."
He should probably put a stop to this, but Art's not here, and the guy did shoot Tim. And not that he should be taking a leaf out of that misanthropic bastard's book, but Tim wouldn't bat a single eyelash at this if it had been one them who'd been shot. No real harm in letting the guy get a little wet.
The man is breathing deeply and slowly, but it's stilted, betraying his efforts to conceal fear. Lena arranges a couple of towels under the chair and over his clothes.
"Now then," she turns to Raylan, "what's his name again?"
"He does't want to say." In Raylan's opinion, it's a pointless way to stick it to the man. Anyone stupid enough to take a shot at a US Marshal is going to have a record, and his fingerprints will tell them soon enough.
"Eh, guess it doesn't matter too much. Okay then, Mr. John Doe, feel free to scream. Don't worry, we're in the middle of nowhere, so no one's going to help you." Raylan can see John Doe's hands curl and flex, subtly trying to test the bonds, "Now I'm going to ask you a few questions. I'm not going to be hugely bothered if you don't answer. It's not like I can't find out another way, might just take longer and annoy me more. However, you attempted to murder a United States Marshal, so waterboarding you for a couple of hours will be entertaining with or without any answers. Waterboarding is pretty great by the way. You'll be dry by the time we take you to jail, so no one's going to believe we did it.
"But just so you know, one of three things is going to happen once you get into the prison. One, whoever hired you to take that shot is going to let you rot, and since you're an attempted cop killer, your life is going to be full of suck. No one will want to be your friend. Your employers may also hire someone to kill you, just to tie up loose ends, that sort of thing. I really doubt any of the guards are going to give enough of a shit to stop that. Two, they'll bail you out and then kill you. Or three, you can give me the answers I need and I'll make sure you live. Nod if you believe me."
There's enough fear on the guy's face to know he mostly believes her, but there's enough false bravado to keep him from nodding. Lena shrugs and covers John Doe's face with a washcloth, holding it in place on is forehead, and upends the pitcher of water onto it. "No idea why he doesn't," she remarks drily, shaking her head.
Panicked and unable to breathe, he immediately struggles, kicking against the ties that keep his ankles bound in place. The washcloth suctions in and out of his mouth and against his nose as he strains for breath. Looks damn unpleasant. After a pause, where Raylan can see Lena's lips moving as she counts off the time, she peels back the washcloth.
"Why did you shoot the Marshal?"
"Fu -"
Lena snaps the washcloth back over his face and pours more water over it, counting.
"You can't torture people! This is fucking America!" he squeals when the washcloth comes off again.
"And in America trying to kill a cop is a really dumb idea. I mean," Lena walks into the kitchen to refill the pitcher, "I could always just call that domestic terrorism, have you shipped out to Guantanamo. Or maybe Egypt. You ever heard of extraordinary rendition? Hey Deputy, you ever been to Egypt?"
"No, ma'am, but I'll bet the pyramids are really cool."
"Oh they are. Also, this is enhanced interrogation, Mr. Doe, not torture. Torture would be if I smashed your fingers with a hammer or started pulling teeth or something. Or, like, cut off your ballsack with a pair of sewing shears."
John Doe's eyes widen, glancing at Raylan as if to ask has she done that? "You're going to let her do this? This's illegal man!"
"Yeah, so's shooting deputy Marshals," says Raylan, "but you didn't seem overly concerned about that."
"I didn't know he was a fuckin' cop man! I swear! I swear I didn't know!"
Lena stands in the doorway with Aunt Helen's pitcher. "Marshals aren't cops. I learned that yesterday. And if you didn't know he was a cop, then why'd you shoot him?"
"They paid me!"
"I mean I kind of figured." She picks up the washcloth one-handed and drapes it back over his face. "Like I said, this is just kind of entertaining."
"Jesus Christ! Stop!"
"This stops when I believe you've given me something useful or until my couple of hours is up. Do you have something useful?"
"I already told you -" the rest is cut of in a spluttering choke. Lena counts for a bit longer this time, long enough that John Doe's struggling becomes sluggish and Raylan feels the beginnings of trepidation and starts wondering how much of the cold crazy bitch act is really just an act.
"Don't worry," Lena stops counting and pulls off the washcloth, and John Doe takes a few heaving, wet breaths, "I know enough not to kill him."
"You do this a lot?"
"Nope, first time. Never really had the stomach for it." Raylan raises his eyebrows at that. She's clearly had the stomach for it so far. "So, Mr. Doe, what do you have for me?"
"They just said to shoot everyone in the house as long as it wasn't kids!" 'as long as it wasn't kids'? Oh God.
"Holy shit." Raylan whips his cell phone out of his pocket. "Get him in the car. Now."
"But I'm not -"
"Now." Whoever paid their prisoner had no idea where their target was; they'd just decided to take out everyone in hopes of taking out the one they needed. That meant they were going after every witness the Marshals had.
"Chief Mullen." Art's voice is a bit fuzzy. This place has crappy reception. Raylan prays he doesn't have to spend too much time repeating himself.
"Art, we got a problem."
o.O.o
She doesn't regret it. It's been four hours and her hands and stomach are still rock-steady. If it were going to hit her, then it would have done so when she dropped Raylan back off at his car, taking John Doe with him. But Lena had sat alone in the front seat, waiting, and had felt nothing different.
Lena drags her feet on the way up to Tim's room, even going so far as to walk up the six flights of stairs just to buy time.
She has to tell him. Not telling seems like hiding, and hiding makes her feel guilty. Lena has enough of that when it comes to him. But nor does she want to see the judgment when she tells him.
Her foot pauses mid-step. Shit. Maybe something bad will happen to her since she did someone wrong. But did she really do him wrong? He deserved it. But who is she to say he deserved it. But then who's to say who deserves anything? That's just a silly line of thinking. Well he definitely admitted to shooting Tim, so it would be really dumb to say he didn't deserve to be waterboarded - in fact he deserved way worse. But then, was she lowering herself? Does her waterboarding him count as an independent wrongful act? Will kharma grant her comeuppance, and if so how harshly? Is kharma real? She gives herself a physical shake and continues upward.
When Lena finally reaches Tim's room, the extra time taken to get there only having compounded the knot of dread in her stomach, she can see him through the window sitting up and watching TV. Awake. Damn. Maybe her kharmic justice will be his disgust. No, don't be a coward.
"Hey you."
Tim flips the TV off. "Hey." He's happy to see her, which only weakens her resolve.
Lena sets the grease-stained bag containing a burger and fries on the bed beside him and goes to the window to peak out the curtains, hoping the distance will make the food not feel like a bribe. She allows herself two slow breaths before turning back around - have to see his face; faces don't lie when they're surprised.
Tim is using the french fries like a spoon, scooping up as much ketchup as they'll hold and shoving them gracelessly into his mouth. On one of those mornings they spent drinking coffee against a concrete wall back in Afghanistan he'd told her all the ridiculous strategies soldiers developed for eating as much food as possible in as little time as possible. She'd nearly gagged when he regaled her with the best way to eat breakfast in basic training - stuffing a bunch of sausage, eggs, a banana, biscuits, and gravy all into a pancake sandwich. She wonders if his table manners would improve if she took him out somewhere nice. Stay on target, dollface. And take your hands out of your pockets. Good lord, she actually feels physically sick.
"I water-boarded someone for the first time today." Lena wonders if saying it so casually only makes her look worse.
There's a pause in his chewing, and for a moment Tim looks like he's the one in trouble, like it's a trick. Please don't hate me, please don't hate me, please don't hate me. "Thought that sort of thing wasn't supposed to work."
"It doesn't usually." It's a struggle to keep looking him in the face, but Lena is determined to make it through this, pride intact.
His face betrays nothing. She wonders if that's on purpose or if her hopes and fears are making mash of her ability to read him. "So why bother?"
She'd been wrestling with exactly that on her slog up the stairs. If the whole episode hadn't been cut short, something she couldn't have predicted, Lena would have had ample time for a traditional interrogation. She did it because he'd shot Tim, plain and simple. He deserved it. It wasn't vengeance, or maybe it was, but she'd wanted him to empathize. Waterboarding isn't about pain; it's about helplessness. Lena had felt exactly that when she'd rounded the corner and seen blood running between Tim's fingers as he tried to put pressure on his neck. Maybe she wanted him to empathize with her. Is that different than vengeance? Was that selfish? Either way, 'I did it because of you' is definitely not an appropriate or fair answer to Tim's question.
"He was an asshole."
"He tell yout anything useful?"
"Yeah, turns out whoever hired him doesn't really know where Sayeed was, just decided to go after all your witnesses." She's still wrestling with what to do with Sayeed right now.
That surprises him. "Shit."
"It's being taken care of," she hastens to reassure him.
Tim looks like he'd rather be out there with a gun taking care of it himself, but knowing that's not a possibility, contents himself with shoving another handful of french fries resentfully into his mouth. He waves at the half-full container. "You want some fries?"
She expected... something... else. This is... hopeful... but it's not concrete. Is he shocked? Doesn't know what to say? Does the lack of reaction mean he's fine with this? Does it just mean he doesn't care? Doesn't want to argue? Express disgust later? Still processing? Tim, the Schrodinger's cat of judgment.
Lena takes a french fry and swipes it through the little puddle of ketchup. "That's it?" Do you think I'm a terrible person?
"Yup."
Lena stares, eyebrows quirked in confusion, nervousness momentarily overcome by the need for precise understanding.
His response is cold, yet reasonable, and Lena fleetingly wonders if she should be judging his judgement of her. "It's not like you took a chisel to each of his ribs."
It's Lena's turn to pause, mentally leafing through a file she'd read years ago and can't fully remember anymore. "That's awfully specific." A tentative prod.
"Yup."
She lets it drop, unwilling to push her luck this evening.
A shrug. "You're the one as told me you're good at your job. Sounds like you're still good at it."
"Not really a part of the job." Lena has always considered herself good because she doesn't need to resort to waterboarding.
"Officially." The casual, single-shoulder shrug fools no one. Lord, he was taking another stab at interrogating her.
"Tim."
"Look, I'm on a morphine drip. Fuck that guy. You want me to feed you some hippie bullshit about how you shouldn't have done it and that the guy deserved mercy and a nice jail cell with a bed made of unicorn farts, I can't. If you want someone to put you back on the righteous path of peace and love then go find someone else." Tim abruptly starts to shake his head, winces, and shakes the burger at her instead. "But not Raylan. He's a shitty moral compass."
Lena huffs, the knot uncoiling. "From what I hear, that's never stopped you from following him around."
"Don't tell anyone. The Marshal's office is strictly don't-ask-don't-tell."
"Is it serious?"
"Why, you jealous?"
"Of you? Totally. That cowboy hat is hot."
In a moment of supreme, self-indulgent pettiness Lena enjoys seeing Tim's smirk falter. It's back again quickly enough, but she savors the victory of a well-placed hit and what it implies. In an even pettier move, she cuts off whatever comeback he's prepared by pulling out her cell phone.
"I gotta go call my assistant. I'll bring you back a present." Lena can see the hope rising in Tim's face, so she cuts that off too with a, "No, not bourbon."
"You're mean." The heartfelt disappointment in his voice almost makes her relent.
Lena raises her eyebrows and says pointedly, "I'm sorry I saved you from eating hospital mush."
He glances at the burger wrapper and empty fry container and sulks. It's adorable, and she can't help smiling. The crease between his brows deepens when he looks back at her and sees it. He'd probably hate being called adorable. Why do men have to hate that? Dammit - dang it - she really does still like him. Oh gosh darn it all.
Instead of talking in the hallway, Lena phones Oona on her way to High on Art and Coffee. It's a short conversation, not even really that, as it consists of Lena making a single lengthy and specific request for Oona to determine if the computer system of the Marshals was compromised in any way, and Oona responding as she always does - 'Sure, boss lady,' in a tone that Lena is only sixty-five percent sure is fond and not homicidal.
When she returns to the hospital, she startles Tim by setting down the largest, tastiest - she tried enough of their coffee that she is both certain of her judgment and most likely loathed by the barista who had to make up all those sample cups (he definitely looked homicidal) - coffee they had. She waits for him to drink it. He does.
This victory does not seem so petty.