You make me forget myself (when you hurt)
A/N:
Watching the fifth season of "Justified", I was in dire need of some serious TLC between the boys. And since I love some drama with my h/c, this plot bunny wouldn't let me rest until I typed up this canon-ish one-shot on my phone, literally in the dead of night.
Warning:
Canon-typical injuries and blood. I'm playing a bit fast and loose with medical care, so please bear with me.
Setting:
Somewhere between 5.06 'Kill the Messenger' and 5.07 'Raw Deal'; not entirely (but mostly) canon-compatible.
oOo
It was late when Boyd finally turned into the driveway to Ava's house, the shadows already deep enough to cast mysterious shapes in the vicinity. Even in the half-light he couldn't have missed the black Lincoln parked out front and gave a long-suffering sigh. He was so not in the mood for Raylan's bullshit tonight, after the disaster with the drug deliveries, his uneasy alliance with the Crowes and everything that had happened with Ava. Things were tense enough all around without the Marshal stirring the pot, and Boyd would've preferred to spend the evening without any more verbal sparring.
Boyd pulled up to the building and got out of his truck. Looking around, the house was dark, no Stetson-wearing lawman with a smart mouth and bad attitude in sight anywhere, waiting for him. When he stepped onto the porch though, he saw a dark figure on the two-seater to the side of the door. Squinting his eyes to see better, there was Raylan, curled up on his side, unmoving. His hat was lying on the floor boards, dropped or placed there, Boyd couldn't tell.
His hand hovered towards his gun in the back of his waistband without conscious thought. He didn't expect their meeting to escalate as quickly as when Raylan found out about the circumstances behind Helen's death but these days, it was pretty touch and go between them.
"Raylan, I find myself fresh out of patience for you tonight," he greeted the other man less cordial than usual. "So if we could just cut your visit to my humble abode short…"
"Boyd?" Raylan's voice was strangely weak, and immediately unbidden worry crept up Boyd's spine.
"What's wrong?" he asked reluctantly, unlocking the front door to switch the lights on without letting the other man entirely out of his sight. They both grimaced against the sudden brightness for a few seconds, the porch cast into an eerie glow from the single light bulb and the light falling through the windows. After his eyes adjusted again, Boyd couldn't help but notice Raylan's tight expression, his hand clutched to his abdomen, and the dark, wet spot on his button-down.
Raylan's eyes followed the other man's line of sight. "Got stabbed," he admitted tiredly, looking subdued in a way Boyd hadn't seen in a long time.
"No doubt, a result of your winning personality, my friend," Boyd commented unkindly. He rolled his eyes at Raylan's kicked-puppy look but held out his hand for the other to take, nonetheless.
Drawing a deep breath to steel himself, the Marshal pulled himself to his feet with Boyd's help, and allowed the shorter man to move his arm across his shoulders. Careful not to jostle Raylan's injury more than necessary, they walked unsteadily through the front door together and into the living room. Once there, Boyd lowered him slowly onto the worn couch, and Raylan couldn't stop the pained gasp as he lay down.
"Easy goes," Boyd soothed and lifted the man's feet onto the seat before he left quickly to fetch some towels and the first aid kit from the kitchen. Then he raised Raylan's upper body a little, carefully shoving a towel underneath him to minimize blood stains on the sofa, and pressed the other towel against the wound, hard. The injured man grunted and tried to breathe through the throbbing sensation, his face a grimace of pain.
Boyd winced in sympathy. "Sorry."
Raylan opened his eyes again; he hadn't even realized he had closed them in the first place. His mouth was drawn into a thin line, his hands clasped the towel in a white-knuckled grip.
"Let me check?" In Boyd's experience, it always paid to ask before doing anything invading personal space, especially when the other was injured and clearly in pain. No need to make a bad situation worse by triggering an instinctual reaction. His self-preservation was intact enough to recognize Raylan as a prime example of someone he wouldn't want to back into a corner like a wounded animal, literally.
The Marshal held his gaze for a moment, then nodded his agreement. Boyd started unbuttoning his ruined shirt before simply cutting through the middle of the once white wife-beater underneath with the pair of scissors from the first aid kit, careful not to cut anything sensitive. Slowly, Boyd pulled the garments open with steady hands; the two men hissing together through the motion of removing the wet fabric sticking to Raylan's bloody, clammy skin.
Boyd took a good look before pressing the blood-soaked towel back down. The injured man turned even paler for a second, his jaws clenched hard enough they seemed in danger of breaking. The wound wasn't as deep as Boyd had feared but it was still bleeding sluggishly. If Boyd remembered his anatomy right, nothing vital had gotten hit. If he was wrong… well, Raylan probably wouldn't be alive anymore to rant about this mistake.
"You're a lucky man, Raylan Givens. Ain't as bad as it could've been. You probably need stitches and would best be suited in a hospital, but since ain't no-one here but me, we'll have to content ourselves with butterfly tapes."
Raylan didn't answer, too consumed by trying to stay conscious. They gave it another long minute before removing the towel to check the bleeding once more. This time, Boyd took an alcohol swab and wiped it across the stab wound. Raylan hissed again and flinched away. Some blood welled up from the cut but Boyd merely swiped it a second time with a new alcohol swab. Then he poured a generous amount of peroxide over the injury, watching it bubble in the open wound, cleansing it, as Raylan chocked on a sob, unable to keep the embarrassing noise inside.
For his part, Boyd kept up his Florence Nightingale routine as if he hadn't heard, sparing Raylan's dignity. As promised, he placed a neat row of butterfly tapes along the cut, satisfied that the bleeding had stopped for now. Then he added a thick pad of gauze to the wound and taped it down, looking at his handy-work proudly.
"There. All done, son." Boyd picked up the discarded towel, wiping first Raylan's, then his own hands more or less clean with it. There was no salvaging the towels anyway.
He largely ignored the Marshal's genuinely grateful look from drooping eyes, determined to hold onto his disgruntled mood, now the immediate danger was over. He wasn't ready for the soul-searching that resulted from knowing Raylan would be alright and thanking whoever for it. So instead, Boyd placed the remaining supplies back into the first aid kit, rolled the trash into the ruined towel and carried everything back to the kitchen.
He returned a minute later with a bottle of Gatorade, which he wordlessly handed the injured man to counter the blood loss. While Raylan drank obediently, Boyd pulled the cowboy boots off his feet and carefully spread a blanket over him. Then he went outside and, back in the living room, set the light-colored hat on the coffee table, just out of Raylan's direct line of sight. Even so, the man's poor attempt at suppressing a small smile made Boyd huff. He dragged the armchair closer to the couch and sat down with a heavy sigh, staring at the lawman in his home.
"What are you doing here?" he finally asked wearily.
"I was just in town to ask the Crowes a couple–"
"I ain't really in a mood to listen to your life-story, son. You can tell me 'bout that tomorrow over breakfast," Boyd interrupted more harshly than necessary. He was just about done with niceties, especially regarding law enforcement.
"Why did you come here?" There was curiosity in his voice, but steel too.
"You told me once, I was always welcome if I needed help." It sounded lame, even to Raylan.
"And what in our acidic relationship of late lead you to believe you could encroach on this invitation?" Boyd looked at him expectantly, his eyes dark and shadowed.
"I had nowhere else to go," Raylan answered, barely a whisper.
"Why didn't you call your boss, or your Marshal buddies?" Boyd snapped.
"They're in Lexington." Raylan swallowed. "And I'm on forced vacation."
"Forced vacation?" Boyd's eyebrows shot up, although he wasn't as surprised as he should have been. He knew, more often than not, there was very little difference between his and Raylan's attitude. Only Raylan made mostly sure his actions could be justified, if barely, with his badge.
"I'm in the doghouse for imy connection with the shooting death of Nicky Augustine/i," the Marshal told him blandly, as if reading it off an official document. Boyd could practically hear the finger quotes.
"That caught up with you sooner than I expected."
At that, Raylan's face closed off. "You're right, I shouldn't impose on you any longer." He shuffled on the sofa trying to sit up. "I'll leave."
Boyd threw his hands up and shouted in utter exasperation: "Raylan Givens, if you get off this couch and undo all my hard work of stopping the bleeding, I swear I'll shoot you myself!"
The unholy twinkle in Raylan's eyes did nothing to ease Boyd's mind but the man settled down again, the pained lines on his face receding a little. Boyd released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"Now, I'm gonna get you something for the pain. There anything else you need?" They could continue this conversation in the morning, he decided.
Raylan considered it for a moment before shaking his head. Boyd nodded and stood up, slowly leaving the room. He was bone tired. Sometimes it seemed like this life meant to squeeze the last of his energy out of him. Yet the man laid up on his sofa, more often than not a trouble magnet, rated surprisingly low on his to-worry-about radar right now.
"Get some sleep. You look about ready to keel over. I'll check in on you again later," Boyd told him when he offered three white pills and a glass filled from the tap.
Raylan reached for the painkillers and swallowed them with a mouthful of water. "Thank you, Boyd. I mean it."
Boyd held his gaze for a minute and found nothing but honesty there. One side of his mouth twitched up in that blink-and-you'll-miss-it way of his when he really meant it but didn't know what to do with the emotion.
Almost at the stairs, his back to the room, he said quietly: "Raylan, you know you can always come to me if you need help."
"I know." Raylan sounded three quarters asleep but still aware enough of the olive branch offered here in the silent house, under the cover of night.
Boyd turned the lights off and walked upstairs to get an hour, or three, of sleep as well before he would check on his friend again.
The End
A/N 2:
My gratitude goes out to Bleuzombie for the lightning quick alpha read-through and my awesome beta twinchaosblade who makes sense of my stuff, even if I don't.
All remaining mistakes are mine.