Aimpoint – Chapter Seven
The Force was not with Tim today. He reached out with his right arm trying to snag the water glass on the side table next to his hospital bed, willing it to slide the few inches into his grasp. His mouth and throat were so dry he was desperate for a drink, but not so desperate that he was going to try moving again. Moving was agony. He huffed in frustration and dropped his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes and giving up.
When he opened them again Raylan was leaning against the door frame looking at him.
"I am so glad to see you," Tim croaked.
"Must be good drugs," Raylan smiled.
"Can you get me that water? Please," Tim begged.
Raylan walked over and passed him the glass. He watched Tim drink half of it in one go and then sigh contentedly.
"It'd be tragic if you survived a stabbing only to die of thirst," Raylan said, settling into a chair. "How're you feeling?"
"I can actually think straight…sort of."
"I didn't know they performed brain surgery on you," Raylan remarked.
"They messed around a bit when they had me under, trying to bring my intellect down to a level with yours," Tim replied. "Thought it might be less frustrating for me."
Raylan grinned glad to have snarky-Tim back. "I think they went a little too far."
"Don't make me laugh. It hurts."
Raylan chuckled. "So, Tim, tell me that your friends in the alley introduced themselves and told you their plans for the week."
"Sorry," Tim said, slowly shaking his head. "The whole dance took maybe two minutes. We didn't talk much. I didn't even get a good look at their faces." He took another sip of water. "I can tell you what the pavement looked like."
"We interviewed the pavement and are pretty convinced there was no complicity there," said Raylan. "The dumpster's still on our list of suspects."
Tim chuckled then winced. "I said don't make me laugh," he groaned.
"Actually it doesn't matter that you don't remember them," said Raylan. "Harold rolled right over and played dead. We've got their names. Carl Finley and Daryl Strong – mean anything to you?"
"Nope."
"Didn't think it would. Anyway, we're looking for them," Raylan said.
"God, I feel stupid. I should have checked at the corner. I ran full-out into it. Fucking stupid."
"We all get too focused on the task sometimes," Raylan cajoled. He preferred the chuckling-wincing Tim to the self-abusing Tim. "Remember when Dickie Bennett, of all people, got the jump on me and hung me up in a tree? Shit, hanging there – you want to know what it's like to feel stupid."
"That's why you have to have a spotter," Tim slurred. His eyes had started to drift shut.
Raylan took Tim's water, filled it up and set it within reach. He had more he wanted to say but there wasn't much point.
"I'll let Art know you're somewhat coherent," he said standing up to leave. "He wants to talk to you."
Tim opened his eyes drowsily and tried to focus on Raylan. "Okay," he said and then gave up.
Art tried visiting Tim twice on Wednesday after Raylan had reported that he'd talked to him, and two more times the next morning, but he was always asleep. Finally, on Thursday afternoon, he caught him awake. Tim was looking almost civilized. He had changed into his own clothes, shaved and was sitting propped up in bed, a book resting on his knees, reading. Art assumed Rachel had been looking after him. He'd have to remember to thank her.
"Tim," he said.
"Chief," Tim replied and gave him a half grin.
"Nice to see you awake. I was starting to take it personally, like you were faking sleeping every time I came in."
"Actually, I'm faking being awake right now," Tim responded. He looked liked he meant it.
"Good story?" Art asked pulling a chair closer to the bed.
"Couldn't tell you," Tim answered. "I've read the first page a dozen times. I'm still not sure what it says." He tossed the book on the bed and sighed.
"I see Rachel's been around," Art commented, taking in the flowers, fruit, stack of books and clothes in the closet.
"God, the IOU's are so heavily weighted in her favor right now, I'm going to have to start playing basketball," said Tim despondently. "I can't play for shit."
"Rachel plays basketball?" Art asked.
"No, Nick."
"Oh," Art nodded his understanding and chuckled. "Better get practicing."
"Yeah," Tim said through gritted teeth.
"Got some family photos for you to look at." Art opened a file on his lap and handed it to Tim. "Raylan told you that Harold gave us the names of the assholes in the alley, right?"
"I vaguely remember," Tim replied taking the file and looking at the first photo, Carl Finley. He started to flip through the rap sheet, curious.
Art handed him the second one with a photo of Daryl Strong. "Well, recognize either of them?"
Tim just shook his head. Art thought he looked 'off'. He was still pale, with heavy dark circles under his eyes, hardly surprising considering the week's events, but it was more than that. Art was good at his job because he was observant and he wasn't happy with what he was seeing. Maybe it was just the drugs. He continued to study Tim while he read through the second file.
"How are you feeling?" he finally asked.
Tim shrugged with as small a movement as possible. "Good."
"Bullshit."
"Okay, I'm sore," Tim said tersely, tilting his head and glaring at his boss.
"And grumpy," added Art.
"And bored. How long have I got in here?"
"You make it sound like a prison term," said Art.
Tim closed the files and set them aside, then picked up the book again and started fidgeting with it, avoiding eye contact. "I need to keep busy, Art."
"Being bored's not so bad. Enjoy the down time. Relax," Art said.
"I'm not good with down time," Tim replied tensely.
"You'll be busy soon enough," Art pointed out.
Tim dropped the book back on the bed. "You're not getting it. I need to keep busy," he repeated more forcefully.
"You're right, Tim, I'm not getting it," Art responded, wondering what Tim wasn't saying. "Maybe you could explain to me what the problem is. You were bleeding to death in an alley three days ago. What did you expect? That you'd be up and about by now?"
Tim raised both hands to his face but remembered in time that he had a cast on his left arm and stopped short of smacking himself with it. He settled for rubbing his eyes with only his right.
"I just need to keep busy," Tim said again almost pleadingly. "I can't just sit around. I start thinking and remembering shit. I can't deal with it if I can't run or work or read or…"
"Drink?" Art finished for him, getting it now.
"Well it's not like they're serving here, and besides I'm working on that," Tim said angrily. "I've cut that way back."
"Good," Art replied sincerely, "I'm glad to hear it."
"I need to keep busy," said Tim a fourth time and dropped his head. "It gets bad if I don't."
Tim's rant, maybe less of a rant and more of a plea, disturbed Art. He was certain that the memories Tim wanted to avoid were from his time in Afghanistan. This was the closest he'd ever heard him come to confessing that he was still dealing with it. Art rubbed his head and tried to think of something he might do to help.
"Let me talk to the doctor," he offered. "I'm sure they'd be happy to get your grumpy fidgety ass out of here early. But Tim, you know you're still going to have time off. You won't be back on active duty for a while."
Tim looked at Art like he'd thrown him a lifeline. "I can keep myself busy at home," he said earnestly.
"Alright then, I'll see what I can do, but what about in the meantime?"
Tim trailed his hand over the cover of his book, tracing the title. "Got any mindless jobs that don't involve wrestling in alleys?" he asked looking up.
Art thought about it for a minute. "You know, I've got just the thing. Under any other circumstances you'd hate me for asking you to do it. I've got a box of old forensics reports from unsolved cases, ballistics and the like. It all has to be manually entered into the new system and no one's ever had the time to do it. It'll be boring as shit but it'll keep you occupied. Can you type one-handed?"
"I'll manage," Tim said gratefully.
"I'll get you a lap-top before the end of the day. I was going to make you do it for getting the car stolen, but it's hardly punishment now since you're actually happy about it." Art added the last comment to try and lighten Tim's mood a little.
Tim gave him another half grin. "I promise I'll complain. A lot. Okay?"
Art stood up. "Let me go find Phil. I'll be right back."
Art stepped out into the hall and almost walked into a young woman leaning against the wall just outside Tim's room.
"Excuse me," he said then stopped and looked at her suspiciously. She wasn't hospital staff. "Can I help you?"
"Are you the Chief Deputy?" she asked.
"Art Mullen," he replied. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm Dr. Cajic, the temporary psychologist," she said, then shrugged at the title. "Miljana." She smiled and offered her hand.
Art shook it and smiled back. "Lurking in hallways?"
"I confess. I was eavesdropping."
"Walk with me. I have to talk to the doctor." He took her arm and led her down the hallway to the nurses' station. "How much did you overhear?" Art asked pointedly.
"All the important bits," she replied equally bluntly. "Do you think he'd mind if I visited him?"
"I really don't care if he minds or not. Visit him as often as you like. He can't run right now," Art replied. He asked the nurse on duty if Phil was available and she offered to page him. Art turned back to talk to Miljana. "What would you recommend I do for him?"
"Exactly what you're doing. And I promise I'll visit him. A lot. Okay?" she said mimicking Tim's words and smiling.
Art chuckled. He could understand why Tim liked her and thought that she would be perfect if she weren't so damned pretty. He watched her as she walked back down the hall and slipped into Tim's room and decided he'd better remind his Deputy that he was not allowed to date the department psychologist.
Phil hailed him from his office door and Art headed over to meet him. He briefed him on Tim's military background and asked for some consideration about getting him home sooner.
"Afghanistan, huh? I wondered," said Phil. "Let's see. He came in Monday night." He counted off the days on his fingers, stopping at five. "Usually we like to keep them in a full week if they've had surgery, but he might be able to go home on the weekend. He seems to be healing fine. I'll come in on Saturday and make a decision. Is there someone who can pick him up and stay with him for at least a couple of days? It'd be best to keep an eye on him for a bit longer and make sure he doesn't overdo it."
"I'll find someone," Art said.
"Okay then," Phil agreed. He stopped, obviously thinking. "Was that his girlfriend?"
"Department psychologist."
"Oh, good. Send her to find me when she's done," he said. He patted Art's arm and left.
Art headed back to the room, but stopped halfway and turned around and went to get a coffee. He thought it a good idea to leave Tim alone with the psychologist for a bit.
Author's note: The coffee industry does well with fan fiction. Excuse any medical mess-ups. From what I understand 4-5 days is normal hospital stay for an abdominal stabbing without surgery; 7 with, provided nothing goes wrong. Does anyone have information on what kind of pain killers they'd normally serve up?