Barrelman

FebuWhump Bingo Square "Time Loop" on the It was Justified Discord

Setting: post 'Justified: City Primeval'
Sequel to my stories "All at Sea", "Albatross", "Dropped Like An Anchor" and "Navigating Rapids"

oOo

Boyd ran his hands slowly over the sheets, smoothing the crinkles out of the fresh linen. His eyes were closed and a smile played around his lips as his mind supplied him with the fond memory of his fingers spreading sunscreen reverently over the expanse of Raylan's strong shoulders and back just hours ago. Tracing cool slickness across sunkissed skin and hard muscle, Raylan leaning into the tactile sensation like a touch-starved cat, made for a holy, electrifying experience. Boyd hadn't been above applying more sunblock than strictly necessary, just to prolong the intimate connection between them. When Raylan had reciprocated, baptizing Boyd with attention and sunscreen, even where the sun's rays definitely wouldn't reach, one delicious thing led to another. And both men almost found religion, reaching for the untrespassed sanctity of space hand in hand.

His adoring reminiscing was interrupted rudely. Something was up; Boyd could tell by the sound of Raylan's disgruntled footfalls before the man in question even entered the cabin.

"Ava called. Zach didn't return to the class meeting; he's missin'." Raylan's gaze was icey and he ground his teeth angrily as he clutched his phone decidedly harder than necessary.

Turning toward his partner from where he was making the bed, Boyd tilted his head in disbelieving alarm. "What'd you mean, he's missin'?"

"Don't play dumb, Boyd," Raylan growled aggressively. "You know anything 'bout this?" His right hand was resting on his hip, fingers tapping away at the belt loop where his gun used to sit in another life.

"Raylan Givens, you actually accusin' me of somethin' here?" The cadence of Boyd's voice was more threat than question.

"His disappearance some shit you pulled, now's the time to share. Or I swear to God…" He didn't need to finish that sentence; how it ended, went without saying.

The dark-haired man went completely still but his clenched fists left no doubt about his emotional state. "You may recall, I was here in your company the whole time," he uttered deceptively quiet. "How'd you figure I did this then?"

"I don't know, Boyd. And I don't care. You could've orchestrated somethin' when I turned my back."

"You honestly believe I'd do somethin' to my boy?" Boyd hissed and tried to stare him down but Raylan's angry scowl never wavered.

"If it wasn't you, who then? And why?" He huffed an angry breath, much like a bull before charging. "More importantly, why now?"

As a former marshal, he didn't believe in this kind of coincindence but Boyd acted more pissed off at the accusation than caught out. And if Raylan wasn't entirely mistaken, there was worry in his grave expression and stiff posture.

"Well, I don't rightly know, Raylan. But seems to me, we should go findin' my son, now, rather than levelin' unfounded recriminations."

The two men were ready to go for the throat the moment one of them moved, and the latent hostility between them intensified another notch. Then the phone in Raylan's hand chirped to life and cut through the tension. He looked at the display flashing a name as if he couldn't, for the life of him, fathom the electronic device's purpose. Directing a hard look at Boyd to stay him in his tracks, he turned to go outside again.

"Givens," he barked as he pushed through the entryway. Boyd's eyes followed him until the door closed between them, then he sat down on the bed heavily and buried his face in his hands.

~o~

The sight that greeted Raylan when he returned below deck, made him stop short. Boyd had dressed in jeans and button-down and packed what few belongings he called his own.

"Woah, there." He held up a hand as if to ward off bad luck. "Where the hell you think you're goin'?"

"Why Raylan, I'm gonna go find my son." He hefted the small bag over his shoulder and took a step toward the other, who didn't so much as make an inch of room where he was basically blocking the exit. Boyd wasn't fazed though. He took another determined step as if daring Raylan to stop him.

"Okay," the taller man conceded out of the blue.

That did stop Boyd like nothing else would have. He searched his friend's face for a hint of insincerity with suspicion but couldn't find any.

"Look, Boyd…" Raylan started in a placating tone, then cut himself off. "Can you put that down?" He nodded at Boyd's scarcely filled bag and was actually surprised when the ex-convict indeed slid his belongings to the floor wordlessly.

Raylan didn't miss a beat, "That too." His eyes were fixed on the Sig in Boyd's other hand, half hidden behind his back.

Boyd hesitated this time, contemplating Raylan's motives and his own options, before shoving the gun into his wasteband. Then he looked at the other man expectantly. "Clock's tickin'. I hope whatever knowledge you mean to impart is worth it."

There was an edge to Boyd's words, a clear warning not to waste his time. Raylan moved into the cabin, leaving the door open behind him as a rare sign of trust, and sat down at the small table. Boyd remained standing.

"Humor me?" He swiped his hand across his face wearily without letting his friend out of his sight.

When Raylan stretched his tanned legs out in front of him in a show of non-threatening behavior, Boyd moved to the table eventually and pulled the second chair up and around. With the back rest set in front, both felt the barrier between them, a distinct return of the distance they had tried to surmount these past ten days. After another moment's reluctance, Boyd seated himself opposite Raylan.

"I know you'd never hurt your son, and I'm sorry, Boyd," was what Raylan chose to begin with, and his expression conveyed clearly he struggled with how to continue from there. Boyd waited him out. After all, it had been Raylan's initiative to talk.

"You… I–" he sighed and started again. "We both know you know people. And you're... desperate to see your kid." The implication stood between them like a dark monolith. Boyd wasn't stupid; he knew how this added up in the professionally suspicious mind of a former lawman.

"Still don't make me guilty by default, son." He leaned closer, his dark hair standing on end like the pelt of an electrocuted rodent. "I ain't here as your convenient scapegoat." Most of anything, Boyd sounded disappointed in Raylan. It stung more than it should have.

"Ain't makin' you one," Raylan defended himself although it wasn't strictly true. On more than one occasion, both before and after his return to Harlan, Boyd had been an expedient target for his anger and accusations – and they both knew it.

"Could've fooled me."

The words hung heavily in the air between them as they looked at each other. Both felt like they were riding a plane destined to crash. Maybe that had always been their inevitable fate. It was a sobering thought.

"You know, Raylan, Andy Warhol had a point when he articulated 'They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.'"

The other man nodded. "What I was tryin' to say is, that was Ava called me back. Looks like Zach ran away to come find his daddy. Credit card company gave Ava a ring 'cause he bought a Greyhound ticket from New Orleans to Miami this mornin'."

"Miami?! How'd he even know where to look for me?"

"Must've heard us speaking on the phone yesterday or somethin'. Told her to stay put in case he calls… or changes his mind and returns home."

"And Ava's okay with that?" Boyd asked in disbelief and got up. At Raylan's pointed stare, he added "We need to get him quick as possible! You got any idea what kind of miscreants ride the bus across country?"

Raylan put his hand on his friend's elbow to hold him at bay. "Boyd, I'm gonna tell you now what I told her. Findin' people, is what I did for a livin'. I know what I'm doin'."

"This is my 13 year old boy we're talkin' about, Raylan. Not some low-life fugitive who has whatever happens comin' to him." Unlike me, went unsaid but not unheard.

"And we'll find him. You and me, together." He held Boyd's gaze to make sure they were on the same page. This wasn't Groundhog Day; they had this one chance to get it right, or nothing else would ever matter between them again.

"Take your phone and check the Greyhound time table. New Orleans to Miami is bound to have at least one stopover," the former marshal stated, all in his element. "I lift anchor and head us to the coast. We'll rent a car in Fish Creek and drive to the next practicable Greyhound station on his route."

"Yeah," Boyd agreed and pulled his phone out. "We can pick Zach up there before the bus continues for the next leg of the journey." Raylan rushed from the cabin to get them ashore as fast as possible.

Two minutes later, the engines roared to life and the yacht cut through the waves like a knife through butter. Raylan was standing at the command center, wheel in hand, too revved up to sit in the chair. Boyd appeared from below deck, phone in hand, looking grim.

"The Greyhound for Miami left New Orleans at 1pm," he said. "Fist stop is Atlanta, quarter past 11. Bad news is, they're departing to Miami on two different routes; and there's no telling which one he'll take."

They looked at their watches in unision, then the taller man declared "It's 5.30 now. Guess, we'll have to catch him up in Atlanta then."

Raylan knew this was their best bet. Once Zach left Atlanta, they could only follow one route – or split up. Time was of the essence, so he pushed for speed, the engines howled, and their boat practically flew across the ocean toward the coast, wind whipping around their determinded faces.

~o~

Boyd waited around the corner from the tiny car rental office Raylan had disappeared into. No sense in being seen and risking getting caught now when he had his son to think of. He checked his watch for the million's time, 6pm, and tapped his foot impatiently, then took a long, calming drag from his cigarette. Only it didn't really calm him down any. Boyd peeked around the brick wall to the empty entrance and checked his watch again.

Another ten agitated pulls from his cigarette later, and the bud ended up on the sidewalk, stomped flat by Boyds boot with more force than was strictly necessary.

"I could get you for litterin'." There was a half-smile in those words, since littering would certainly be the least on that rap sheet.

Boyd flinched badly; he hadn't noticed Raylan walking up to him. The man dangled a pair of keys from his index finger and Boyd snatched them before Raylan could stop him.

"Hope you added a second driver," he called over his shoulder, already on his way to what passed as a carpool in this town.

Raylan rolled his eyes. "Actually, I didn't." His long legs carried him to his friend quickly before he walked past to the driver's side of an ugly brown towncar. "Kinda hard, without your driver's license." He paused for dramatic effect. "Or should I've used your mug shot from the wanted list?"

Boyd stopped dead in his tracks and drew his eyebrows up but decided to let the snide remark pass. Raylan had a point there after all. Then he considered their car for a long moment. "What'd you tell'em? Your grandpa needed a ride to the cemetery?"

"It'll get us to Atlanta," he assured at Boyd's incredulous gaze, then added "Keys," with emphasis, making grabbing motions with his hand. Reluctantly Boyd threw them over to him and stalked to the passenger door indignantly.

They climbed in and Raylan floored it, barely waiting until the other man was seated. The car's forward motion pushed the passenger door closed with a bang that echoed in the cabin.

~o~

It was a long drive; the hours and miles gnawed away at what patience they could muster to begin with. I-75 was busy at this time of the day but in spite of the traffic, they made better time than anticipated, only stopping for gas and a quick bathroom break once they crossed into Georgia. The later the hour, less and less cars passed them by. Yet when the two of them got closer to Atlanta, traffic trickled in again, slowing them down again.

Boyd had been checking his watch incessantly since they could see the skyline of the city, and even if he refrained from counting it down loudly every single time, by now, it made Raylan want to strangle him. So he white-knuckled the steering wheel instead and kept his eyes studiously on the road.

Just when Boyd lifted his wrist again and inhaled to say something, the former marshal beat him to it. "You know, we're goin' fast as we can. You tick off the reading one more time, I'm gonna cuff your hands behind your back."

The other man threw him an annoyed glance. "As you can surely infer, over the course of the past 15 years, I obtained a certain aversion against handcuffs."

Raylan huffed unamused. "No shit."

"It's also detremental to our arrival on this tight a schedule to be stuck in traffic and clueless about what time is left."

"Boyd, we're gonna get there," Raylan stressed. "What's detremental to…" He hit both the bakes and the horn hard when the car in front of them suddenly slowed almost to a stop for no obvious reason. Boyd braced himself against the dashboard, clenching his jaws. Thankfully Raylan brought their rental to a stop before crashing into the other vehicle. The cars behind them honked in displeasure. Then the driver in front changed lanes, seemingly without so much as a glance over his shoulder, cutting off a dark blue truck, and took the exit to the International Terminal of the airport.

"He win his license in the lottery?!" Raylan groused and Boyd harrumphed in agreement.

They followed I-75 past the huge Maynard H. Jackson Jr. terminal another ten miles, then got off near Civic Center and drove along Pamberton Place and Centennial Olympic Park before turning onto Marietta Street.

"Are we even in the right lane? Think we need to make a right turn next crossin' or the one after."

The dark-haired man checked the route planner on his phone for confirmation and then aborted his movement to look at his watch once more. A forced half-smile played around Raylan's lips when he turned his head to the passenger side for merely a second.

"We'll find him, son." He had never seen Boyd wound up like this, and discovered his own nerves were almost as frayed.

"There! The Greyhound," Boyd pointed animatedly to the crossroad ahead a coulpe of heartbeats later.

"No, that's a MARTA bus. We should come up on the Greyhound station in a few minutes now though."

"Provided we take the correct turn," Boyd said, squinting out of the windshield at the street signs and the red tail lights in front of them as if they had personally done him harm. Raylan bounced his head against the head rest, sighing deeply.

"If not, we'll go around the block." In truth, his patience was wearing just as thin as Boyd's this close to their destination.

When they came up on the second crossroad, Raylan indicated right.

"No, next one."

He killed the indicator and followed Boyd's direction, driving on before steering their car right into Forsyth Street. There were a lot less cars here and they could speed up some more. A couple of minutes later, they made out the modern bus terminal from over a block away already.

"Over there." Raylan signaled unnecessarily.

"11.20," Boyd pointed out, and this time, the other man was actually grateful for the heads-up.

The traffic light in front of them showed red and forced them to another irritating halt. Both of them counted down the seconds until they could keep going on. Once it turned green, Raylan drove past the parking lot and headed straight for the station building, parking in a disabled only spot right in front of the entrance. Neither could care less right now.

"Go in and check if the bus already arrived. I'll look real quick for him outside and follow you in." Raylan needn't have bothered telling him; Boyd was already on his way to the door, barely sparing him a glance.

The stifling heat of the day had given way to a mostly pleasant warmth and a light breeze. A few people were milling about outside the building, heading in or out, but there wasn't a teenager in sight anywhere, so Raylan went inside as well immediately. It was surprisingly crowded for going on midnight on a work day. He spotted Boyd walking over to him from the digital display to the right side.

"Bus from New Orleans arrived not five minutes ago. Slot six," Boyd informed him. "First bus to Miami exits in fifteen, slot one."

"Maybe he's still at the bus then, or close by," Raylan contemplated.

When they approached the bus slots, only a handful of passengers were gathered with the driver, collecting their baggage and chatting animatedly. Raylan took the driver aside and talked to him, showing him a photo on his phone, while Boyd took a peek into the interior of the Greyhound. It was dimly illuminated and empty.

When he climbed out again, Raylan was right there. "Driver says Zach rode right behind him on the bus. Never seen a teenager be so quiet the whole time."

"He seen where he went?"

"Said he didn't see. But he remembered his ticket was for the later bus to Miami."

"Slot two," Boyd recalled. "Don't leave before almost 1 though. He could be anywhere until then." He sighed, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. The anxiety and hours-long drive over here had taken their toll. They were both tired.

"At least he won't get on the bus without us findin' him first," Raylan reassured himself as much as his friend. "Gives us enough time to search the whole station, too."

"Lets check the restrooms and vending machine first, then the restaurant." Boyd suggested and headed off in the direction of the main waiting area with Raylan right on his heels.

On their way to the facilities, Raylan's hight afforded him a certain advantage over Boyd, looking for the other's missing son among the people around them. He spotted a dark-clad boy with a baseball cap impatiently pushing the buttons of the vending machine and nodded to Boyd. When Raylan got there and walked up to his back, the kid turned around and flinched away from the tall stranger. It wasn't Zach.

"Watch where you going, gramps." The teenager griped, stepped past Raylan and strolled into the waiting area, throwing a sullen glower at them over his shoulder after a few feet. Boyd couldn't suppress a quiet laugh at his friend's surprised expression despite his own tension. Raylan simply shrugged it off and proceeded on his way to the lavatories. Dealing with moody teenagers, was something he had gotten used to lately.

Boyd was a couple of paces ahead, already reaching out for the handle to the gent's room, when the door was pushed open and a lanky teen bumped into the dark-haired man on his way out.

"Sorry, Sir," the boy apologized politely, meeting Boyd's eyes and stopping short suddenly.

"It's al–" With the instant recognition, Boyd's response died in his throat. The two of them stared at each other, stunned silence shutting out everything else from the outside for a moment.

Raylan saw it happening from three steps behind his friend and his heart actually skipped a beat. It felt like walking into the twilight zone; Highschool-Boyd encountering his older self in the most unusual of circumstances. He had always known they looked so very similar, but seeing it in person, took it to a whole new level. Images from the past overlapped the present like a half-transparent layer. It all but made his head spin, and he couldn't begin to grasp how Boyd and Zach must feel right now.

"Zachariah?" If Boyd's words sounded choked, Raylan wasn't going to hold it against him any time soon – or ever, really.

"Dad?" The kid, who just about came up to his father's shoulder, appeared as breathless as Boyd, and his eyes were huge.

"Well, I'll be." Boyd took a shaky breath as if bracing for a firing squad. "It sure is good to see you, son."

"Yeah." Zach threw himself into Boyd's arms with the blessed innocence of a youth who had never known domestic violence.

The spell broke like a bubble bursting open at the touch of a needle. Time continued in a leap forward, poised with opportunity – for failure or success, remained to be seen.

The End

A/N: unbeta'd. We die like Boyd and Raylan's dread.

A/N 2: My heartfelt thank you goes to the wonderful iseidenapfel/i, whose invaluable input provided the basis for this turn of events, when I was stuck coming up with a good excuse for Boyd meeting Zach.

A/N 3: Also a very grateful shout-out to my lovely twin sister itwinchaoablade/i, who pointed out some flaws in my reasoning as a great sounding board, even if it added another couple of hours research after just finishing hours of it. The plot profited from it.

Part 5 of Waterlogged