AN: This one is more Tim

The weekend passed quickly for everyone. The stakeout had borne no fruit and they'd all left the van several hours later exhausted and tetchy. It was lucky it had been a Friday because each of them collapsed and slept for at least 9 hours as soon as they got home.

Saturday saw Rachel taking Nick, her nephew, to basketball practice and then starting on some of the odd jobs that needed doing around the house. Tim spent most of the day and night with an old army buddy who was in town on a conference. His friend, Iain, had gone back to college after discharge. He now held a masters in Accountancy and was working his way up the career ladder in Houston. Tim had a great time catching up and was secretly proud that his friend had achieved so much after shipping out.

Nonetheless, as Tim was lying in bed at 3am on Sunday morning, awake despite his drunken stupor, he began to think about what he'd achieved. Was leaving even worth it? Tim couldn't deny that he missed war. He missed the camaraderie, the noise, the urgency. In a sick way, he missed the violence. He knew there had to be something wrong with him for that but as much as he lied to psychologists and brushed it off with his friends, he couldn't lie to himself. Tim Gutterson and War were entwined in a bitter and desperate relationship that he couldn't pull out of, couldn't forget despite copious amounts of alcohol.

He regularly checked websites for names of the fallen, praying desperately not to see anyone he knew. Every time he did, it made a part of him wither and die inside. He felt like he should be back there, helping, even saving one guy was better than staying in this sleepy town. Really, what was here for him here but bad childhood memories and a few work colleagues?

Tim scrubbed a hand over his face and turned over, willing himself to sleep as his mind kept ticking. He knew he was being unfair. They were more than his colleagues. Art was the whole reason he was here, recruiting Tim from the badly coping, bar hopping, self loathing creature that he was post-war and helping him become…something better.

Rachel had trained him, her mom had basically adopted him and since the army, he felt a slight sense of 'belonging' in this place and that was all down to her.

Raylan was, well, Raylan. Headstrong and careless, there was never a dull moment with him. He kept Tim on his toes, somehow grounded him by being so up in the air.

And then there was G. To be honest, G could only fit into the category of colleague right now. But last night in the van, she'd let him see a much more approachable side to her. They had a similar sense of humour that was for sure, but the rest of her was a mystery. Well, at least she was providing some new entertainment. Tim rolled over again, this time counting sheep in vain. He didn't want to look tired enough to give G any more reason to rib him about it tomorrow. He considered another shot of bourbon, maybe that would be the trick but he reconsidered. He didn't want her to smell the alcohol on him or anything. Tim drifted off wondering why he cared so much what Deputy Gandhi thought of him…

G's phone rang at 7.45am. She groaned, blinking her eyes in disbelief. Who in god's name was even awake at 7.45am on a Sunday? Seeing Tim's name on her call screen explained it. Of course he would be an early riser.

'Gutterson. You do know what time it is, don't you?' Her voice was croaky with sleep and irritation.

He didn't know when she'd started referring to him by his last name. All he knew was that she'd never actually called him 'Tim.' It was strange because she was on first name basis with everyone else. Should he be offended? Was she purposely trying to be distant? There was a fondness in the way she said it though, even now when he could tell she was pissed at him. He decided he didn't mind it.

'I'll be over by 8.30, ok? I usually hit the range by 9.' No exceptions for you, is what he wanted to add, but he didn't know how she'd take it. He grinned again as he heard a groan and an expletive as something fell to the floor. Hearing her swear was amusing, too. G could hear him chuckling on the other end of the line and she wanted to hit him.

'Ugh. Fine.'

She rang off and Tim continued to smile, imagining her in the morning. She clearly wasn't an early riser by choice, and she didn't seem to be all sunshine and rainbows first thing. Before he could stop himself, his brain had formulated a very interesting picture of her trussed up in sheets, hair wild, relaxed. Something about that image, so contradictory to the polished front she presented at work, made Tim's stomach flip. He shook his head. Like he was ever going to see her first thing in the morning.