Author's Note: This was written as part of An Insane World, the story published under the penname sourmash with hallonim in cahoots as co-author. We wanted to keep the action all within the hospital though for that story, all Tim and his Doctor Alex's POV, so we decided to cut it from the narrative. Now it reads like a prologue or maybe like a preview for something. It stands alone too though, could start a whole other story… And Art, well, he's my favourite character on that show so I couldn't let a chance to explore him sit in a file in a folder.

An Insane World (outtake)

Art hangs up the phone and lets his eyes drift around the bullpen. They settle at the nearest desk, Tim's.

"Shit."

He breathes the word into the air, unsure what to do. Each phone call from the hospital leaves him with more questions than answers. In fact, the only real information he has to date is that Tim is being well looked after. Great. How does that fit into a morning meeting breakdown of tasks and events? He has to tell his people something. The rumor mill's starting to turn.

A wave of fatigue hits him. He hasn't been sleeping well and he's feeling his age and for the first time in his life looks at retirement with relief. As his wife put it to him this morning – he's sad. Such a simple word and so overused but when you're truly sad it seeps through you completely and colors everything. On the payroll for the United States Marshals Service for most of thirty years, Art's dealt with a lot. He's dealt with bad news, delivered bad news, received bad news, but he's not sure what this is, he's not even sure if it is bad news or his news to relate at all. And what is there to relate? He's got nothing. He can do nothing. He's never felt so powerless.

Raylan walks into the bullpen, looks directly at Art and raises his eyebrows, nods at the empty spot next to his. Art decides then he at least owes Rachel and Raylan some explanation – he can maybe trust them with the few facts that have come his way from the doctor. They're a team, the three of them, them and Tim. Tim would want them to know, wouldn't he? At least he'd expect that they'd be told.

"Shit," he says again, a little louder this time. Here he is trying to get inside the head of a thirty-year-old war veteran and do what he thinks Tim would want him to do. Thirty was a while ago for Art, and war – he raps on the wooden desk for luck – isn't something he'll ever have experience with and he's pretty sure there's a connection here. What else could it be? He chews on his options for another minute then stands up and calls Rachel and Raylan in for a discussion.

He makes them sit then drops the bomb.

"Psych ward?"

It's Raylan who attacks the news; Rachel is silent.

"What the hell? Art, that's crazy. Nothing happened. It was the easiest take down of a dangerous offender I've ever been involved in. Tim didn't even do anything. He was just...there, just in case."

"I know."

Raylan can't get his mind around it. "Maybe he had a stroke. It happens sometimes, even at thirty. I had a cousin drop dead in his car that way."

Art shakes his head. "They've done a full physical, every scan available. There's nothing wrong with him. Well..."

Rachel shifts in her seat. Raylan and Art turn their attention to hear what she has to say. She knows Tim better than anyone. When he showed up one day at the office and Art tethered him to her she took some time and read everything she could get her hands on about Army Rangers, the war in Afghanistan, PTSD. At the time she was just covering her ass, but the knowledge paid off working with him. She had a better feel for what he was capable of, what to say to him, how to say it.

"A trigger?" She finally offers her opinion, shrugs, looks at Art. "I thought he was one of the lucky ones."

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