Title: The Swear Jar 22/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.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Disturbed and exhausted by the dreams of the last two nights, Raylan had a harder time than usual concentrating on paper work. He was alone at the office, as Rachel and Tim had been called out on a prison transport for the day, and Art was attending a mandatory training out of town … one he had vehemently bitched about having to attend for weeks on end.
Raylan tried to concentrate on the report on his computer screen, but his mind continued to wonder back to the same disturbing thought: Could it be that he really started off no different than Boyd, or possibly, even worse? Or were these sudden dreams the result of all the recent Boyd talk and subsequent analysis by the shrink and then, Winona?
The long morning at his desk consisted of consuming four cups of bad coffee and a couple of stale donuts, causing Raylan to miss his fellow deputies who were usually on hand to make a coffee run for the good stuff. Partaking so much of the bad stuff left him with a rumbly, acid stomach and no desire for more coffee. As the caffeine began to leave his system, staring at his computer screen, he felt his eyes becoming heavy … so heavy he could no longer hold them open, and his head slowly lowered to his desk.
Raylan finally did feel the bottom of the hole with his feet. He untangled his foot from the loop and gave the rope a tug, signaling Boyd to hoist the rope back up.
In the darkness there was silence as, unbeknownst to Raylan, Boyd had disappeared. As the seconds turned into minutes, Raylan began to grow concerned that Boyd lowered him down there with all the loot up above ground. Boyd could be that kind of a guy.
After a beat, Raylan called up, "Boyd?"
Less than a minute later, Boyd's head popped over the side of the hole, staring down at Raylan in the dark hole.
"You were afraid I'm gonna leave you down there, and the money up here with me?" Boyd let out a creepy laugh.
This time when Boyd lowered the rope again, the backpack and the bag of Boyd's gear were attached. In the pitch black darkness, Raylan could hear them coming down towards him.
"There's a flashlight in my bag," Boyd called down into the hole.
Raylan finally felt the one of the bags touch the top of his head, and he let out a sigh of relief. He guided them the rest of the way down, unhooked them from the rope, and gave it another little tug as a signal. He felt for the zipper of Boyd's bag. Once opened, he felt around inside until he found the flashlight. He turned it on and pointed it up towards Boyd.
He then pulled the rope, testing its security, and began descending down. Unlike Raylan, Boyd could scale a wall like a spider. He held onto the rope and gently 'walked' himself on down.
"I must admit, the thought did cross my mind to leave you down here … for just a split second," Boyd finally spoke, as he scaled his way down with the agility of a cat, "but I would never do that to you. You're my friend."
"Thanks," Raylan said, helping Boyd ease all the way down. "I couldn't trust just anyone with this, either."
Raylan was never the demonstrative or communicative type when it came to his feelings. That was about as friendly as he was going to be.
Once they were both down in the hole, Raylan illuminated the tunnel so they could figure out their next move. They walked further into the mine, took a turn left, and walked in another 20 paces.
"This is good enough," Boyd finally said.
They both stopped. He placed his bag down on the ground, unzipped it, and began rummaging for what he needed. He found the wiring he needed and unspooled a length and then, cut it with wire cutters. He placed the backpack full of money in the mine and attached one end of the wire to a metal fitting on the wall near the backpack. Next, he continued to unspool the wire until the walked the 20 paces back. Boyd then, pulled out an explosive device and hooked it up to the wire, and pulled the wire taut.
"Hey," Raylan tried to get Boyd's attention. "We need the $25,000 to make the pot buy." Not getting an answer, he continued. "All the money's in the backpack, includin' what we need when we leave here."
Boyd, shook his head in frustration, mainly with himself. "Shit," he uttered. Then, he handed Raylan his bag of gear. "Go on back in there and pull 5 stacks out of the backpack." And then, he added, "Be careful!"
Doing what Boyd said, Raylan backtracked his steps, as Boyd illuminated his path with the flashlight. After he made it to the backpack, he opened both bags and transferred 5 stacks from the backpack into the Boyd's gear bag. As he closed the 2nd bag, Raylan saw what looked to be a scorpion crawl over the back of his hand.
"Ahhhh," he uttered and flung the insect away from him.
"What's the matter?" Boyd asked.
"Scorpion," Raylan answered.
"It's probably not," Boyd answered back. "There's these bugs that look like scorpions, but they're not."
Scorpion or not, Raylan had been down in the mine long enough for one day. The damp, cool place was creeping him out, and all he wanted to do was to get topside. He grabbed the handle of the gear bag and tuned to leave, but in doing so, Raylan's shoe became tangled in the trip wire and BOOM!
Earth and debris in between Boyd and Raylan caved in.
"Raylan! Raylan!" Boyd shouted, waiting for an answer.
"Raylan?" a feminine voice called, shaking the sleeping marshal by his shoulder. "Hey, are you okay?"
"Wha?" he opened his eyes, his head on his desk.
Disoriented, it took him a moment to take in his surroundings.
"You were callin' out to someone," the woman said.
It was Callie, the department receptionist.
Finally realizing where he was, he said, "I'm fine. I guess I just dozed off and had a bad dream."
"Well, just so you're okay," she said.
"Yeah, I am," he sat up. "Thank you for checkin' on me."
"Not a problem," the young lady said and left to go back to her desk.
As soon as she was out of earshot, shaken to the core, Raylan picked up his cell and began frantically punching in numbers into the phone.
Raylan's heart was pounding. He listened to his phone ring six or seven times before someone finally answered.
"This is Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens. I need to speak to Dr. Fried," he spoke into the receiver in a state of panic. "No, I need to speak to her, directly. Would you tell her it's urgent?"
The receptionist took Raylan's phone number and promised she'd get the message to Dr. Friend, right away. After a few moments, his cell phone rang. It was the doctor.
"Look, I know I don't have an appointment until next week," Raylan began, "but I need to talk with you … now."
"My last appointment of the day cancelled," Dr. Fried responded in an even tone. "I can see you at 5:30 p.m."
"Thanks," Raylan said. "I'll be there."
Later that afternoon
Raylan called Winona and told her he was going to have to work late, and promised her it was not in Harlan. She appreciated knowing that and then, changed the subject by asking him if he had talked to Art about speaking with Faylene. Raylan had completely spaced it, as he had more pressing things on his mind, although he didn't tell that part to Winona. Not wanting to concern her, he told her that Art was gone to a training all week and suggested that she call Faylene herself to get the wedding ball rolling. He thought that there was no reason to bring Winona into his disturbing dreams … something that he, himself, did not understand.
Raylan explained to her that he couldn't imagine Art taking his wife with him to a conference in Cheyenne, Wyoming. So, it was likely she could be home, maybe for the entire week. He convinced Winona to give it a shot and gave her Art's home phone number.
At 5:30, sharp, Raylan was welcomed into Dr. Fried's office. He took a seat, landing in the chair with a thud. He looked as tired as he felt. The good doctor promptly took her seat and grabbed his file and a pen.
"What happened to your hand?" she asked, noticing his bandaged hand.
"It's nothin'," he answered, "and has nothin' to do with why I'm here."
"You said you needed to see me, as soon as possible," she responded. "How about you start with telling me why you are here?"
Raylan removed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair, letting out a huge sigh.
"I can't sleep," he explained, "for the last two nights." "Every time I drift off, I have these horrible dreams."
"What kind of dreams?" she asked, making notes. "Can you tell me about them?"
Raylan leaned forward in his chair.
"This is confidential, isn't it?" he asked, in all sincerity. "Because if it's not, I need to find another therapist, stat."
Dr. Friend looked a little perplexed.
"I'm hired by the Marshal Service," she explained her loyalties. "I am also required to keep our sessions confidential; however, I am required by law to report anything that would injure the Service."
Raylan looked down and shook his head, grabbing the back of his neck with one hand.
"I don't know what the dreams mean," he said. Then, he looked up and locked eyes with her. "I said they were disturbing." After a pause, he continued, "Either the dreams mean something … or … the fact that you and I have been talking about certain things triggered the dreams. How am I to know which one it is?"
Dr. Fried could understand Raylan's dilemma.
"I need to find out for sure," he went on, "but even more urgent, I have got to be able to sleep without wakin' up in a cold sweat. I'm so damn tired, I can barely function. I seriously have no business drivin' home tonight."
One look at the man told Dr. Fried he was speaking the truth. She noticed when he came in that he looked bad. His face was pale and gaunt. He had dark, puffy circles underneath his red, blood-shot eyes. In fact, he looked as if he had aged a good 10 years since the last time she saw him, only a few days before.
"Off the record, Mr. Givens," she finally spoke, "do these dreams have anything to do with Boyd Crowder?"
Raylan looked up at her with a look of astonishment. "How'd you know?"
"I didn't know for sure," she answered, "but it's not hard to connect dreams with the topic of your last session." After a beat, she added, "Do the dreams have anything to do with the aspect of 'survivor's guilt' we talked about?"
"You mean the aspect you talked about, and I rejected?" he raised an eyebrow.
"Yes … did I hit a nerve?" she answered his question with another question.
Raylan leaned even further forward and propped his elbows on top of his thighs. He then held this heavy head in his hands and closed his eyes.
"I don't know what to do," he said, "but I need to do something. The thought of me goin' home and havin' another one of these dreams …" The end of his sentence drifted off until he tilted his head to look up at her with a serious pleading in his eyes, "… I just can't."
Here sat this strong, stoic, at times cocky lawman in front of her, and he was close to the breaking point. She needed to proceed with caution.
She reached out and touched his arm. "You're obviously in the state of exhaustion, and I cannot hold you responsible for what you might say. You are not in a state of mind to know whether you should speak to me or not. And … you are correct. I may have brought this on, although I had no way of knowing exactly how you'd react."
Dr. Fried closed her file and placed it and the pen on the table next to her. This time, it was she who leaned forward.
"Let me throw some options out to you," she looked him in the eyes with compassion, a first for her with him. "If you can't trust me, and I can see why you may not, I can refer you to another therapist. If you need to speak to someone right away, I could get you over to the hospital and admit you, but it could very likely end up on your work record … depending on their diagnosis and the reason you are admitted."
He looked at her. None of these were good options.
"Or … you could speak to me … and we continue off the record," she offered. "No notes, no files. Completely confidential. It would give me an idea of how to proceed, and how to best help you." She paused a moment. "If it ever goes into an area where I can no longer proceed, I would tell you. You need to be able to trust someone."
"You have no idea," he said. "Alright, let me first tell you about the dream I had last night."
Raylan proceeded to tell her about the first dream, and the point where he woke up. He waited for her reaction.
"Okay," she nodded, indicating she carefully listened. "And what about the second night?"
He recounted the dream for her, feeling almost out of body as his mouth spoke the words.
When he was finished, Dr. Friend asked him, "How do you feel after telling me?"
He looked up at her. "Tired," he flatly said. "I'm so damn tired."
He leaned his head back into the chair and stared vacantly at the ceiling.
"Do you know what it's like to want to sleep so bad … but to be afraid of closin' your eyes?" he asked.
"I have some prescription samples here I could give you to try tonight to help you sleep," she said, as she stood up and went to her desk, where she opened the top drawer and grabbed a set of keys.
She then went over to a locked cabinet beside her desk and opened it. There were shelves stocked with drug samples. Then, she walked over to him and handed him a bubble package of pills. There were enough for several nights.
"Do you have any paid time off?" she asked.
"Plenty," he said. "I hardly ever take time off."
"Good, because these may make you groggy in the morning," she explained, "so plan on sleeping in. I suggest you call your boss, Art, tonight, and let him know you are being treated for insomnia and you need time off, as it will be necessary to adjust to the medication. Tell him if he has any questions, he can talk to me."
"Alright," he said.
"And I want to see you again tomorrow afternoon," she continued. "I have some time at 1:30." Then, she sat down so that she was back at his level. "I think that's enough talk for now. What you need most is some uninterrupted sleep."
Raylan sighed. "You won't get any argument from me."
Dr. Fried wrote down the appointment time on a card and handed it to him.
"About you being too groggy to drive home, you could leave your car here, if you can get a ride back tomorrow," she suggested. "Where do you live?"
"I'm about 15 minutes from here at this time of night," he answered.
Dr. Fried looks up at him. "I'd be happy to drive you home. Is your fiancée there?"
"Yeah, with the baby," he looked at her with questioning eyes that were full of panic. "But I don't want her to know anything about this until I know."
"Well, that's not going to work," she said. "While I understand why you don't want your workplace to know anything yet, that cannot be the case with the woman you are going to marry. You really do need to clue her in as to what is going on with you. I could come inside with you," she suggested. "We open the door with her on what is going on, give you the pills, and ask her to let you get some much needed sleep."
"But what if she …?" he looked panicked again.
"Remember what I said about how you need to trust someone?" the doctor asked. "You also need to trust your fiancée." After a beat, she added, "At some point, you need to tell her you're afraid she'll leave you if she finds out about these dreams … allow her the opportunity to be there for you. It's time to stop hiding, Raylan." Then, after a beat, she added, "But you don't have to have that discussion tonight."
Feeling as if he'd been outmaneuvered in a shootout, he finally relented. "Okay," he agreed, shaking his head, dreading the drive home.
(To be continued …)