"Now how on earth am I supposed to know what color his spit is?" Raylan said. The hand that wasn't holding the phone to his ear came up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he tried, mostly in vain, to comprehend the nurse on the other end of the line. "Well, yeah, considering I found him hugging the commode like it was the last life raft on the Titanic, I'd say—" He caught himself. Snapping at the person advising you on a loved one's medical condition probably wasn't a wise course of action. "Yes, he is nauseous." He paused for the woman on the other end of the line to speak a little more. "List the symp—again? You want me to list them again." Of course she did. He sighed. "Nausea, fever, chills, sneezing, sounds like he's coughing up a mud bog…no…no, I don't know how long he's been like this…a guess? I don't know. Two, maybe three days? Maybe more?"

Probably more, he thought to himself. Tim was stubborn as they came, and now that Raylan thought about it, he'd had a tissue box sitting out on his desk the better part of the week.

"Alright…just bring him through the emergency room? Yes ma'am…appreciate it." He nodded, a thin smile on his face. Both were completely lost on the nurse, it being a phone call and all, but it was just reflex. "Well, I will certainly tell him you said so…yes ma'am. Thank you for all the help. Goodbye."

He couldn't help letting out a breath of relief as he ended the call and shoved his phone in his pocket, only to hold it in again when he heard a thud from the bathroom.

"You gotta be shitting me," he hissed, running down the short hall to the bathroom and throwing open the door. When he got his bearings, though, he was greeted not with the sight of Tim with his head cracked open or drowning in the tub, but with him back on his knees, praying to the porcelain god.

The worried scowl became a sympathetic frown, and Raylan didn't hesitate to crouch down next to him and put a hand on his back, his thumb resting just beneath a circle of raised pink skin at the small of Tim's back. His bare skin was really too warm against Raylan's palm, but Raylan told himself that some of it might be from the hot shower he'd just taken.

"Alright," he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. "You're alright. Just try to catch your breath." He knew it was easier said than done, but he still had to say it. He'd done the whole song and dance with food poisoning back when he'd first moved to Florida, throwing up 'till there was nothing left and still heaving like there was, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone. Especially not Tim. He could even feel the sympathy tickle in the back of his throat; he swallowed deeply and grit his teeth, just to be safe.

"Shit," Tim choked out when he was finally able. He had his forehead resting on his arm, barred across the toilet bowl, which told Raylan he wasn't quite sure there wasn't gonna be a round two. The occasional sort of hiccup-like spasm he gave only served to reinforce the theory.

Raylan gave Tim's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. If there had been any doubt in his mind before about the next step of his plan, there definitely wasn't now. "Take your time, darlin'," he said. He wasn't generally one for pet names, but if ever there was a time for them, this seemed like it might be one of them.

If Tim noticed, he didn't seem to mind. He was a little too busy fishing around the counter for something, and Raylan helpfully reached up and plucked a couple tissues out of the box for him. The rest, he figured, Tim could handle for himself, so he got up and grabbed the shirt he'd grabbed for Tim off the counter. He'd managed to get the jeans on for himself – he'd briefly considered the sweatpants that looked like remnants of Tim's army days, but since Tim had been wearing jeans when he'd come in, he figured jeans were his bottoms of choice – but it seemed he hadn't quite made it to the shirt.

When the toilet flushed, Raylan was waiting with a cup of water in one hand and the shirt in the other. Tim took the former first, and Raylan's brows furrowed when he saw his normally-steady hands shaking.

"Small sips," he remembered to say, if only because it seemed like the thing people said in situations like this. To be honest, he wasn't really good with this sort of thing.

Tim seemed to do as he was told, and took a couple sips of water – he spit a few of them out, which Raylan could understand – before sitting the rest up on the counter. He reached for his shirt, then, and it didn't escape Raylan's notice that he was slow pulling it on.

"Sore?"

"You try sleeping on a bathroom floor," Tim muttered. Raylan was starting to think there was a little more to the way he was talking. He always talked through his teeth a bit, mumbled a little, but the clench of his jaw said maybe there was an ulterior motive.

And while they were on the subject, "You shaved." He tried not to sound as incredulous as he felt. He could barely make it five minutes without singing his lunch and the guy had shaved? Never mind he'd had a sharp blade inches from just jugular with his hand shaking like a dog shitting hammer handles.

Tim rubbed his cheek. "Feels better."

"Well then, I suppose that's all that really matters." Actually, Raylan found it really was. Looking at Tim, still shivering in his t-shirt, pale as a ghost and sick as sin, Raylan had this desperate sort of pull in his chest, this need to make it better, however he could.

A cough startled Raylan out of his thoughts, and for a second, he was worried Tim would be doubling over the toilet again. Thankfully, that didn't happen, but it wasn't as great a comfort as Raylan would've liked. He'd caught a glimpse of the tissue Tim had coughed into – not on purpose, mind; really not on purpose – seen the flash of yellow-brown against the white, and felt his pulse ratchet up a few beats.

As soon as it looked like Tim was getting his breath back, Raylan left the room. He went to the living room, grabbed the first couple plastic bags he could find and lined the bottoms with paper towels, then he walked over to the coat rack to grab Tim's black jacket.

"Raylan?"

Raylan turned to see Tim standing in the doorway. Well, leaning more like. Heavily, such that Raylan got the impression he'd barely made it that far, and it was a wonder he was still standing.

As if to prove Raylan's theory, he pushed off the doorway and made it no more than a step or two before he stumbled. He didn't fall on his face or anything, mind; Tim was sick, but if he was that sick, Raylan would've already called the damn ambulance.

All the same….

"Damnit, Tim," he hissed, and short of sprinting, he got over to him as quick as he could. "Would you just sit down before you fall down?" Not that he was giving him much of a choice. He'd no sooner spoken than he was pushing Tim back towards the sofa to sit his ass down. "Now just stay there, alright?" And then he turned, patting his pockets to make sure he had everything he needed. Phone, wallet, keys – check.

"You got somewhere you need to be?" Tim said. He was squinting a little bit, with a look that seemed to be trying to say, 'What the hell are you doing' but ended up more along the lines of, 'please stop standing in front of that bright ass window.'

"What?"

"Runnin' around like a chicken with your head cut off." Tim gestured vaguely, then sunk back into the couch a little more as if that one gesture had spent what few reserves he had. "Figured you had somewhere to be." He punctuated the observation with a weak cough that wasn't enough to open his mouth, but was plenty to make his chest jump. The sniffles that followed were even more pitiful.

Raylan added 'tissues' to the list of things he needed to grab, and he headed back into the bathroom. "I ain't got nowhere to be myself," he called, loud enough that he thought Tim could hear him, but not so loud he thought it'd hurt the headache Tim seemed to be fighting with. And losing, it would appear. "As it happens, it's you that's due someplace."

Tim's brows furrowed in confusion.

No, Raylan thought, definitely not all eight cylinders. And as cute a look as that was, his eyebrows knotted and his lips pouted pensively, Raylan didn't much care to drag this out. "I'm taking you to the hospital."

"You wanna run that by me again?"

"I said, 'I'm—'"

"I heard what you said, Raylan."

"Then why did you ask me to run it by you again?" Raylan retorted. "You know what, never mind. I'll just go get your shoes." He hadn't seen them by the door, but he figured they had to be there somewhere.

As he headed out of the room, though, Tim caught him by the sleeve of his shirt. "Raylan, I'm fine."

Easy as it would have been to break out of Tim's grasp – he looked like he could maybe arm wrestle a kitten and come out on top, and even then, Raylan would hedge his bets – Raylan turned, his lips pulling into a stern frown. "No," he said. "No, Tim, you're not fine. And frankly, the fact that you're telling me you are is scary."

"Scary?"

"Or insulting. Depends on whether you're lyin' to me or not." He took a seat on the coffee table in front of the younger man, fixing him with a stern look. "Listen, here's how it's gonna go: you're gonna sit here and wait while I finish getting you're shit together, then we're gonna go to the hospital. You're gonna get looked at by someone that knows what they're doing, then we're gonna come back here, and I'm gonna look after you until you kick whatever bug or shit this is." He leaned forward. "And before it's all said and done, you're gonna promise me you're never gonna let it get this bad again without telling me, 'cause if do you, so help me God, Tim, a cough is gonna be the least of your troubles. You understand?"

Tim sniffed in response, coughing a few times. His hands twisted in the tissues he was holding, and damned if they weren't still shaking.

Raylan nearly caved just seeing that. It was just so foreign, seeing Tim's hands shake. He had the steadiest hands Raylan had ever seen, and yet he could barely even seem to keep his grip on tissues, for God's sake.

He nearly caved, but he didn't. He did, however, soften his approach just a little. The guy was miserable enough without Raylan hauling him over the coals.

Sighing, he bumped Tim's knee with his. Sort of an olive branch, as it were. "Tim, I need you to talk to me."

"I ain't going to the hospital," Tim said so quietly, Raylan almost didn't hear him.

Raylan raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"I ain't going to the hospital," Tim repeated, a little stronger this time.

"See, that's what I thought you said, but I just wanted to make sure." Raylan could feel his patience wearing thin; what little he ever had to begin with was on its last legs, and he wasn't expecting it to last much longer. "Can I ask you why?"

"Why?" Tim sniffed again, rubbing at his already red nose with the tissues he'd just been abusing. "'Cause it's a damn cold, Raylan, that's why. Nothing they can do for a cold."

"Tim, I may not have an M and a D after my name, but I ain't a fool. This," he gestured at Tim, "ain't a cold."

"I'm fine."

Another nerve frayed. "For the sake of my blood pressure," he said, "wipe that word from your vocabulary. Or, at the very least, learn what it really means, because you and the whole rest of the world seem to have different opinions on the matter."

"Damnit, Raylan."

"Don't 'Damnit, Raylan,' me, Tim," he snapped. Angrily, he rose to his feet, running a hand through his hair and doing a short lap around the room before he was confident enough he wasn't gonna scream at Tim to speak again. "Why are you being so stubborn? It's a hospital, not a shootout." He snorted. "'Course not. I'd have to tie you down just to keep you out of a shootout. So what is it, then? Got some fear of needles I don't know about? Or is this some sort of PTSD shit that—" he stopped short.

Tim was staring at his knees wide, glassy eyes and lips pressed into a thin line. His hands had abandoned their torture of the tissue to fist in the fabric of his jeans, and the only signs of movement in him were the shivers and the occasional muted cough.

And suddenly, like a ton of bricks, it hit him.

"Shit." Raylan covered his face with his hands, a surge of guilt and shame welling in his chest so strong that it very nearly took his legs out from under him. As it was, he walked slowly back over to the table and sunk down onto it, his elbows going to his knees and his hands sliding up over his face.

He let out a deep breath and forced himself to sit up, running his hands through his hair as he did. "That's what it is, isn't it?" he said, his voice carefully even. All of the earlier frustration was gone, and in its wake, Raylan just felt like shit.

Tim just nodded jerkily. His face had paled even more, until Raylan was afraid he was gonna pass out where he sat.

Raylan swallowed thickly. "Those scars, then…." The one on his back, with a matching one just down and to the left of his navel…the one on his chest, in the center of that tattoo of his.

"Woke up in a hospital," Tim said. "Avoided 'em since." His voice was strained, reedy; Raylan found himself subconsciously toeing the trashcan closer. Frankly, the guy looked like he was going to hurl…again. And, Raylan realized guiltily, it would be his fault for getting him stirred up like this.

Part of Raylan said he should stay back, give Tim his space. He'd fucked up enough, thank you very much; time to get out before he did more damage. But the other part of him thought better of it. Tim looked damn near lost.

So, Raylan pushed himself up off the table, moved the blanket beside Tim, and sat down in its place. Carefully – he didn't want to jar Tim, lest he and his stomach find themselves at odds again – he put an arm around him and pulled him close. Tim tensed, but Raylan just pressed his lips to the top of his head. "I'm an asshole," he said.

Tim gave a one-sided shrug. "Didn't know," he mumbled.

"Doesn't mean I'm not an asshole. And it doesn't mean I'm not sorry." Christ, but he was. "But…it also doesn't mean I'm gonna let you hang out here and get worse."

It was probably a sure sign of just how shit he felt that Tim didn't even have the gusto to try and get loose. He hardly even stiffened. "Raylan…." That was all the protest he seemed to be able to muster. The poor guy was all used up, and Raylan could feel his chest working for every breath. He didn't think he was in any immediate danger, but it sure as hell didn't sound healthy.

It only served to strengthen Raylan's resolve. "Sorry, darlin', but this is non-negotiable." He frowned apologetically even though he knew Tim couldn't see it, and pressed another kiss to his head before extracting himself from the couch. "You ready to go?"

But Tim shook his head, his jaw clenched tight.

Raylan sighed. "Humor me, would you? The sooner you go, the sooner you—" The rest of Raylan's antiquated attempt at coaxing the sniper up was lost as Tim doubled over the trashcan Raylan had put in front of him just a minute or two before. Unfortunately, this heave wasn't quite as dry as the ones Raylan had been graced with witnessing so far, and it was all he could do not to grimace.

He'd meant it: he wasn't ready to go.

For the third time that day, Raylan found himself rubbing Tim's back as his innards revolted and wishing like hell he could do to fix it. Something that didn't involve Tim paying a visit to his very own institutional boogeyman.

Of course he was afraid of hospitals, though, Raylan thought. After all, what scarring emotional trauma do you get for an ex-Army Ranger Sniper who has everything?