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Tim can’t say he’s ever been to Maxwell’s on a Wednesday night before. The way things have been going at work, Tim’s not sure the last time he was here, period. That, in itself, should tell him Art’s right: he has been working too many hours.
He could have done without being unceremoniously kicked out of the office, though, without even so much as a twenty-four hour by your leave. Maxwell’s on a Wednesday night is not an experience Tim is eager to repeat. He’d like to think, with some advance warning, it’s an experience he could have avoided altogether.
The band tonight is terrible.
The music has left the bar half-deserted. The stragglers are those desperate enough to endure anything for a drink and a chance at human companionship. Tim, nursing a beer, doesn’t dwell too much on what it means that he’s still here with them. It’s not like he has anywhere else to be.
The bartender sets another beer in front of him.
It takes him a minute to register it’s not one he’s ordered.
“This isn’t—” he starts but the bartender jerks his chin at the end of the bar and says, “Compliments.”
It’s a little old fashioned and more than a little hokey but it gets his attention, which Tim guesses means it did the job. It helps, Tim’s not above admitting, that his not-so-secret admirer happens to be a looker. Dark hair, dark eyes and wearing a dark suit; he looks like he came straight from the office. He looks like maybe he’s been as worked to the bone as Tim feels.
He looks, in fact, altogether more familiar than Tim would like.
He can’t place the guy, but he can’t shake the sense he knows him from somewhere, and that’s a can of worms Tim isn’t so much interested in opening. Unlike some people he could name, Tim has no interest in being the guy who slept with a material witness, not knowing who they were. Or worse yet, the asshole who has to arrest their bedfellow when he figures out he’s fucking a wanted man.
Tim wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. He pushes up and away from the bar, throwing down a mess of bills. “Keep the change.”
It’s past noon when the doorbell rings.
“I’m on vacation.”
“I know. That’s why I came to visit instead of talking to you at the office.”
Tim tilts his head, unimpressed with Raylan’s logic. “You could have called.”
Instead of answering, Raylan leans in close, the brim of his hat brushing Tim’s temple. He murmurs firmly in his ear, “Look happy to see me.”
It’s a line Tim knows by heart, on account of hours spent on witness protection detail. He’s not, however, altogether used to being on the receiving end of it. Next door, Tim’s new neighbours are offloading a carful of groceries. He smiles amicably their way as he gestures Raylan inside. They only moved in a week or so ago meaning they’re unlikely to notice how out of the ordinary it is for Tim to be entertaining visitors, let alone one who shows up in a ten-gallon hat.
Inside, he repeats more sternly, “I’m on vacation.”
“I know.”Raylan sighs impatiently. “But don’t act like you want to be. Art practically had to throw you out before you’d use these days instead of losing ‘em.”
“Just because I wasn’t keen on the idea at first doesn’t mean I haven’t warmed up to it. What’s going on? You drop by in case I was missing you?” To be clear, because lord knows Raylan’s ego knows no bounds, Tim adds, “I wasn’t, by the way.”
“Come on,” he scoffs. “Tall, rugged–”
Tim folds his arms and interrupts, “Get to the point.”
“I got a good bet going there’s a fugitive being harboured next door.”
Tim rocks back on his heels, looking discreetly out the window. He lifts his eyebrows dubiously. “What’d they do, knock off a bank in 1952? I can see why you’d come here for backup before taking them in.”
Raylan frowns, following Tim’s line of sight to the retired couple still wrestling with the last of their produce.
“Not them.” Raylan clicks his tongue dismissively. “Their good-for-nothing nephew. And it wasn’t a bank, just some good ol’ fashioned embezzlement and bail jumping. I’m betting when he’s done running, this is where he’ll come.”
Tim glances out the window again, his interest piqued despite himself. “And you’re not over there knocking on their door, having a sniff around because...?”
“Local LE already did. I hear they turned the screws pretty hard. The son’s a hotshot lawyer. He put a stop to that and any further snooping without solid evidence. Figured I’d hunker down here and see what there is to see.”
“Okay, but–and don’t take this the wrong way, Raylan–rugged as you may be…”
“And tall. Don’t forget tall.”
Tim ignores him. “Art told me I needed to relax. Why the hell would he send you?”
“I don’t know how I could possibly take that the wrong way,” Raylan drawls. “Unfortunately for you, Rachel took a team to check out another lead, so that leaves you with me.”
“Hold up a minute.” Tim frowns. “If Rachel took a team that means she thinks she’s onto a damn sure thing...”
“That’s where the ‘bet’ part of ‘I’ve got good bet going’ comes in.” Before Tim can curse him out, Raylan steamrolls on, “Don’t look at me like that. You don’t want to be the asshole who missed a collar on the guy living next door. I only have your best interests at heart.”
“Bullshit,” Tim says and then, with grudging acquiescence, “Does Art even know you’re here?”
Raylan smiles roguishly. “He said if you didn’t kick me out, I could stay. Can’t say he had any more faith in my hunch than Rachel did.” Following Tim as he walks into the kitchen, he continues, “Isn’t it more fun this way, though? Being the underdog?”
“Nope,” Tim answers, handing him a cold beer regardless.
Raylan takes a swig and rolls his eyes. “Please, you live for this shit. Nice place, by the way,” he adds, gesturing with his beer bottle at the plain white walls. “Real homey.”
“You got a plan?” Tim asks flatly instead of rising to the bait.
“The usual. Watch and wait.”
“Alrighty then.”
Raylan narrows his eyes, obviously giving the place a real once over, beyond a critique of Tim’s decorating prowess. “I reckon if you get situated down here, I’ll mosey on upstairs and find myself a vantage point.”
Tim laughs, taking him by surprise. Raylan tilts back the brim of his hat. “Something funny?”
“Only that you think I’m going on this wild goose chase with you.” Tim holds up his hands to stem an argument. “You’re welcome to stay but like I said: I’m on vacation.”
“Oh come on,” Raylan whines. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Don’t you worry, I’ve got more than enough adventure right here,” he promises, picking up the novel he’d left on the counter when answering the door.
“Well, shit.”
Without looking up, Tim lifts his index finger gesturing for Raylan to hold that thought. With his usual impeccable timing, Raylan has resurfaced just in time to interrupt one of the most dramatic moments in Tim’s book so far. He can hear Raylan stepping down off the back porch, running his hand along the fence, but – uncharacteristically – he holds his tongue while Tim finishes the paragraph he’s on.
Tim tucks his finger in between the pages to mark his place and finally looks up. Raylan greets him with an incredulous expression but doesn’t bother rehashing his opinion of the sorts of stories Tim likes to read. He’s made himself plenty clear in the past.
“How long were you going to leave me sitting upstairs like an asshole?”
Tim gives him a one-shouldered shrug. It’s been about forty-five minutes since he let Raylan have free reign of his house. “I knew you’d figure it out sooner or later. Telling would just ruin your fun.”
The backyard is bordered by a six-foot privacy fence. Tim takes about as much care with its upkeep as he does with the interior decorating. Since moving in, the gaps between the slats have grown larger, to the point that with the right angle there’s a better view of the neighbours’ house from the dusty deck chair he’s sitting in than from anywhere inside the house.
“Did you see anything?” Raylan asks, squinting through a knothole.
“Nothing yet,” Tim replies. If anyone’s getting a show, it’s the neighbours, being as half of Raylan’s hat is peeping over the top.
“You’d have called me if you did, right?”
Tim snorts. “This ain’t my first rodeo. If I’d laid eyes on him, I’d have taken him down myself.”
Raylan frowns. “That’s some mighty poor etiquette, Gutterson. Never take another man’s man.”
“Host’s prerogative,” Tim insists, a grin barely sliding onto his face at the double entendre.
“Is that so?”Raylan smirks back. “I wasn’t aware Dear Abby had spoken definitively on the subject.”
“She hasn’t,” Tim tells him pertly. “But I’m fairly certain Art would have my back.”
Their conversation is forestalled when something catches Raylan’s eye. He moves along the fence a little, peering through a different gap, one that affords him a better line of sight. Tim sits straighter in his chair, carefully laying his book down to the side. He puts it where it won’t get in the way and more importantly, where an ensuing scuffle won’t cause him to lose his place.
“They got a root cellar or something next door?” Raylan asks in a low voice, his face still turned in toward the wooden slats.
“Not that I’ve had occasion to notice,” Tim admits.
“It’s hidden back there pretty good,” Raylan continues. “In fact, I don’t recall anything of the like being mentioned on the LE’s report.”
“If they didn’t see it,” Tim finishes for him, “they sure as hell didn’t search it.”
“Uh huh,” Raylan agrees distractedly. “You got a compact mirror somewhere?”
“I don’t believe I do,” Tim deadpans. “I guess I don’t hold a candle to the kind of girl you usually shack up with.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Don’t worry yourself about it, I’ll figure something out.”
He hurries back inside but Tim refuses to give into curiosity and follow. He told Raylan he wouldn’t go down this rabbit hole with him and he doesn’t plan to start now.
As it turns out, he doesn’t have much of a wait. Raylan is back presently, brandishing a stainless steel spatula lashed with kitchen twine to an old wooden spoon. He leans his back against the fence and slowly raises his makeshift periscope.
Tim lifts his eyebrows incredulously. “You do know we’re US Marshals, don’t you?”
“Why don’t you broadcast that a little louder, I don’t think they heard you in Mexico.”
“I’m only asking because from where I’m sitting it seems like you think we’re living in a Loony Tunes cartoon.”
“Hush up a minute,” Raylan chides him. “I’ve almost got it.”
“Not if they catch us first,” Tim mutters.
Raylan tilts the spatula-cum-mirror, throwing blinding rays of light back at Tim when it catches the sun. “If they ask,” he declares with unwarranted confidence, “we’ll just tell them we’re playing a game.”
Tim laughs, doing his best to keep it quiet. “A game of what? Cowboys and idiots?”
Raylan grins but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “Is this where you tell me I’m playing for both sides?”
“If the hat fits...” Tim trails off and then adds, “Hurry up already.”He can hear voices over the fence but only faintly. The neighbours are more likely in the front yard than anywhere in their immediate vicinity, but it’s the principle of the matter. This shit is ridiculous.
Raylan goes deep, leaning the device far over the top of the fence and, as if on cue, the ties choose that moment to loosen. The spatula lands on the neighbouring lawn with a soft thud.
He looks at Tim and Tim looks back. Raylan’s still holding the wooden spoon above his head.
Tim rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Tell me you at least saw something good...”
“Not in so many words.” Raylan looks somewhat dumbfounded by the wooden spoon still left uselessly in his hand. Then, his expression changes to one that’s decidedly more devious. “I think I have a plan.”
Tim winces. “That’s what got us into this mess in the first place!”
Raylan doesn’t do him the courtesy of pretending to listen. As he scurries back inside, Tim calls, “You’d best be getting that spatula back. I’m on vacation. I’m not settling for cereal instead of eggs because of you.”
When he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Raylan in long enough for him to be causing all manner of havoc, Tim’s earlier resolve crumbles. Sure enough, Tim finds him in the kitchen with the entire contents of his refrigerator emptied out onto the counter.
“Haven’t you done enough damage to my cutlery today?”
“Just making dinner,” Raylan tells him calmly. The oven timer goes off, lending credence to his words. “It never mattered how bare our cabinets were, Aunt Helen always found a way to make something delicious out of nothing. Although I reckon even she would have had her mettle tested by the slim pickings around here.”
“You’re a real piece of work,” Tim says, “turning up on a man’s doorstep, ransacking his kitchen and criticising him for the privilege.”
There’s no heat to his words. Against all odds, the casserole smells fantastic. Tim’s stomach grumbles, reminding him he hasn’t got around to eating much of anything today.
“Glad you brought your appetite,” Raylan says, but he slaps Tim’s hand away when he tries to sneak a bite.
He straightens his hat. “Fix your hair, son,” he says to Tim. “We’re going out.”
“This is a terrible idea,” Tim grouses but he rings the bell anyway.
The same woman they’d seen earlier answers the door. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Raylan says with his best good ol’ boy twang. “My name is Raylan and this here is Tim. We’d like to welcome you and yours to the neighbourhood.” He holds out the casserole and offers her a blinding smile. “It ain’t much to look at, I know,” he adds with ingratiating modesty.
Tim resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“Nonsense,” she tuts, exactly, Tim’s sure, as Raylan intended. “It looks delicious. What a neighbourly thing to do!”
She reaches out to take the dish from him but Raylan pulls it back. “It’s awful hot,” he says apologetically.
“Oh well, in that case, come right on in.” She shoos them both inside and straight through into the kitchen. “Just put it there on the counter and I’ll get you boys some lemonade.”
Taking out a set of drinking glasses, she continues, “I’m sorry for the mess. You know how it is, moving house, everything seems to end up everywhere and nothing in its place.” She shakes her head ruefully and Tim makes a sympathetic noise. The place does fairly look like a hurricane has been through it but there’s nothing yet that speaks to a fugitive hiding in their midst. She stops abruptly, midway through pouring the lemonade.
“Oh lord, where are my manners?” She laughs. “I’m Marlene and that there is Ted.” She jerks her chin over her shoulder, indicating to her husband. He doesn’t look up. On the TV, the big game is playing.
Tim smiles. “It’s a real pleasure to meet both of you. I’m sorry we’re so tardy with the welcome wagon but it’s been one of those weeks.”
She waves her hand at him, pooh-poohing his apologies. “Don’t you worry about it. Let me tell you, we’ve had a heck of a week ourselves. Even Lionel – our oldest – has been so swamped at work, he couldn’t come visit until yesterday.” She frowns, “Speaking of Lionel, where is that boy?”
Without turning away from the TV, Ted grunts, “In the yard.”
“Lionel!” Marlene hollers. “Guests!” And then turns back to Tim and Raylan. “How long have you two been living together?”
Tim chuckles awkwardly, taken by surprise. “Raylan and I aren’t—”
Marlene clucks her tongue. “Come now, don’t be shy. I know folks ‘round here can be a close-minded bunch but Ted and I lived in New York City. Let me tell you, son, we’ve seen it all.” From the couch, Ted gives a noise of agreement.
“Why, thank you, Marlene,” Raylan says. The corners of his mouth twitch and his eyes sparkle. Tim breathes out real slow. He hopes like hell this hunch of Raylan’s pays out. Or at the very least he’s able to wrangle hazard pay out of Art for whatever he’s about to endure as Raylan’s better half.
“New York, huh?” Tim says to change the subject. “If you don’t mind me saying, you’ve picked up a twang mighty quick.”
“Born and bred in Lexington,” she tells him. “Ted too. We moved away after the kids were born. Never thought we’d be back but my sister—” The mother of the fugitive, Tim mentally supplies. “—she’s been having a rough go of it lately. You do for family,” she explains firmly.
Raylan touches the brim of his hat in a gesture of respect. “That you do.”
Speaking of family, a man Tim presumes is Lionel comes in through the side door. His face is red from the heat and his clothes are splattered with grime. He’s clearly been hard at work in the yard. As he wipes the sweat from his forehead, his eyes meet Tim’s and for a second, his smile wavers.
Tim takes a long swig of his lemonade. The ice clanks together and against the glass; it’s a flash of cold where it touches his lips.
Lionel, the eldest son.
Lionel, who had bought him a drink last night.
That nagging sense of recognition, the one Tim couldn’t pinpoint but heeded just the same, suddenly falls into place. Lionel, the hotshot lawyer who scared the locals off the case.
Tim must have seen him in passing around the courts.
Oblivious to their almost-history, Marlene introduces them. “Lionel, this is Tim and Raylan from next door. Raylan, Tim, this is our son Lionel.”
Lionel nods in greeting, wiping the worst of the muck off his palms before reaching out to shake Raylan’s hand.
“Oh,” Marlene adds in afterthought. “Lionel’s gay.”
“Ma!” Lionel exclaims. He doesn’t seem angry or embarrassed, just exasperated in a way that suggests this isn’t the first time Marlene has made this particular announcement.
“No, honey, it’s okay,” Marlene reassures him. “They’re gay, too!”
Lionel stares at her blankly for one incredulous moment before he laughs helplessly. Raylan slings his arm loosely around Tim’s shoulders and laughs along too.
“That’s really not the point, Ma...” Lionel trails off. Whatever aggravation he felt toward his mother seems to evaporate. Maybe it’s just buried for the sake of company. Instead he gives Tim a second searching look. “Nice to meet you, finally.”
Tim likes to think of himself as the kind of guy who can roll with the punches. Literally even, when things come to that. Still, Lionel bluntly referring to their ships all but passing last night, and in front of his own mother, no less, throws him off balance. He’d buried whatever hang-ups he had about who is along with his daddy, but that doesn't mean he's ready for Lionel and Marlene's level of casual oversharing. This is clearly a family who doesn’t know the meaning of boundaries.
“Sorry, I thought... Maybe I’m wrong, but I thought I saw you at Maxwell’s last night,” Lionel explains to Tim’s tense non-response. The look on his face speaks volumes. There’s no ‘thought’ about it. He’d recognised Tim the moment he’d stepped inside the kitchen.
Raylan shifts his arm until his hand lays, heavy and warm, on the back of Tim’s neck. Tim tries to shrug him off but he won’t be shaken. Instead, Raylan squeezes lightly, rubbing his thumb on a knot of muscle along Tim’s spine.
“Let’s not talk about Maxwell’s,” Raylan ad libs with a sheepish smile. “I was supposed to meet Tim there after work but with one thing and another it slipped my mind. I only just crawled my way out of the doghouse for accidentally standing him up.”
As a lie it passes muster pretty well, not least because of the ease with which Raylan talks about Maxwell’s. It’s clear he knows exactly what kind of bar it is and by extension why Tim might frequent such an establishment. Airing personal business never fazes Raylan. It seems as if it makes no odds that it’s Tim’s business for change instead of his own.
“It’s not the first time and I’m sure it won’t be the last,” Tim says, breezily. He touches Raylan on the hip, and as subtly as he can, pinches hard. Raylan takes the hint and with a muffled grunt of pain finally quits manhandling him.
Marlene smiles at Raylan indulgently.
“You can’t stay mad at a face like that,” she declares to Tim.
“The problem is,” Tim tells her in a conspiratorial whisper, “he sure does know it.”
They laugh and the awkwardness starts to ease.
“Sorry,” Lionel says, looking bashful for causing a scene, “I didn’t mean to poke at a sore spot. I’m a lawyer by trade,” he explains, confirming what Tim already knows. “Sometimes it’s hard to leave it in the courtroom.” To Raylan he asks, “What line of work are you in, that keeps you in the office all night?”
“I work for the county,” Raylan says, eliding the truth impressively. “Tim served in Afghanistan.”
It’s a trump card in polite society and Raylan plays it well. Lionel doesn’t press him on his unnamed county employment. Not with all eyes now on Tim.
“Thank you for your service,” he says solemnly. Marlene murmurs her agreement.
“Afghanistan, eh?” Ted asks, joining the conversation willingly for once. “You a marine, son?”
“No, sir. Ranger,” Tim replies, walking over to the couch.
Behind them, Tim hears Raylan ask to use the restroom. The stairs creak as Raylan takes them two at a time.
Ted nods approvingly. “I knew a Ranger or two in my day. Crazy sons of bitches but they got the job done.”
“That’s practically our motto.” Tim cracks a smile.
“I served in Vietnam,” Ted tells him.
“Dad was in the Air Force,” Lionel supplies with affectionate pride.
“We travelled all over,” Marlene adds, “before we ended up in New York.”
“Gave a good forty years of my life to this country.” Ted squints up at Tim and shakes his head. “I swear they’re recruiting you fellas younger and younger every year.”
“Nah,” Tim assures him. “That’s just my baby faced good looks.”
Ted gives a deep, full throated chuckle. He reaches out and pats Tim on the arm. “You’re alright, son. I’m more than glad enough to have a man like you for a neighbour.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tim can see Lionel watching them with a bittersweet smile. Lionel catches Tim looking and clears his throat. “Speaking of neighbours, you don’t happen to know who used to live here before the family we bought the place from?”
Tim has long since written off any chance of finding a fugitive here. But that’s an unusually specific question. He keeps his demeanour casual and his eyes and ears alert.
“I can’t say I do,” he answers truthfully. “They must have moved out before I moved in. Why do you ask?”
“It’s the weirdest thing,” Marlene explains. “It was never mentioned in the sale and it’s not listed on the blueprints. As far as we can tell, the family we bought from never even knew it was there!”
“What’s that?” Raylan asks, startling them all. He’s back awful quick. There mustn’t have been much to find in the way of probable cause.
“The bomb shelter!” Ted exclaims.
“I’m sorry, what now?” Raylan asks at almost the same Tim says, “There’s a bomb shelter under this place?”
“Not exactly,” Lionel says, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s out in the yard. And we don’t know for sure it is a bomb shelter. I haven’t been able to find any information on who built it or why.”
“Listen here, son,” Ted tells them firmly. “I fought the Commies. I know a bomb shelter when I see one.”
“All right, Dad,” Lionel concedes. And then, almost shyly, “Do you... would you like to see it?”
It’s unlikely Marlene and Ted are talking openly about their maybe-bomb shelter while also harbouring their bail jumping nephew there. That doesn’t mean he isn’t hiding there without their knowledge, of course. Tim’s seen enough unsuspecting relatives to know it’s a possibility. Raylan’s dragged them this far, they may as well check the place out: see if it’s habitable; look for signs anyone’s stayed there recently.
“Sure, why not?” he says. Lionel answers with a crooked half smile.
“It’s so dusty down there,” Marlene frets. “But you boys go ahead and have fun. Be careful!”
“We will,” Raylan promises.
Raylan, apparently undeterred by the threat of further pinching, touches Tim on the arm, gentle and familiar-like. He nudges him to go ahead while Raylan brings up their little party’s rear. As Lionel turns away, leading them out the kitchen side door, Tim can hear him huff a soft, rueful laugh to himself.
No one has been inside this place for going on fifty years, Tim’s sure of that.
Aside from the thick layer of dust coating everything, it looks like something straight out of a post-apocalyptic movie. It’s a small underground room, lined with steel walls and steel shelves. Access is via two heavy metal doors that, from the outside, give it a spitting likeness to the root cellar Raylan thought he saw.
“I wouldn’t have found it myself,” Lionel explains, “if it weren’t for Ma insisting I clear this side of the yard yesterday. She’s got it in her head she wants to grow vegetables. I love her, don’t get me wrong, but the woman killed a cactus once. I don’t know who she thinks she’s kidding, other than herself... Anyway, the folks who lived here before weren’t much for yard work because the place was overgrown something fierce. They were as surprised as we were when we asked them about it.”
That would explain why the place wasn’t searched or even mentioned in the original police report. No one, it seems, knew it existed. Not that it makes a difference. There’s nothing here to find.
“It’s somewhat on the cramped side, isn’t it? Can’t say I’d want to ride out a nuclear winter cooped up in here.” Raylan taps his fingers restlessly on one of the shelves, kicking up a minor whirlwind of dust. He coughs as fake as Tim has ever heard and melodramatically sputters, “Excuse me, I’ll just...” he trails off, hurrying up and out of the shelter.
Lionel looks concerned. “Should we...?”
“Nah.” Tim shakes his head and improvises. Raylan wouldn’t have given them a show if he didn’t want Tim to buy him some time topside. “Raylan ain’t one much for tight spaces, but he’d rather eat his hat than admit it.”
Lionel smiles understandingly. “We’d better loiter down here a bit before it comes to that, then. That is one helluva lotta hat...”
“That it is.”
If the bomb shelter ever had lights, it doesn’t have any now. A wedge of sunlight bearing down through the open doors, clouded by the dust still swirling in the air, is all they have to see by. It’s enough though, for Tim to see Lionel’s mouth move without sound, a false start before he says, “About last night...”
“Thanks for the drink,” Tim says, heading him off. He’s more prepared this time.
“You’re welcome.” Lionel’s eyebrows lift in surprise, like maybe he thought this conversation was going to be a whole lot harder than it needed to be. “Sorry about earlier... I wasn’t trying to cause trouble.”
“You didn’t.” Tim laughs softly. “Raylan doesn’t need any help in that department. He can start a whole mess of trouble all by himself.”
Lionel looks at him shrewdly. “Something tells me you aren’t half bad at that sort of thing yourself.”
Tim grins easily but doesn’t confirm or deny.
“That was a bust.” Tim closes the door behind them and locks up.
“Nonsense,” Raylan declares. He does a complicated shimmy, lifting the hem of his shirt. Behind him something clanks, reverberating as it hits the floor. Raylan grins from ear to ear. “Operation Spatula Rescue was a roaring success.”
He picks it up and hands it to Tim. Tim takes it gingerly between two fingers.
“Don’t be like that,” Raylan chastises him. “You made such a stink about wanting it back, the least you could do is say thank you.”
“Thank you, Raylan,” Tim parrots sarcastically. “I wasn’t expecting it to get so up close and personal with you in the process.”
He tosses it onto the coffee table, making a mental note to run it through the dishwasher a couple of times before it touches food again.
Raylan has gone to the window. It’s dark outside already and he twitches the curtains back and forth, watching the house next door. Tim should have known he wouldn’t give up so easily. Not with his pride on the line.
Tim flicks the lights off, the better for Raylan to observe any comings and goings outside, and goes about making popcorn. Just because Raylan’s on look out doesn’t mean he has to be.
Twenty minutes later, Raylan asks, “Do you really like this shit?”
Tim makes an affirmative noise in the back of his throat. If Raylan didn’t believe him the first time he asked, Tim’s not gonna waste energy on actual words answering him a second time. He lets the DVD play for a minute or two more before shutting it off.
He turns to Raylan in the semi-dark. Raylan blinks at him benignly, like he isn’t the single most goddamn annoying person Tim has ever had the misfortune to watch a movie with.
“You don’t have to stay,” he says, irritated. “If something happens, I’ll call. You can come back in the morning.”
“No need,” Raylan says placidly. “Rachel called while I was in the head. Her lead was solid. They got the guy.”
Tim counts back to the last time Raylan took a piss: halfway through the evening when he excused himself to snoop around while Tim talked to Ted. He takes a moment to formulate a coherent sentence but even then the best he can come up with is, “What the hell are we doing here?”
“We were watching a movie,” Raylan drawls, “although things seem to be getting a tad more acrimonious...”
“Is there a particular reason you’re being an asshole right now?” Tim snaps. With Raylan, you can never really be sure.
“I figured I’d better stick around, is all. It’s not like I could leave your precious spatula out there in no man’s land.” Raylan lifts his hat and fusses with his hair. “Besides, I didn’t want to light out of here the moment you’d been outed to your next door neighbours. That seemed a little unkind.”
Tim is startled into laughing. “And here I was thinking it was more a case of the neighbours outing me at work.”
Raylan gives a dismissive grunt and replaces his hat firmly on his head. “I’ve got enough going on without worrying about who anyone else is sleeping with.”
He looks over, studying Tim with the beginnings of a frown. “You know Art wouldn’t–”
“We can be done with this conversation now,” Tim says firmly.
“Fair enough.” Raylan slumps back on the couch, stretching out his legs and then his arms above his head. He yawns but good.
“Big fan of the silver screen, huh?” Tim asks, deadpan.
“Sure: John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Charlton Heston...”
Tim rolls his eyes. “You don’t have enough fun playing cowboy all day as it is?”
“Not with Rachel being altogether so good at her job,” he answers contemplatively.
There’s more truth in that than Tim feels like getting into tonight. Raylan is apparently no more inclined to elaborate because he stands. “Sorry for interrupting your vacation.”
“No, you’re not,” Tim scoffs, walking him to the door.
“No, that’s probably true,” Raylan admits shamelessly.
On the front porch, they stand a moment, not saying anything. Next door, a single light illuminates a downstairs window. The side door is open. Tim can hear Lionel in the darkness, alternating sweet talk and cuss words at a cranky looking Pekinese. From what Tim can tell, it’s refusing to take a shit before bed.
A car engine rumbles. Tim looks away from the scene long enough to watch Raylan’s headlights arc as he drives away. If Raylan said goodbye, Tim was too distracted to hear it. Lionel looks up too. He notices Tim loitering on the porch and nods his way in a neighbourly fashion.
“We’re not together,” Tim calls out on impulse.
“What?” Lionel stage-whispers back.
Mindful, now, of the hour, Tim walks over to the low picket fence that divides their front yards before the privacy fence takes over in the back. “Raylan and I,” he clarifies. “We work together but we’re not together in any other sense of the word.”
“Oh,” Lionel says, confused. And then, with an air of embarrassed realisation, “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. My mother always does this. You didn’t have to play along just because she assumed—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tim assures him. “She assumed right about me, anyway. Raylan is.... Raylan’s more of a handful.”
Lionel chuckles. “I kinda got that impression...”
He doesn’t know the half of it, Tim thinks, not least of all what exactly they were up to tonight. But that’s a conversation that can wait until morning, and for a green light from the AUSA that ‘fessing up to their antics won’t ruin the case.
They watch as the dog, bored of not being the centre of their attention, finally deigns to do its business. It’s not the most romantic scene but Tim isn’t exactly the most romantic kind of guy. The stars are out and if nothing else, he reckons that’s got to count for something. “How do you feel about Tolkien?”
Lionel, who had just started to turn away, stops and turns back to face him. His eyebrows pull in tight, like he can’t quite work Tim out, but also maybe like he’d like to try. “Books or movies?”
“Both, in the grand scheme of things,” Tim says. “Movies are the more pressing concern, I suppose, seeing as I’ve got the first one queued up and most of a bowl of popcorn left. If you’re interested?”
Lionel laughs softly. He shakes his head at what Tim can only assume is the ridiculousness of the situation. “Raylan not feeling the Shire?” he asks slyly.
“Not by a long shot,” Tim assures him. “You in?”
Lionel looks back over his shoulder at his parents’ sleeping house, down at the dog nuzzling their ankles and up at the star-sprinkled sky. He looks back at Tim and smiles. “Sure, why not?”