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1.
Tim isn’t happy, in fact, he’s down right irritated. Tree sap sticks to his gloves and smears on his canvas pants, which are tucked into tightly laced boots to keep the bugs off his skin. He wishes he could stomp through the forest, but seeing as how he’s on a covert mission that wouldn’t be smart. Instead, he adjusts the weight of his pack on his back. It holds several days of supplies and his long-range weapon. Some Federally wanted asshole escaped into the Harlan mountains so the Feebs needed a sniper and a…Harlan guide. Several paces ahead of him, his ‘guide’ steps over a fallen log and the cowboy hat dips low as he navigates through the terrain. Tim laughed when he showed in his regular attire, cowboy persona still intact as if it would make hiking through the mountains easier. Only it wasn’t a joke, so Raylan just stared at him and Tim shook his head then let it go.
Here they are, deep into the woods, several hours later and the sun is directly overhead. Tim estimates that it’s about one in the afternoon— his normal lunch break time. His stomach grumbles on cue and Tim frowns, adding it to the list of reasons why today is stupid. He has food in his backpack, but Raylan only has a small duffle bag thrown over his shoulder, so Tim guesses they’ll be rationing supplies soon. Raylan’s lucky he’s pretty.
Tim moves his mind off his coworker before he decides to strangle him and focuses on nature. Mid-October gives them enough cool air, they’re not sweating and the leaves have all turned color. Tim reluctantly admits it’s rather nice. Birds chirp and a light breeze brushes Tim’s heated cheeks. Okay, it’s really nice.
Raylan stops and turns his head to the side, so he can see Tim in his peripheral. “We’re close,” he says, then adjusts their path to left some. They’re looking for an abandoned cabin that based on intel is on their fugitive’s trajectory. He’s due to arrive tonight or tomorrow morning, so they need to make sure to get there before him. Most days, Tim likes being ones of the only specialized sharpshooters in the state, but today… today he got told to kill someone and he’ll have to skip lunch and he’s stuck with Raylan for the night in a cabin without heat or running water, and his hands are fucking sticky. He sighs and kicks a rock.
They continue in silence for another thirty minutes before they come across a clearing, roughly oval shaped and lined by tall pines. They walk the perimeter toward the sagging cabin. Tim eyes the roof, wondering if it’ll collapse on them tonight. Wouldn’t that be lovely? His stomach grumbles in agreement and this time Raylan hears it. His cowboy hat swivels toward him and Raylan squints at him with a hint of a smirk at his lips. He doesn’t comment, only moves forward and walks into the clearing, his cowboy boots sinking into the clover and dormant grasses. Tim follows and they reach the creaky wooden porch sodden through with termites and mold. The boards give under Tim’s weight and he steps forward to find a more solid spot while Raylan works on opening the front door. With some wiggling and gentle pressure, the hinges spin and they walk through the threshold.
It’s nicer inside than Tim expected. Somehow the weather proof held and its dry if a bit dusty, but manageable. Pollen coated windows diffuse the fall sun and Tim watches particles float through the beams. As for furniture there’s an old ripped sofa and a wooden rocking chair that has a few missing spindles. It’s an open-concept layout with a family room centered around the stone fire place. Further back, the ‘kitchen’ has cupboards and some empty spaces were appliances might have resided years ago. Off to the side two doors lead to bedrooms and Tim vaguely wonders if they’ll be lucky enough to find a bed or something resembling one.
2.
Tim’s got a secret. He hides it right under the surface, like fish underneath ice, shadows moving out of reach. If you looked, you’d find it, but not one ever does. They don’t wanna see the truth, and that suits Tim just fine. In a sense, something can’t be hidden if there’s no one searching for it.
Shifting in his chair, Tim looks down at his shit hand of cards - nothing matching and all low ranks. He doesn’t bother worrying over the money he put in the pot, because the moment Rachel sat at the table, he was losing all of it anyway. She has a satisfied grin that keeps bursting onto her face, then it gets schooled into a neutral expression when she remembers others can see her.
Raylan looks the same way he always does. Tim watches his mouth as he shit-talks with Art and the crinkle around his eyes when he smiles. Shaded by the brim of his hat, Raylan’s eyes remain elusive, but Tim already knows them— their scorched earth brown, burning and wanting and smoldering. Again, Tim’s secret isn’t hiding.
Tim throws more money into the pot at his turn for the hell of it, and to speed the game up, because truthfully, he’d rather be in his apartment, slouched on his second-hand couch, sipping beer and having a staring match with an unopened pack of cigarettes. Damn, he misses smoking, especially in Kentucky.
His upped ante catches Raylan’s attention. They stare each other down from opposite sides of the table. Tim meets his gaze as if it doesn’t burn him from the inside out.
“You either got the world’s best hand or absolute shit,” Raylan comments.
Tim shrugs, “Gotta play to find out, cowboy.”
He hums and flicks more chips into the pile, meeting his bet. “Suppose I will,” Raylan says, low and with his Kentuckian lilt making hills out of the vowels.
Tim cracks a smirk, and Rachel sizes him up with a disapproving frown, because she knows he has fuck-all. She still doesn’t let Raylan know that, because she’s here for keeps.
Soon all the bets are placed and it’s time for the reveal. Cards on the table. Art displays his admirable pair that doesn’t complete with Rachel straight. Tim glances across the table. Just a high card and not much else. Raylan’s eyes are already on Tim when he looks upward. Amusement plays on his face as he takes in Tim’s hand. He throws him a grin back.
“Ranger,” Raylan addresses him, “You ain’t even got a pair. No offense, Art.”
Art grunts, “See you Monday…When you lot have walk-in duty.”
They all groan in unison, which diverts Tim’s response to being called a title from Raylan. Though, he’ll remember it later, repeatedly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Art says, waving a hand. “Well, I better get home.”
Tim checks in the inside of his wrist for the time and spots that they made it to a respectable 11:30 p.m. Art leaves and Rachel sets upon bullying Raylan into playing a round of 21. Tim acts as dealer considering he’s plum out of money.
3.
Tim leans backward in a meeting room rolly chair, resisting the urge to glare at the ceiling and sigh. Instead, he keeps his eyes on some blowhard’s presentation about tactical maneuvers involving multiple suspects. Tim argued with Art to be excused from this meeting, but apparently the mandatory nature of the training forced his hand, and Art wasn’t all that sympathetic to his plight anyway. He distinctly remembers Art saying, “It’ll do you good,” or some variation of a platitude meant to shut down the conversation. Tim let it go in the moment, but now he regrets not fighting it more.
The speaker’s voice drones on and he clicks through his slides at painfully slow pace. Tim glances to his right judging the other deputies' interest levels. Rachel has a slight pinch between her brows which means our expert definitely said something incorrect. Raylan has a hand placed on his chin like he’s thinking very hard on the subject, but Tim knows his brain is actually playing elevator music and nary a single word has penetrated his thick skull. Tim hasn’t mastered the disassociation game the way Raylan has, at least not when he’s sober. Give him a couple of beers and time loses all meaning. The key is to stay drunk, but not cross over into tipsy or black-out.
Tim doesn’t feel like thinking too hard so he picks a point on the wall and stares at it. Somewhere far away he can hear people talking and regular office sounds, and Tim briefly wonders if those sounds aren’t far away but in the room with him. He doesn’t linger on the thought. His surroundings have ceased to matter. If he unfocuses his gaze enough it’s like the mirage of the desert horizon, nothing but beige and distance. When the sun starts to bake his skin, he snaps out of it. Tim can’t let himself touch those memories too long in front of other people. Dread lines his gut, because it was at his fingertips too easy and that’ll mean it will take him under soon. Tim reckons it’s a bit like the tightness a joint has before it pops. You can give into the urge and pop it yourself or wait until the moment you move the right way and it happens anyway.
In his side vision, flashes of light indicate the passing of slides and Tim’s glad that the presenter decided to speed it up a bit even if he’s not paying attention. Something like clapping fills the room, but Tim’s lost interest, he’s staring at the wall again. Someone nudges his shoulder, yanking him back to the present and he looks up to see Raylan and company leaving the meeting room. Raylan motions with his head to follow, but doesn’t comment on Tim’s mental state or that he would have continued to sit here alone for who knows how long.
He follows the group out to the bullpen and sits at his desk, shuffling papers to different corners and typing random words into a document. Yep, he’s definitely hard at work.
“Tim,” Raylan addresses him, “mind coming with me to sign out the Lowell case from records.”
Tim shrugs and they trick through the office, walk into the elevator. The doors close before Tim realizes there is no Lowell case and that Raylan’s definitely confronting him about earlier. Crap. He narrows his eyes at Raylan.
“Where are we going?” He says, jaw clenched so it comes out even more sarcastic than usual.
“Downstairs,” Raylan says.
“No shit.” Tim rolls his eyes. “You made the Lowell case up unless there’s something you neglected to mention.”
Raylan smirks. “You caught me. We aren’t going to the records room.”
“And are you gonna tell me your plan?”
Raylan hums. “Well, I have an idea of what I want to do. Are you up for coming along?”
“It’s like asking a magic eight ball for a detailed answer.” Tim furrows his brows and an irritated tightness squeezes his chest, but he exits the elevator and walks out of the building with Raylan.
4.
One year, thirty days, four hours, and a handful of minutes— the amount of time it’s been since Raylan moved to Miami. Tim doesn’t even bother denying that he’s counting. He sighs and spins in his desk chair at the Eastern Kentucky office. Tim opts for a coffee break instead of starting any new paper work. What else are Friday’s for, if not to put off this week’s work into next week? In the break room, he pours stale coffee into a paper cup and takes a sip, wincing. Damn, that’s bitter. In his head, Raylan’s voice comes over the loud speaker and an old memory surfaces. He hand clutches the coffee tight as he remembers.
“Please don’t drink that,” Raylan says with a faint layer of disgust in his voice. They stand in the break room, raiding it for anything to get them through this hellish overtime. The sun’s gone down and in the darkness the florescent lights are even more ghoulish.
Tim pours himself a mug of the hours-old coffee, staring at Raylan all the while. The corner of Raylan’s mouth ticks, amused. “What’s my other option?” Tim argues, drily, “All we got is shitty American tea or this stuff.” He lifts the mug to his mouth as he says this. Raylan’s hand stops him and swaps it out with his drink: a medium black coffee from the place around the corner, ordered before they closed, still hot and comparatively fresh.
“Take mine. It ain’t much, but it’ll do better than that sludge,” Raylan says.
Tim sips Raylan’s drink and realizes he’s right. It is better. He buries the thought that it tastes good, because Raylan’s mouth has been there. “Thanks,” Tim says and Raylan nods. They search the cabinets for snacks and other caffeine sources and only come up with Rachel’s stache of herbal tea and a box of granola bars. Tim takes a bar and Raylan yawns and returns to his desk. Tim stays in the break room for a moment, sitting with the fact that Raylan gave his only source of decent coffee to Tim.
He turns half-expecting to see the cowboy, sitting at his desk, shuffling stacks of files and ‘thinking hard’ while the light from the window shines on him just right. Tim takes a deep breath, trying to shake off the old memories and sips his coffee again. No, it’s getting worse. Tim dumps the liquid in the sink, then leans against the counter, counting his five things until he’s only in the present. Tim exits the break room to ask Art if he can leave early and tack on the remaining hours to next week. He can’t deal with ghosts anymore today.
Tim’s palm sweats as he grips his phone to his ear. The ringing makes his heart jump in his chest and he’s not ready for him to ignore the call or worse, answer. It’s dark in his apartment except for the bright numbers of his alarm clock, shouting that he shouldn’t be calling; it’s three am after all. But Tim’s never been one for convention, and he’s had a few or maybe a lot. The ringing stops.
“Givens,” Raylan answers, sleep in his voice and Tim hears the rustling of sheets and the creak of a mattress.
“I didn’t know if you’d have the same number.”
“Tim?” He questions, surprised, but catches up fast. “Well, I don’t like change much, so…”
Tim hums, and they sit in an awkward silence.
“What can I do ya for?” He asks, moving the conversation along.
“A pack of cigarettes and a beer, I suspect.”
Raylan snorts. “Don’t sell yourself short, it’d take a little more than that.”
A smile breaks onto Tim’s face without his permission. “Okay, throw in dinner.” They sit in their mutual amusement for a moment before Raylan sighs.
“Tim, it’s three a.m. Couldn’t wait four hours for me to get up for work?” He says, clearly pressing the phone between his head and his shoulder.
“Guess I don’t have much patience.”
“Now you’re just lying,” he says. Tim thinks he hears the hint of a laugh in there. “Something wrong?”
“Not physically,” Tim responds, wiggling his toes, checking his fingers, more out of habit than anything else.
“And you called me for emotional help? That ain’t healthy,” Raylan jokes, “Art’s old and up at weird hours, why not call him?”
“Drunk me isn’t that smart,” Tim says. Raylan’s somber silence sinks his jokey mood.
“Tim,” Raylan starts, “If you need hel—
“It’s not like that, promise. I mostly just wanted call you— tell Winona, sorry about the hour.”
Tim’s unsure what he’s hearing but it sounds like he’s dressing without putting the phone down. Soon, the silence returns.
“I live alone.”
“Oh,” Tim says, blinking. “Sorry, man.”
“It’s alright,” he pauses, “I have a house now, if you can believe that.”
“Does it have furniture?”
“Funny. Yes, it does. A whole bedroom set an’ everything.”
“The real test is if you food in the fridge.”
Raylan laughs. “You caught me. There ain’t much in there, ‘cept shredded cheese and condiments.”
“Beer?”
“Might have a few bottles.”
“Well, there you go, the three food groups.”
They pause again, but this time it’s comfortable. The tension in Tim’s body drains and it fully hits him how good it is to hear the cowboy’s voice again.
“I have a guest room.”
“Yeah?” Tim says, heart squeezing.
“It’s nothin’ special, but good enough for an asshole sniper, I reckon.”
“I’d like that,” Tim says, his voice sounding gooey even to himself.
5.
Tim stirs his shit coffee with a black plastic stick until the liquid's a light brown. Most days, he's not one for cream and sugar, but this was the only solution for making it even remotely drinkable. He sips and shudders through the aftertaste...well, he guesses, good enough. Or manageable.
A warm hand rests against his lower back, steadying itself while its twin reaches for the cups above Tim's head. Raylan plucks one from the stack, and Tim stiffens, not with fear, but rather anticipation. Raylan's touches are ghosts, barely solid, and gone before his lungs demand movement. Just a breath. He smells faintly of cheap laundry soap and suede, which is somehow worse than when he smells like worn cotton and bourbon.
"Hot Styrofoam will give you cancer," Tim comments as Raylan pours himself a cup of the same shit coffee.
"Good morning, Tim," he says. "Why are you telling me that? And aren't you exposing yourself too?"
Tim shrugs. "Maybe, I'm hoping for early retirement."
"I'm not dealing with your fatalistic crap today," Raylan sighs, but there's a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth.
"Okay, not like I have much time at this rate, anyway," Tim says, and caps off the statement with another drink from his Styrofoam cup.
Raylan glares at him. "I will report you to HR for that kinda shit."
He smiles. "Think they'd actually do anything about it?"
"Tim, you handle federal weapons for a living. They'd be so far up your ass, they could talk for you."
"I'm the government's puppet anyway," he says, "can't be too much of a difference."
Raylan rests a hand on his hip and gestures with the one holding the coffee. "Why can't we ever just talk about the weather?"
Tim shrugs. "I can start with your likelihood of dying in a natural disaster next time, if you'd prefer." He leaves the break room, listening to Raylan's coughing laughter.
-
Tim's deep in his bottles when Raylan calls. He stares at the lighted phone screen like he doesn't know what to do with it. In a way, he don't. Raylan's listed under "Cowboy" in his contacts and it just keeps ringing. He slides his finger across the screen.
"Raylan," he says, deep in his voice with even more vowel than his name already contains. It rolls off his tongue in a sloppy way with too much spit and a rasp at the end. Silence sounds on the other end and Tim takes the phone away from his ear to check that he did answer the call. "Yuhs gonna say anything?" he asks.
"Are you drunk?" Raylan's, clearly sober voice comes through the speaker.
"Define drunk."
Raylan sighs. "How many beers have you had?"
Tim counts the longnecks on his side table with his free hand; his fingertip dips and circles along the edge of each lip. "Five."
"Well, that ain't too much for you," he says.
Tim smirks. "Ask me about the whiskey."
Curses muttered through clenched teeth come through the line. Some of which Tim hasn't heard since his momma used to be in her cups about his daddy. Tim's smirk slips into a genuine smile.
"Tim, call a cab and get your ass down to the VFW. Bring ID." Raylan hangs up.
He blinks a few times, then works on standing. The room is steady and nothing's double, so he grab his keys. He glances down at his undershirt and undone flannel and contemplates changing for a second, then shakes his head. If they want him presentable they better pay him and he's off duty, so fuck it. Tim drives with the windows down and he sobers faster than he wishes.
Forty minutes later, he pulls into the VFW parking lot and spots Raylan and Art waiting on the stoop. It's gotten dark and the lighting shines on the brim of Raylan's hat, but shadows his face. Tim steps out the car, watching the cowboy shift his focus toward him, and stumbles over the sidewalk curb.
"You drove," Raylan says, anger twisted into the two words.
Tim shrugs him off. Somehow too proud to admit that the drink wasn't what got him stumbling.
-
Tim can't believe that he got stuck playing scrabble with Boyd Fucking Crowder. He settles a Y in the double letter score spot and adds a tidy sum to his total score; he's still losing, but not as bad.
Boyd's sharp eyes study him, and Tim gives him his best blank stare, but inside he desperately wants to squirm and avoid his gaze. Something about how his eyes shine from underneath his brow makes Tim want to confess. Tim was never surprised by Boyd's inclination toward preaching.
"You have vexing thoughts on your mind," Boyd states.
"No offense to your hosting skills but this ain't exactly a good ole time," Tim says, laying on the sardonic tone too thick.
Boyd hums. "Well, all you oughtta do Deputy Gutterson is say the word. We're accommodating. What does a man like yourself need? A stronger drink? A dumber opponent? A pretty thing to look your way?"
Tim unfocuses his eyes while he stares at Crowder. He's been told it's an unsettling look and Tim is tired of playing games with a man he knows better than to talk to at all. "I need Raylan to hurry his ass up so I don't have to listen your bullshit."
Boyd's eyes narrow then widen, pupils blow as he finds something to hunt. Shit. Tim stills but he doesn't dare change anything else.
"You need Raylan," Boyd repeats, while adding letters to the board. It gives Tim a moment to think and with Boyd's attention on the board, a second to reset.
"I can say the rest of my sentence again if you've already forgotten," Tim says. The response ain't great, but it'll have to do.
Boyd nods. "By all means." He lifts a hand, rolling his wrist to get Tim to speak more.
Tim's eyebrow twitches. "Raylan may be willing to deal with your..." Tim waves a hand, gesturing to all of Boyd. "You, but I ain't got the patience to listen or the kindness to miss."
Boyd absently rubs a spot on his chest, then leans toward Tim, his voice low and quiet. "So we think the same."
"We don't share anything."
Boyd smiles. "I wouldn't be so resolute in my convictions."
"Well, I'm not you, so..." Tim trails off, letting Boyd fill in the gaps.
"No, but you're standing where I once stood."
"What does that even--
Raylan returns with a clattering sound of movement, thankfully cutting off that disaster of a conversation. Tim shoves the memory of it away and vows to leave it there. The worst thing he can do is think too long on something Boyd Crowder says.
-
He's thinking about it again.
-
Tim chews on his pencil's eraser, thinking, mostly in circles. In his mind, he hears Boyd and his dumb remarks. Then, he thinks about Raylan's past and comparing it to his own, overlapping the transparencies to see if they align, but the reality is Tim don't know shit about Raylan's past. At least, nothing about what happened before he became a deputy. Tim knows his current shit damn well. Then, he goes back to Boyd and picks at his comment like scab. Ain't nothing good gonna come of it, but he can't seem to keep his fingers away.
Rachel sighs. She's at her desk doing actual work and seems to have a sense of Tim's thoughts as if he says them out loud, which is both deeply unsettling and comforting.
"You know who understands Boyd's nonsense best?"
Tim rolls his neck then looks at Rachel. "Don't say it."
"Raylan," she says it anyway. "Just ask him and then I can finally stop listening to you think."
Tim leans forward until his forehead rest on his desk. "I think God hates me."
"You go on like this much longer and I'll hate you too," Rachel says. She types into the computer; her fingers moving faster than Raylan and his typing speeds combined. "And I'm the one who decides if you get coffee tomorrow."
Tim's eye twitches. Well, shit.