Author's Note: This is a created deleted scene - so not really a deleted scene at all. It's a request though and how could I say no to anyone who slogged through my really depressing story …and Nothing Shall by Any Means Hurt You. I followed Tim around in that one but you'd better believe that his friends were talking about him when he wasn't in the room. This oneshot is more about Art than Tim, takes place the day after Tim goes to shoot off his frustrations at Fischer's (Abe's) range, when he's out with Rachel, somewhere in the middle of Chapter 15 – a conversation between Art and Miljana. (And I'm probably leaving you with more questions than answers again…)
On the Cutting Room Floor – A Bone Budget
Art adjusted his glasses, peered down at the budget numbers and tried to convince himself that it was important for him to review them carefully, like it was important for him to review carefully the limited office resources when prioritizing them against the unlimited number of cases needing the US Marshals Services' expertise, or like it was important for him to review carefully the overtime hours worked or the personal well-being of the very human product which he had to manage daily.
Raylan was running blindly into fatherhood and serving out a thirty-day suspension, Rachel was more distant and surly, Nelson was currently doubting every call he had to make on the job and honestly so was everyone else, Garcia had just announced that she was pregnant again, and Tim was perched on a razor's edge and it was impossible to predict which way he'd fall and whether he'd get hurt in the process. And each of them was licensed to carry a concealed weapon. It was hard to concentrate, hard to focus any energy on the underwhelmingly important questions of how much paper the office would need over the next year, how much to allocate for office furniture, pens, note pads, gas mileage and ammunition, and how much medical leave might be required – his best guess, please – and all within budget.
Fuck the budget. Shit happens. He took off his glasses and tossed them onto the papers, sat back and rubbed his head and tried to come up with something to do with his time today to make him feel like he was accomplishing something, something important enough to justify procrastinating doing his annual budget.
He let his eyes drift around the bullpen. It was unusually empty today – an early lunch or two, everyone else out doing business, a techie upgrading software and the office administrator at her desk. What to do?
The administrator looked up quickly, something distracting her, and the movement caught Art's eye and he followed her gaze to the double doors of the office. A young woman was peering inside, trying to be unobtrusive. Art recognized her, smiled and frowned in quick succession, stood up and ambled over. She saw him coming, acknowledged him with a friendly look that said caught me, but remained stubbornly out in the hall on her side of the invisible civilian barrier and waited until he opened the door.
"Dr. Cajic," Art greeted her, "how lovely to see you on this fine day. Whatever brings you up to our humble office?"
"Lunch," Miljana replied, grinning at his obsequious overtures, the over-formal use of her title. She looked wistfully at Tim's empty desk. "I had a free couple of hours."
"Why, how kind of you to ask. I'd love to." He stood aside, inviting her in. "Let me grab my wallet and we can go out and get something to eat. I know a nice establishment down the street that does an excellent grilled-cheese sandwich."
She showed her amusement with a chuckle and a smile. "Art, you read my mind. It's exactly what I hoped you'd say."
"It must be disappointing for you that I'm already married," he said. "I do have a young Deputy here who might do for you – as a second choice you understand since there's only one of me. I could introduce you."
"Let's not rush it, Art. It might take some time for me to come to terms with my rejection, lower my sights."
She did a good sad voice. Art patted her shoulder, consoling, then took his jacket off the hook and led the way out.
"Tim's down near Somerset with Rachel, won't be back till later this afternoon," he explained when they were on the elevator. "I'm pleased to see you though. I know you were hoping for Tim, but I'd like to talk to you alone and I think you're smart enough that I don't need to explain why." He watched her run her hand up and down the strap on her purse, chewing a lip, and added some humor to lighten her expression again. "Of course, it has nothing to do with me wanting an excuse to avoid finishing my budget numbers this afternoon."
She looked up and smiled to be social. "We can talk, Art, but I'm not sure I'll have anything to say that will help."
"Well, maybe it'll feel good just to talk."
He held the elevator door for her at the lobby and she stepped out, said over her shoulder to him, "That's pretty much what Abe Fischer said last night when he called."
"Tim said he'd been to see him. What'd Abe have to say?"
"Just that he'd never seen Tim shoot so badly. He's worried. He asked me what was bothering him. They went…" Miljana paused and adjusted the sentence, "…Tim went through most of Abe's liquor cabinet last night and then fell asleep in his living room. He showed up this morning at some point. I saw him at breakfast." She continued to talk as they strolled to the diner. "He's been out running every night – 2am, 3am – and it's not that that's unusual, it's just an unusual concentration."
Art mulled that over while they got comfortable at a table, wished he could've been party to the phone call between Tim's girl and Tim's shooting buddy – that would've been something.
She added, "When things happen that stir up his memories he can't sleep and then he gets overtired and everything looks worse and affects him more. It can be vicious when it happens but this is the worst I've seen it. I'm glad he's with Rachel. She handles him well."
"Glad because he's so tired or…?" Art was obvious with the fishing – no point trying to pretend with her.
"Sure, yeah, and… It started with the shooting – that man, the MP – and then, I'm sure you're aware, an unfortunate accumulation of events this past week or so. He's feeling very brittle right now, to me anyway." She played with her knife and fork, straightening them on the table. "He's normally so resilient." She slipped her face into a hand on an elbow, let a tear escape and wiped at it impatiently. "Rachel will keep an eye on him." She looked to him for confidence.
He nodded assurance but asked, "Should I be keeping him at his desk where I can keep an eye on him?"
"No, no. I don't think that would help. It would probably make it worse."
"Worse for him, okay I get that, I think, but how about the rest of the world?"
She held his gaze, held his concerns, weighed them, dismissed them with a wry face and a joke, "I'd recommend not pointing a gun at him, but that's any day of the year."
"Well, thank you, my dear, for the head's up." They smiled in collusion. "So what do we do about him then?"
"I don't know. I'm trying to get him to see someone…someone else." She shrugged helplessly. "He tells me it'll be fine. But that worries me, too – this opening a wound again and again and never letting it heal properly… It just scabs over until that scab gets scraped off by the next rough spot in his life."
The waitress brought their food and they found it interesting for a while, but both left most of their lunch on their plate. Art asked for a refill and sipped his coffee thoughtfully.
"You know what really gets me?" she said, looked at him, shook her head, defeated. "You and I, Art, we'll never know. I can figure out the man, at least well enough, but I wish I could get inside the head of the twenty-year-old Tim that's still over there." She waved vaguely east. "Then maybe I'd be able to help more."
Art had nothing to say to that.
They parted on the street and Art returned to work. Nelson was back at his desk.
"Uh, Chief, I went to the address you gave me but no one was there so I thought I'd try again tomorrow morning if that's okay with you?"
Art stopped, sighed, said, "Nelson, stop beating yourself up. Raylan could talk the Pope into converting if he thought it would help him somehow. You're fine."
Nelson beamed, "Yeah, he's a pretty convincing talker."
"Uh-huh." Art left him to it, sat back behind his desk and stared at his budget numbers until they melted together into a blur and a headache.
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