Tim woke with a heavy feeling in his limbs, and the vague sense that something was missing. That the missing something might just have been a tall, lanky cowboy who was both a good… no possibly his best friend, and the bane of his existence was something that Tim wasn't feeling up to examining.

He was in a strange bed, his leg was throbbing, and his crutches were nowhere to be seen. He had very vague and jumbled memories of how he might have arrived where he was.

He was just trying to work out how he was going to go looking for answers without his crutches with a leg he couldn't actually bear weight on for any length of time when the door opened and Leslie entered with a tray.

"Tim?"

He went to sit up, and flushed a deep crimson when he realised that he was as weak as a kitten.

Leslie put the tray down, and moved to help him. In no time he found himself propped up by well-plumped pillows, with a tray in his lap, and Leslie was handing him a couple of tablets and a glass of water. He tried to protest that it was all too much and he shouldn't be monopolizing her time or her spare bed like that.

But Leslie shook her head. "Tim, you need some food inside of you. Have some breakfast and I've called a friend, Doctor Tom, to come and give a second opinion on your leg."

Toasted muffins, soft cheese, turkey sausage, a small bowl of fresh blueberries and raspberries and a glass of orange juice, Tim was about to mention that he never ate that much for breakfast weekdays, but his stomach rumbled and he called forth vague memories of dissing Art's barbecue the night before. So he thanked Leslie and began to make some inroads into the enormous pile of food on the tray.

Having eaten as much as he could manage, he set the tray aside. He still felt hot and a little drowsy, he turned on his side and huddled down. One of the pillows smelled a little of Raylan's soap and aftershave. He didn't want to think why that might feel comforting, but it did, so he clutched the pillow close and settled, and if his dreams were of a tall lanky cowboy with a beautiful, wide slow smile and a kiss that was both gentle and needy at the same time, well a man could dream.

xxxxxxxx

Tom Vails had rarely seen a more poorly done job than the original fix on Tim's leg. With very gentle and patient care he rectified the shoddy treatment under local anaesthetic. Gave Tim two shots in his hip that the marshal was not particularly happy about, left two different kinds of medication than the pair of medications that were not doing an adequate job for Tim, and said that he would call back in two days to see the patient. Tim was to stay off the leg until he had been checked out to see if a more drastic treatment was required.

It was both tiring and stressful for Tim, and he was relieved when the doctor finished dressing and bandaging the wound. As the local wore off his leg began to hurt again and he felt slightly queasy, so he cuddled back down into the bed, clutching the pillow with its comforting scents.

Leslie watched him get comfortable and smiled. Tim looked absurdly young even unshaven, she remembered Art's little diatribe if his marshals continued to get younger, it was making him feel older. "Gutterson looks about fourteen sometimes, but he's a decorated Ranger Sniper." The look on Art's face was a little sad but very fond. Having met the young man now several times socially, Leslie was glad that Art had him. Tim was a nice young man.

She was fond of Raylan too, even if lord knew the boy was a worry. The mess that Raylan kept making of his life. But this was a different kind of worry, Leslie had not missed the tension and anxiety in Raylan. Even though Art was there to help Raylan had scooped Tim into his arms as though the young man was the most precious thing in the world and Raylan didn't want to let go. Art had said that Raylan was blaming himself for how Tim was injured but Leslie had the feeling that was only part of the problem. The lanky marshal was thinner, his hair was longer and growing out of style, he looked pained and tired and more deeply stressed than he had ever seemed before. Seeing him the previous night, Leslie knew Raylan was an adult, could make his own decisions, but that didn't stop her radar pinging. Raylan Givens was close to some sort of episode and it didn't take a twenty-seven year nursing career to tell her that.

xxxxxxxx

Raylan was having a bad day. Nothing was right, from miss-filed paperwork, to a tiresome prisoner transfer, where an increasingly stressed and ill-tempered Raylan was forced to sit next to pee-wee whiner called Mos Crawley all the way back to Big Sandy.

The worst part of the day, apart from driving around for almost four hours with the chattering fool Crawley next to him, Raylan was trying to figure out how he could get himself an invitation to Tim's bedside for at least a few hours, even if he couldn't stay the night. He just needed to know that Tim was alright. If he closed his eyes he could picture a number of distressing situations where Tim was anything but alright, and a pair of accusing blue eyes were looking straight at Raylan, and Tim's voice was saying "it's all your fault, you were supposed to…" Raylan's mind would blank out the rest of the statement but the feeling persisted.

He had to see for himself.

Art had given up trying to second guess Raylan years ago, but he couldn't deny what Leslie had said. Raylan did indeed look close to the edge of a very steep precipice. In moments of repose, Raylan's expression would take on a look of grief and pain that scared Art.

Raylan's main problem seemed to be his inability to relate to someone on a personal level and maintain a relationship. Sure he was handsome and flirtatious, and a trail of angry women scattered in his wake, but somehow he just couldn't hold on to any of them. It was a source of sorrow to Art that his relationship with Winona had foundered so badly.

Now apparently he had imprinted on Tim, which was so far out of the Raylan operating manual, that Art was totally at a loss to comprehend what was best for a next move. Apparently it was a two-way street, according to Leslie, but Art did have his doubts about that. However Leslie had said bring the boy home with him. Even if Raylan knew there was an open invitation to Art and Leslie's home any time for his team, Art knew that Raylan would never just come without a specific invitation.

He picked up a file from his desk, might as well make this look official and wandered out to Raylan's desk.

Raylan was staring at his screen with a frown on his face, doggedly typing, he wasn't fast, and the style left something to be desired, but at least he employed all ten fingers in the operation. Art took in the pallor, the tired droop of Raylan's posture, the frustrated expression and the general demeanor. Damn. Raylan was eating himself up over something. Perhaps Leslie was right. This was a whole lot more than Raylan's usual terrier at a bone over some vague suspicion of things being wrong.

He placed the file in Raylan's in-tray, for once not overflowing with paperwork. "You best come back after shift, Raylan." He said carefully, trying very hard not to notice the swift flare of relief in Raylan's eyes. This was all a little too strange for Art.