Title: The Swear Jar 14/X
Author: Romantique
Email: dolph1n
Classification: Raylan/Winona Family/General
Rating: T for language (but no worse than the show)
Summary: Raylan is a new dad. This one is a stand-alone, not a sequel to 'A Change of Scenery.'
Disclaimer: It's 'Justified' hiatus time, and I'm bored. This fic is based on nothing but my imagination and takes place sometime after the end of Season 3.
Legal: These characters do not belong to me. I'm just a fan and have not made a dime. Please email me to obtain permission to post.
A/N Many apologies for the delay. Something very serious happened in real life that put writing on the back burner. It may very well happen again, as it's not in my control. Please stay with me. I know where this fic is going and have every intention of finishing it.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Monday morning came all too soon. Raylan arrived at work, uncharacteristically early. He sat at his desk and had even brought coffee for all from Coffee Times, Art's favorite coffee.
Tim was the next to arrive.
"Oh, bless you," Tim said upon seeing the carrier of Jumbo coffee cups on Raylan's desk. "You don't know how bad I need this, this mornin'."
And he helped himself to the one Raylan pointed out as his.
"Ahhhh," Tim exclaimed as he swallowed his first sip. "Muffins, too?" he asked. "What did you do, rob a bank over the weekend?"
Tim reached in and to take a giant blueberry muffin. Raylan grabbed his wrist to stop him.
"No, that's Art's favorite," Raylan chastised his partner. "You're welcome to take your pick of the other three."
"Ohhhh," Tim nodded. "This is all for Art," he surmised. "You really did do something while you were away, didn't you?" he asked, settling for a pumpkin looking muffin, instead.
"Yeah," Raylan nodded. "Somethin' happened. But Art needs to hear about it first, okay?"
"Whatever you say," Tim but his hand up, indicating he would back off.
A few minutes later, Rachael made her way to her desk.
"Ooooh. Coffee Time," she delightfully noticed. "What's the occasion?"
"Ol' Raylan is gonna try and soften the blow to Art," Tim nodded to his female partner.
Curiously, Rachael cast a glance at Raylan.
"So?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
She couldn't wait to hear this one.
On the other hand, Raylan let out a pensive sigh of exasperation.
"Somethin' happened while I was away, and I need a word with Art," he said, glancing hard back at her. "You two will find out soon enough, but I owe Art the courtesy of bein' the first to know."
"This ought to be good," she smiled, taking the cup that Raylan pointed out to be hers. "Oh, my. Muffins, too? Wow, this must really be bad," she surmised.
It was tough working with fellow Marshals. Nothing was lost on them.
"Yeah," Raylan give a tight smile. "It's one of my better ones."
"Did you shoot someone?" Art bellowed, catching the last of their remarks.
Seeing the Coffee Time goodies on Raylan's desk, Art quickly put two and two together.
"Art? I need a word," Raylan got straight to the point.
"A blueberry muffin?" Art said, spying his favorite pastry. "Oh, hell. This isn't gonna be good is it?" he asked his Deputy Marshal.
"Nope," Raylan said, following his boss into his glass office with coffee and muffins in tow.
Once they were both inside, Raylan closed the door and took a seat in front of his boss's desk. He carefully presented Art's coffee and muffin.
"Is the espresso gonna be strong enough, or do I need to pull out the Bourbon?" Art asked, not at all kidding.
"You might want a shot in your coffee," Raylan wryly nodded, "or two ... or three."
"Well, since you called the meeting, do you want to do the honors?" Art asked.
Raylan stood up and sauntered over to the book case, returning with the bottle that was about 3/4 of the way full. Art removed the lid from his cup, and gave Raylan access to pour a pretty good jolt into the cup. Raylan then did the same to his own cup and placed the bottle on the desk, still in reach.
They each took a good sip. The bourbon and hot java burned on the way down.
"Boyd Crowder," Raylan uttered the name.
Art looked up.
"What about him?" Art was afraid to ask.
"I saw him," Raylan began. "On Friday ... in Nashville."
Now, Art looked up at him, in disbelief.
"You went to the prison?" he asked, his voice becoming huffy.
"I needed to find out how Arlo escaped," Raylan calmly explained, using his hands.
"And did you?" Art asked. "Find out how he escaped?"
"No," he sighed, "but I found out some things I really don't want to know."
Now, Art was glaring at Raylan, afraid to ask what was next. Raylan leaned forward in his chair with his elbows propped up on his thighs.
"Boyd's in a bad spot in prison," he was fully taking with his hands.
"You think?" Art was not being sarcastic.
"He's havin' to keep his back against the wall ... if you know what I mean," Raylan raised his eyebrows. "And bein' as crafty as we both know he can be, he's decided he'd rather do his time in his home state of Kentucky."
"That's not up to him," Art insisted.
"It is if he confesses to a murder," Raylan tilted his head. "He's confessin' to the murder of one Derek Lennox."
"Devil?" Art said as he stood. "Your Daddy took the fall for that."
"I know," Raylan said. "I was as surprised as you are. Well, not really, that he did it ... but that he'd cop to it ... now."
Art began to pace behind his desk, his hands on his hips.
"Can he prove it?" Art asked.
"I told him he'd have to tell his lawyer where the murder weapon is," he recanted, as best he could, "as I could not be involved. But then, he reminded me our visit was bein' taped."
"Well, hell, Raylan," Art bellowed. "Why don't you just open up the Tennessee prison gates and welcome him here, back in Kentucky, with open arms?"
Art's pacing picked up in speed, and now, he was rubbing his bald head in utter frustration.
"Why in the hell did you have to go down there and ruin my life?" Art ranted. "I had just gotten rid of that wily son-of-a-bitch. He was out of my hair ... forever. But no. You had to go down there and stir the pot."
"You could look at it that way," Raylan carefully chose his words, "or you could realize that Boyd was gonna do this anyways, and all I did was find out what he was up to. And I came directly to you to give you a heads up?"
Art glared at his charge.
"For someone who claims to not give a damn about his Daddy, you obviously do give a damn," Art sputtered. "And you obviously don't give a damn about me."
"That's not true!" Raylan defiantly sprung to his feet.
"Which one?" Art bellowed back.
"Neither of 'em," Raylan insisted, glaring bullets back at his boss.
Art let out a huge sigh of frustration.
"Did Boyd mention the murder of Tom Bergen?" Art asked.
At least if this was going to go down this way, Art figured they owed Tom's family the right murderer.
Raylan put his hand up to his mouth and firmly stroked his jaw.
"No," he answered. "Boyd still maintains he was unconscious and didn't see who did it."
After a moment of silence, Art reached behind his desk and turned around with two empty glasses. He took a seat in his chair and motioned for Raylan to take his, as well. He proceeded to pour three fingers worth of Bourbon in each glass, and he handed one to Raylan. With a nod of the head, they each downed their poison.
After a time of silence with each man inside their own head, Art looked up and asked, "Why do you care about a piece of shit like Boyd Crowder? You basically drew him a map as to how to get out of the State of Tennessee."
Raylan thought about what Winona had said and decided he had nothing to lose by telling Art the truth. He told Art the whole story, including how Boyd had saved his life not once, but twice.
"And now, the prison has you on tape, listenin' to Crowder's confession, and you givin' him legal advice 'off the record," Art added, using his fingers to emphasize the quote. "You re clearly professionally conflicted when it comes to Boyd Crowder," Art concluded. "You've made some bad calls where he is concerned, and this is definitely the worst of them. I have no choice but to write you up for disciplinary action."
Raylan looked at him, in shock.
"Art? What are you sayin' here?" Raylan asked.
"Your conduct in goin' down on your own time, visitin' with a known criminal and gettin' yourself and the State of Kentucky into this mess is unbecomin' to the Marshal Service," he grimly stated. "I don't know what the discipline will be because it's not my call. It could be anything from a slap on the wrist, which I doubt they'd give you because you're such a known quantity ... up to termination from the Service."
"But Art, I had no way of knowin' what Boyd would do or say," Raylan defended himself. "He was gonna do whatever he had to do to eradicate himself from his threatenin' situation regardless of whether I was there or not."
"It doesn't matter," Art maintained. "It is my duty to report this, and I cannot keep your name out of it."
"Well, shit!" Raylan exclaimed. "Did you know I just found out Winona is pregnant this mornin'? Again?"
After a silent beat, Art poured them each another couple of fingers of the Bourbon.
"Well, congratulations," Art said, raising his glass. "Too bad your babies' Daddy is an idiot with misplaced loyalties, when it comes to Crowder."
"Is that what you're gonna say in your report?" Raylan asked in astonishment, taking the newly filled glass from his boss.
Swallowing his drink, Art said, "No. But I want you to think about what I said ... because that's what the Service is gonna conclude. And you need to have an answer to it."
Raylan Givens sat there, thinking, 'How could he explain something to the Service that he didn't understand himself?'
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Later that afternoon, Tim and Rachael returned to the office from a prison transport Art had sent them out to perform. They could tell by Raylan's stiff and silent demeanor that he was in no mood to talk and decided it would be no fun to push it.
Earlier that morning, the two Deputy Marshals couldn't help but take an occasional peek into their boss's fishbowl of an office. They could tell from the body language of both Art and Raylan that the conversation wasn't going well. And when they saw Art finally pull out the glasses for a stiff drink at 9 a.m.? Well, they didn't even dare to imagine how bad it was.
The three finished up the day doing their respective paperwork in silence and left in the following sequence: Rachael first, followed a little while later by Tim, and then, Raylan. Raylan did not even wave goodbye to Art, through the glass window, as he always did ... nor did he acknowledge him in the least. It was all Raylan could do but to silently slip out the door.
Once down in the parking lot, in his car, he couldn't bring himself to go straight home either. He was too keyed up to face Winona with the latest development. Honestly, he decided he didn't want to burden her with what he didn't know. He decided, instead, to first stop by 'his bar.'
"Long time, no see," Lindsey acknowledged him from behind the bar. "Where have you been, Stranger? Roy said you still lived here, but I was beginnin' to doubt him."
Taking a seat on the stool in front of her, he answered, "Oh, I've been busy gettin' engaged and makin' another baby. And doin' somethin' really stupid on my job that I may now lose."
It was Lindsey's job not to react to what she heard. It was one of the things Raylan liked best about her.
Knowing how important his job was to him, she asked, "How about drink?"
"Make it a double," he nodded, "or maybe even a triple."
"Are you drivin' tonight?" she asked, in a dutiful, bartender tone.
Raylan shook his head.
"I kind of don't think so," he answered.
She left and returned with his drink in a glass. She then placed the bottle on the bar next to him, within his reach.
"Help yourself to more, if you like," she suggested, "and tell me all about it."
He proceeded to slowly sip on his Bourbon and tell her all about his reconciliation with Winona, Caitlyn, and their new house. He told her about how happy they were, their engagement ... how he found out that morning they were going to have another baby. And then, he told her how he had just screwed up everything by going to visit Boyd in Nashville.
After finishing his double, twice, he refilled his glass again ... only this time, Lindsey joined him. The bar was slow that night, and between the two of them, over the course of an evening, they ended up finishing the bottle.
The next morning, Raylan woke up with a bad case of cotton mouth and a pounding headache. He focused on the morning light shining through the bullet hole in his floor, and found himself lying in bed in his room upstairs from the bar. And lying beside him in bed, sound asleep, was Lindsey.
"Oh, shit," he exclaimed under his breath. "What the hell have I done, now?"
(To be continued ...)