Author's Note: For a request from Shukumei4U – some Marshal light – like a Bud Light only different.

On the Cutting Room Floor - BOHICA

"Nelson, give me the fucking hat."

"No way, Tim. Raylan'll kill me. He told me he'd knock some teeth out if anything happened to it."

"And I'll shoot you if you don't hand it over. Which sounds worse to you? Now come on, give it to me. You can tell him I took it from you at gun point." Tim turned to look behind him, making sure no one was watching. He held his hand out toward the other Marshal, gimme-gimme with his fingers.

"No," Nelson stood his ground.

"After what Raylan did to you? Come on, man. A little payback's in order here."

Nelson looked like he was in pain but he passed the hat to Tim. "Okay."

"Okay. Now, this is what we're going to do." Tim leaned in, conspiracy in the making.

Nelson backed away. "Uh-uh. I am not helping you with whatever you're doing. I'm in enough trouble."

"Alright then. I guess I'll have to tell Art what really happened that day that you and that prost…"

"Okay, okay. Crap, I hate this office."

"You're not serious! This is my hat?" Raylan gaped at the remains sitting sadly on his desk, charred, just the brim left like a suede toilet seat that someone had their last smoke on, fell asleep and died. "Nelson, what did you do? I told you to look after it. I warned you what would happen if... That was my hat!"

"Now, Raylan," Tim stood up from his desk. "Nothing Nelson could've done about it. The explosion…" Tim made a sound like a bomb going off and gave Raylan a visual by throwing his hands out. "Man, it was intense."

"But you were all well back. Art told me. You were behind the car." Raylan pleaded for an explanation for his tragedy.

Nelson played along, nervous. "It was the blast," he offered.

Raylan gave him an incredulous look. "The blast blew my hat toward the fire?"

Behind Raylan, Tim rolled his eyes at Nelson. What the fuck? he mouthed then covered for him. "No, it was the backdraft, Raylan. With an explosion that large the fire instantaneously incinerates the air molecules and the surrounding gases get sucked back in to fill the void." He gestured at the burnt offerings. "Hat, flames, you get the picture. I had to hold Nelson back from running after it. The heat from that fire. Shit, man."

Raylan looked crushed. "I told you to hold onto it, Nelson. Jesus – that was my favorite hat. I can't replace it."

"It's not Nelson's fault if his head's not as fat as yours," said Tim, settling himself back at his desk. "It was loose on him."

"Yeah, it was loose," Nelson agreed. "It fell off a couple of times out there with all the action." He scurried back to his seat when he saw Art walk into the bullpen from the elevators with Rachel.

"Job well done, everyone. We've got Drew squared a…" Art was stopped by the look on Raylan's face. "Raylan? Everything alright?"

Raylan just shook his head, looked back to his desk. No one noticed Tim, trying desperately not to laugh, or Nelson, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Winona? Is she…"

Raylan looked up, "She's fine, Art. It's just my hat." He picked it up gently, held it out for inspection, what was left.

Art stared a moment, said, "Looks like a portal to hell." Then he chuckled.

"Art," Raylan responded, hurt, "it's not funny."

"Oh shit, Raylan. Sure it is. You should see the look on your face. Tim!" he barked then looked over to see the younger Marshal slouched down in his chair, hand over his face. "Give Raylan his hat back. I got to suspend him today. Be nice."

Tim sat up, rolled his eyes, grumbled, "Killjoy."

"I'll deal with you later; Raylan, in my office."

"I knew it," Raylan shot at Tim.

"Did not. Nelson had you completely fooled."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"I want that hat on my desk before I get back," Raylan snarled as he walked past.

"Oh look, it's after five," Tim called out, smirking. "Quittin' time. Gotta go."

"Tim, I mean it." A threatening finger, an evil look.

Tim grabbed his keys and sprinted for the door.

"Who's gonna deliver these papers for me?" Art demanded. "Didn't you say you'd do it, Raylan?"

"I got court this morning, Art. Ask Tim."

"You do not," Tim snarled. "You were there yesterday."

"Do too. It dragged on. You know how it goes."

Tim leveled a look, calling out the lie.

"Give it to Tim, Art," Raylan continued, holding down a smirk. "He told me just a minute ago he was bored, wanted out of the office."

"I said I was bored listening to you talking on about gooey baby stories ever since you got back. If I hear one more description of a dirty diaper, I may lose it and start shooting up the office." He turned to Art. "Boss, make him stop."

"I can't make Raylan do anything," Art replied, "and you know that. But I got a temporary solution for you. Deliver these papers." He threw the folder on Tim's desk, turned and mumbled angrily on his way back to his office. "And I thought teenage girls were bad. Retirement's looking kinda nice, you know? Maybe I'll move to Alaska."

Tim swiped the folder up and stormed out. "Asshole," he grumped, not that he was angry really. He was fed up with making phone calls and scrolling through databases. A drive would be nice. He opened the folder in the elevator, checking the address – Corbin – a long enough journey to warrant a coffee stop and maybe lunch at that quiet little diner in London, the one with the awesome milkshakes.

There was construction on the interstate and a lengthy detour, an accident in the main intersection in Corbin and by the time Tim found the address his patience was ebbing and he was thinking lunch might be drive-through instead. He ran up the steps to the shitty two-storey and knocked loudly.

Dewey Crowe answered. They stared at each other in horror then Dewey turned and ran. Tim chased him around back and tackled him in the dirt, cuffed him and hauled him up.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Tim demanded. "And where's Philip Cranston?"

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Dewey responded, whining and puffing out his chest. "This is harassment. I ain't done nothing. I'm working a regular job and this is my mama's house and you'd better hope she doesn't come home anytime soon."

"Or what?" Tim tried to imagine what she could do him.

"Oh, she's mean," Dewey threatened.

"Uh-huh." Tim was half listening, half forming a suspicion. "You don't know anyone named Philip Cranston, do you?"

"I don't know anyone named Philip, period."

Tim hauled Dewey over to a listing picnic table in the scratched dirt lawn and plunked him on it. "You got a job?" he said.

"Yeah. A regular one, too. Mama set it up for me. I'm sweeping at the hairdresser. They do tattoos and all. It's one of those everything beauty places – piercings, fancy toe nails. I got a new tattoo. You want to see it?"

"No." Tim unlocked the cuffs, still working on his suspicions.

Dewey prattled on, hoping to distract the Marshal from the pot plants growing in the back windows. "Sometimes on my break I sit and watch the tattoo girl working on clients. Last week, this one chick wanted one done on her back and she had to take her bra off and everything. I couldn't see nothing though 'cause she was lying on her front on account of the tattoo going on her back."

Tim rubbed a hand through his hair, narrowed his eyes. "Fuckin' Raylan." He started walking toward the SUV. "So this is how he wants to play. Okay."

"Hey," Dewey called out, standing up and following behind him. "Is this harassment?"

"Not yet," Tim snapped over his shoulder. "Take one more step though and it will be."

"Asshole," Dewey yelled but stopped where he was. "You been hanging out with Raylan Givens too long."

Rachel pushed through the doors into the bullpen as Tim opened them from the other side. She stumbled when the doors gave way without effort and collided with the younger Marshal. He was laughing.

"You're trying to kill me and you think that's funny?" she said.

"Oh, I'm not laughing at you." He tipped his head back toward Art's office.

Rachel peered around him, took it all in – Art, Raylan and Judge Reardon in a closed-door conversation. Reardon didn't look happy.

"What happened?"

"Uh, well, Raylan walked in on Reardon getting a rub and tug at a massage parlor in the west end."

"How? Why?"

Tim shrugged. "Anonymous tip about a fugitive he's been chasing." He shook his head, mock-sympathy. "Poor bastard. How was he to know it was Reardon's regular Thursday haunt?"

Rachel pressed her lips tight in disapproval. "More to the point, how did you know?"

He pressed a hand against his chest, all innocence. "Me? I don't know what you're talking about."

They both turned at the sound of Reardon's voice carrying more clearly, Art's door now open, "…ever again! Do I make myself clear?"

"Gotta go," Tim whispered, hightailed it for the stairs.

Rachel held the door for the steaming Judge.

Raylan held the door for Tim. Tim glared at him as he passed, covered head to toe in fluorescent pink paint spots.

"This was a new shirt, Raylan," Tim said through his teeth. "You do realize, this means war."

Raylan raised a finger and an eyebrow. "I thought we were already in a war. Maybe you could explain to me the difference since I'm clearly confused and you're the expert."

"What if I'd shot one of those kids? I can't believe you purposely led me into a paintball game."

"Now, Tim," Raylan replied reasonably, "I wasn't leading. And anyway, I have faith in your ability to discern the difference between a paintball gun and the real thing."

"You're just damn lucky I have good eyesight!"

"If you're eyesight is so good then how come you didn't notice all the pink and yellow decorating the woods?"

"Boys." Something in the tone and the posture, serious, quiet, flying just under the radar of a full-out fury, stopped Raylan and Tim in their tracks. Rachel didn't even comment on the color additions to Tim's clothes. She was seething.

"Rachel," Raylan soothed, silky voice, charmer's smile.

Tim just stared, worry straightening his back.

"While you were out playing one-up, the office got a call. There was no one here to take it but Art and Nelson. Nelson's okay."

Raylan straightened, too. "Art?" he asked, head turning to the empty office.

"He's at the hospital," said Rachel.

"Shit."

"He'll be okay, but I suggest some mighty creative ass-kissing. Maybe a visit and a card?"

"Shit," Tim echoed.

A quick trip to the Liquor Barn and Tim and Raylan were standing sheepishly at the hospital trying to find someone to ask for help finding Art.

"I told you we'd never find a bottle of Old Pappy in Lexington."

"Well shit, Tim, I had to ask. Bookers'll do. Art likes it straight and it's a good batch."

"We probably should've bought two bottles and a strip-o-gram."

"Bet Reardon would know where to get one of those."

Tim snorted.

Raylan chuckled. "How did you find out about him and his Thursday massages anyway?"

"Emily, one of the court reporters, told me."

"What'd it cost you?"

"I'm not giving up my sources to you. Remember what happened last time."

"Suit yourself."

They wandered a few hallways, peering into rooms, decided to head back to reception.

"It's just a hat." The comment came out of nowhere – Tim, grumpy, feeling guilty.

"It's not just a hat," Raylan snapped, reaching up to touch it fondly. "It's my lucky hat. I'm gonna be buried in it."

"Not so lucky, then."

"You know what I meant."

"You want me to hurry that along for you?"

"Gentlemen?" Art's voice.

They turned to see the Chief, in hospital gown and socks, shuffling down the hall in the company of a nurse.

"Art, Jesus, look we're really sorry." Raylan held out the bourbon.

"What are you two doing here? Did something happen?" Art looked uncomfortable, a bit pale, and now confused, too. "What happened?" He scowled at them. "What did you do?"

Raylan and Tim exchanged a glance.

Art snarled, "Look, I haven't got time for this right now. I'm going for a colonoscopy and you can imagine how good a mood that puts me in – the thought of a camera shoved up my ass. I'll deal with you two when I get back to the office."

Raylan went to pull the gift back but Art was faster, grabbed it, clutched it tightly. "Paying it forward," he snapped then followed the nurse into a room, the gown gaping at the back.

"Oh shit," Tim turned away quickly covering his eyes. "I looked."

But Raylan wasn't paying any attention. "Rachel," he growled, staring into the distance. "Oh, that's mean. So this is how she wants to play."

"I can't believe she did this to us," Tim said, looking hurt.

Raylan narrowed his eyes. "This means war."

xxxxxxxxx