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It’s a fluke. Just bad fucking luck. Raylan usually sleeps through Tim slipping out for his morning run, grumbling when Tim pulls free from his grip but settling back into sleep easily enough. That morning, though, he’s a little more awake — enough to tug Tim down for a kiss before he’s willing to let go. He’s only dozing when Tim gets back, and fully awake by the time Tim gets out of the shower.
It’s Raylan’s idea to go get breakfast. Tim has the day off and no one expects Raylan in before ten; there’s no reason not to make a morning of it. So they pile into Raylan’s car and stop by a nearby deli they both like to pick something up, then head back to the motel.
They’re standing outside, Raylan digging through his pockets for his key and Tim breaking into the bag of chips they got to share. Bickering, a little, over something that neither of them will remember later.
When it happens, it’s all at once.
The short staccato of gunfire. Tim drops on instinct, reaching for his sidearm, eyes darting across the expanse of the parking lot.
Raylan goes down too, but the sound of it is—
Wrong.
Tim risks a glance at him.
His heart plummets.
Raylan’s on his back, red blossoming vibrant and terrible cross the front of his shirt. He’s trying to press his hands against the origin point, groaning.
Tim does another scan of their surroundings. Sees nothing. No follow up shot.
He moves. Snatches up the fallen key and shoves it into the lock without standing, forces the door open. Then hooks his hands under Raylan’s arms and bodily drags him inside, gut wrenching at the way Raylan yells in agony with every step. The howls die down into pitiful groans when Tim finally lets him slide back to the floor so he can slam the door shut, lock it, and shove a chair under the knob for good measure. He draws the curtains closed and digs his phone out of his pocket, dropping down to his knees beside Raylan, already dialing emergency services.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he tells Raylan, voice steady but firm as he balances the phone on his shoulder and replaces Raylan’s shaking hands with his own. The blood is hot and thick between his fingers; he tries not to think about it.
The call connects. He rattles off their situation, rapid-fire and terse. Gets confirmation that local PD and EMS are inbound and lets the phone fall away so he can put his split his focus between Raylan and keeping an ear out for someone that might be trying to break down the door.
“Tim,” Raylan gasps out. There’s blood in his teeth.
“Lady on the phone said five minutes,” Tim says. “You’re gonna be fine. Just gotta make it through the next five minutes.”
He says it like a promise, something he can manifest through will alone. Raylan sets a hand on his wrist and squeezes. His grip is weak, goes slack too quickly, and Tim’s world narrows down to a fixed objective, almost comforting in it’s familiarity: keep Raylan alive.
He’s not sure how much time really passes. It could be the five minutes the 911 dispatcher promised. Could be an hour. It doesn’t matter. What does matter are the sirens he can hear now — Tim clocks, in the distant sort of way that non-vital information passes through him in moments like this, the distinct wails of at least two patrol cars and an ambulance. They get closer, louder, and then there’s pounding on the door, an authoritative voice calling through.
Tim kicks the leg of the chair once, twice, until it knocks loose. There’s people swarming the room, then, and he’s suddenly being pushed to the side so the paramedics can work.
Someone steps in front of him, starts to talk to him. Tim’s eyes stay locked on Raylan’s too pale face.
A hand on his shoulder. Tim jerks, nearly draws his gun before he realizes it’s just a medic.
She eyes him warily, holding her gloved hands up to show she isn’t a threat. “Are you hurt?” She asks. The question doesn’t make any sense to him. “You’ve got blood on you. Were you hit?”
He looks down at his hands. His voice sounds very far away when he says, “It’s not mine.”
She frowns, but thankfully doesn’t push.
Tim stays out of their way as they get Raylan stable enough to be moved. Most of his attention is tracking the activity in the room, but he’s also following the movements of the police outside, the lights on their patrol cars bathing the room in a steady pattern of reds and blues.
When the medics load Raylan up on a stretcher and start to roll him out, Tim tells them he’s riding with, and squares up for a fight when one of them is fool enough to open their mouth and try to argue.
Art shows up at the hospital waiting room an hour later, looking about as frazzled as Tim as ever seen him. He’s got his grim face on as he slows to a stop a few feet away from Tim, pausing to look Tim over before he says anything.
Tim knows what he looks like. He washed the blood off — from his hands, and his face and neck where the shot apparently splattered — but his shirt’s a lost cause.
He’s still got Raylan’s blood under his fingernails. Couldn’t get it all no matter how hard he scrubbed.
“He’s in surgery,” he tells Art. Art looks troubled, though from the news or Tim’s flat delivery, Tim can’t tell. “No updates yet.”
Art nods slowly. “You give your statement yet?”
“Local PD was here a few minutes ago. You just missed ‘em.” Tim takes a slow slip of the cup of coffee he’s clutching. He barely tastes it, but he suspects if he didn’t have something to hold steady in his hands, they’d start shaking.
Art finally comes closer, dropping into the seat beside Tim. He sighs, removes his hat, and rubs a hand over his scalp. He looks every bit his age at the moment. “Violent Crimes is already setting up shop at the scene. I’ve got Rachel down there coordinating. She’ll let us know as soon as they have something.” He turns to look at Tim. The lines around his face grow deep and pronounced with the weight of his frown. “Tim. If I ask you what you were doing in Raylan’s motel room at 7am on your day off, am I going to like the answer?”
Tim stares down at the paper cup in his hands. He didn’t bother to grab a lid for it; his reflection looks back at him, tired and tense. “Maybe you shouldn’t ask,” he says.
Art pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like he’s got a headache coming on. It’s the sort of reaction that usually only Raylan prompts in him.
“We’re gonna have to talk about this,” he tells Tim.
“Yep,” Tim agrees.
He feels Art staring at him again. Doesn’t bother looking up this time as he swirls the coffee, just so he doesn’t have to look at himself anymore.
After a moment, Art sighs. “We’ll talk about it,” he repeats. “But only when things have calmed down a bit.” He checks his watch and stands. “I’m gonna head over to the motel, see if I can shake a progress report out of someone. You call me if anything changes.”
Tim offers a two-fingered to salute and says nothing as Art walks away.
He waits.
Rachel is next, some two hours later. Tim hears the sound of her heels on the tile floor before he sees her, recognizes the cadence of her footfalls the way he used to recognize the crunch of boots against dirt and sand.
He threw the coffee out half an hour ago but hasn’t bothered to get up to pour another cup.
“No updates yet,” he says when she’s close enough to hear.
She nods like she expected as much. There’s a plastic grocery bag hooked around one of her arms, and she digs into it now. “Art said you could use a change of clothes.”
She hands him a small bundle. The jeans are his, but the t-shirt is Raylan’s, and not one she would have found in Tim’s closet. He frowns up at her, and she shoots him an exasperated look in return.
“What?” She says. “You thought you two were being subtle?”
“Art was surprised,” he says, sullen.
Rachel rolls her eyes. “Art doesn’t have to sit next to you two for hours at a time. Even Nelson’s noticed, Tim.” At his sharp look, she adds, “Relax. He’s got you pegged, but Raylan confuses him. Right now he just thinks you have a really sad crush on a straight boy.”
Tim tries to decide how insulted he is by that. A thought occurs to him. “Wait. Is that why he’s been giving me those looks these last couple months?”
Rachel lifts her eyebrows, momentarily amused, and Tim decides the answer is very.
He stands and heads for the nearest bathroom. Rachel doesn’t hesitate to follow him in despite the fact that it’s the Men’s Room. She leans against the sink counter with her arms crossed as Tim closes himself into one of the stalls and starts to strip.
“They found the gun,” she reports. Her professionalism, as always, is on point — she sounds like she’s discussing any other case. Feels wrong, in a way, but Tim’s grateful for it all the same. “In a dumpster about two blocks away from the motel. It’s a hunting rifle, nothing special, so if this was a hit, it’s something local and small-time.”
“Or just some yokel with a grudge.”
“Or that. They’re running the serial number now, and it’s already at the lab for ballistics and fingerprints. VCU says they’ve marked it as priority, so hopefully we’ll have those results within the next forty-eight hours.”
Tim exits the stall and, when Rachel holds her hands out, passes her his soiled clothes. He watches disdainfully as she looks down at the blood seeped into the fabric of the shirt before stuffing it and the pants — smeared around the belt and pockets — into the bag.
Tim hopes she burns them.
She watches him, sharp and assessing, as he steps up beside her and twists on the faucet. One more scrub can’t hurt; he can still feel the blood on between his fingers as he runs them under the water.
She’s quiet while he soaps up and rinses. Tim waits her out.
Finally, when the water stops and he steps around her, she asks, “Exactly how serious is this thing with the two of you?”
Tim falters, one paper towel halfway out of the dispenser. He considers blowing her off. Rejects the thought quickly; Rachel, like the rest of them, is shit about letting something go once she’s got her teeth in it. It makes her good at her job, and, occasionally, a very irritating friend.
“I’m his emergency contact,” he finally says. It feels like an admission, pulled under duress. He dries his hands, balls up the towel, and throws it out. “And I have his Medical Power of Attorney.”
Surprise flashes across her face. She presses, “How long?”
Tim sighs and gives in to the urge to rub at the corners of his aching eyes, staving back a migraine he isn’t willing to acknowledge yet. “Long enough for us to get careless at work, apparently.”
He brushes past her, and she trails after him back to the waiting room.
She doesn’t sit when he reclaims his chair; just lingers in front of him with a thoughtful, sad frown. Her phone chimes in her pocket, and though she doesn’t go to check it, she does angle herself like she’s about to leave. She pauses, still, and sets a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll call as soon as we have anything,” she promises, squeezing.
Tim nods.
Rachel drops her hand and walks away. He waits until she’s out of sight before finally standing and going to fetch himself that second cup of coffee.
Raylan is in surgery for little over five and a half hours. It’s far from textbook perfect, but the bullet’s out and, according to the doctor, he came through it fairly well all things considered.
“He’s in recovery right now,” she tells Tim with the sort of soothingly calm voice that speaks to experience in delivering news of both the good and bad variety. “Someone will come get you when we move him to a room.”
Tim nods, thanks her, and only when she’s disappeared back through the double doors separating the surgery wing from the waiting room does he stick his head between his knees, close his eyes, and focus on fighting back the nausea doing barrel-rolls in his stomach.
Raylan, when Tim finally gets to see him, looks ragged even in his unconscious state. He’s pale and sickly from the combination of blood loss and shit hospital lighting, and his brow is furrowed like he’s in pain even though Tim knows they’re keeping him pumped full of quality painkillers.
He doesn’t so much as twitch when Tim brushes hesitant fingers against the back of the hand not attached to an IV.
Tim doesn’t hold his hand. He wraps his fingers around Raylan’s wrist instead, thumb pressing into the pulse point. Closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the steady, rhythmic reminder that, as close as they may have come, they’re both still here.
He doesn’t sleep.
Raylan stirs some two hours later. His heartbeat flutters under Tim’s thumb and he shifts, frowns. His eyes, when they open, are glossy and confused. He blinks slowly as he lolls his head to peer around the room, but when his eyes settle on Tim, he breaks into a groggy smile.
“Hey,” he mumbles. That’s about as far as he gets before his eyes slide shut and he drifts back off.
Some invisible weight lifts off of Tim’s chest. It feels like he can breathe again for the first time since that morning. He keeps his hold on Raylan’s wrist, settles back a little more comfortably in the chair, and goes back to waiting.
It’s nearly three in the morning when Raylan finally grimaces awake in something close to coherence, about a half hour after the staff dials back the pain medication. He groans as he comes to, one hand lifting to press against his side where his stitches are.
“Don’t,” Tim warns him.
Raylan’s head swings over to look at him, confused. He tries to speak. Winces and licks his lips. Cotton mouth, probably. The staff left a plaster pitcher full of water the last time they popped in, and Tim uses it now to pour half a cup full. Raylan makes a grateful noise as Tim helps him with it, taking a few slow, measured slips. He pauses to cough, then grunts in pain.
“What happened?” He rasps, voice rough as gravel.
“You got shot.” Tim’s too worn out to bother being coy about it. He pauses, then adds, “Again.”
“Shit.” Raylan drops his head back against the hospital bed with a wince. “How bad?”
“Bad enough. Nothing important got nicked, but the bullet fractured a rib on the way in. You’re in for a fun recovery.”
“Joy.” Raylan rubs a hand against his jaw, scratching idly at the stubble collecting there, his movements heavy-handed and a little clumsy. He slows, brow furrowing, then turns his full attention back to Tim. “Are you okay?” Tim frowns in confusion, and Raylan elaborates, his voice distant as he pulls up an unfocused memory. “You were bleeding. I remember…”
He reaches out, touches Tim’s cheek, and Tim inhales slowly as he realizes what Raylan’s talking about.
“Wasn’t my blood.”
Raylan drops his hand, but doesn’t look convinced. “So you’re okay?”
“I wasn’t hit,” Tim says, answering around the question.
Raylan’s jaw works like he wants to call Tim on it. Tim braces himself for it, but Raylan’s either in too much pain or just not in the mood for a fight. “Good,” he says instead. And then, with a sigh, “Christ, I’m tired.”
“Gunshot wound will do that,” Tim says dryly. “You should rest.”
Raylan’s quiet a moment, before finally asking, “You stickin’ around?”
His voice is casual, if exhausted, but Tim hears the anxiety in the undertone of it. It’s confusing until he remembers, abruptly, the last time Raylan got shot, in the aftermath of the Bennett affair — Winona had given it a good effort, but ultimately found the hospital too oppressive and upsetting to linger in. Raylan had woken up alone.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Tim tells him.
Relief flickers across Raylan’s face. He hesitates, then turns over the hand closest to Tim, palm up in invitation. Tim takes it, letting Raylan thread their fingers together. He doesn’t let go, even when Raylan’s own grip starts to slacken as he drifts off.
Tim texts both Rachel and Art as soon as Raylan is out of surgery and when he wakes up the first time, but it’s not until the next afternoon that Art shows up to knock on the door to Raylan’s room and poke his head in.
“Well,” he says, taking in the sight of Raylan, who has an open pudding cup in one hand and a spoon hanging out of his mouth, and Tim, who is still taking up residence in the chair beside Raylan’s bed. “Aren’t you two cozy.”
“Art,” Raylan greets, pulling out the spoon and licking vanilla from his thumb.
“Raylan,” Art returns. He steps fully into the room, taps the manila folder in his hand against the palm of the other. “You’re looking better.”
“Doctors say I’m due for a full recovery,” Raylan says. “’Fraid you’re stuck with me for a while yet.”
“Pity that.” Despite his words, Art’s smile shows nothing but relief. He waves the folder. “I come bearing good tidings. Raylan, you remember Emerson Deacon?” Raylan’s frown indicates he does not. Art elaborates, “Case you worked down in Louisville about six months ago.”
“Oh yeah,” Raylan says after a moment, thoughtful. “Real squirrelly lookin’ guy.” He looks at Tim, mouth dipping into a scowl. “He tried to bite you when you put the cuffs on him, didn’t he?”
He sounds almost as offended by it now as he had been at the time. Tim bites back a smile.
“Well,” Art continues. “Seems he was as good at making friends inside prison as he was out. Got shivved in the showers three days ago. But Mr. Deacon had a younger brother. Meet Josiah.” He pulls a mugshot photo from the folder and holds it up. The young man in it is skinny, pale, and has a very unfortunate tattoo of a snake crawling up the side of his neck. “Josiah, it seems, blamed you for his brother’s premature death and took it upon himself to enact his own dim-witted brand of justice.”
“Huh,” Raylan says. He squints at the photo, like he’s trying to place the face. “You catch him?”
“Staties picked him up in a bar just outside of Elizabethtown about two hours ago.” Art turns the photo over to look at it himself, a look of exasperation crossing his face. “The gun was registered in his name. Genius here didn’t even bother to wear gloves, and we got him on security footage in the area. About as close to a slamdunk case as we’ve ever had, I think.”
“Well,” Raylan says. “At least he made it easy.”
“I suppose so.” Art replaces the photo in the folder. “That’s about all I had for you. Just figured I’d swing by, deliver the news myself.” And check in, Tim infers, even if Art won’t say as much to Raylan’s face. “We’ll discuss your return to duty once the doctors clear you for discharge. Tim, I expect to see you back in the office first thing on Monday.” He pauses. “Try to get some sleep between then and now, son. You look worse than Raylan.”
“You always say the sweetest things, boss,” Tim says, aiming for something approximating his usual level of backtalk and knowing he’s missed the mark from the way Art continues to look concerned.
“Don’t worry, Art,” Raylan says. “I’ll look after him.”
Tim shoots him a look. Raylan winks.
Art just looks tired. “Behave yourselves,” he says. “Try not to get shot again. We’ll talk more about… this… when you’re both in better shape.”
He looks them both over once more, shakes his head, and takes his leave.
“Well,” Raylan says, looking at the door, bemused. “I suppose there’s that cat out of the bag.”
Tim sighs. “Monday’s gonna be fun,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face.
“Could be worse.”
Tim turns a sharp look on him, something sarcastic and a little mean on the tip of his tongue, but it dies in his throat the instant his eyes fall on the IV taped to the back of Raylan’s hand and the ugly pattern on the hospital gown he’s wearing.
Raylan’s right. It could have been so much worse.
Raylan’s looking at him now. Critical, assessing. “Art’s right, you know. You look exhausted. Did you sleep at all last night?”
Tim hadn’t. “I’ve gone for longer on less.”
“That don’t mean you should have to. You heard Art; they got the guy. I’m safe.” Raylan pauses. Thinks about that. His look goes sharp, eyes narrowed, the way it does when he thinks he’s found the kingpin thread on a case he’s been chewing on a while. He adds, carefully, deliberately, “We’re safe, Tim.”
Caught, seen, Tim slumps back in his chair. A puppet with its strings cut.
“Don’t ask me to leave,” he pleads, because he knows that Raylan’s first instinct will be exactly that. He’ll tell Tim to go home, get some rest, but the thought of Raylan being here alone, vulnerable, without Tim to keep watch—
Tim wouldn’t be able to sleep, that’s for fucking sure.
And maybe that shows on his face, or maybe Raylan’s just got him figured out. Either way, Raylan’s look softens, goes a little sweet, his tone just shy of soothing as he says, “Wasn’t plannin’ on it, sweetheart. But you gotta sleep.” Tim makes a skeptical noise, feeling contrary, and Raylan snorts. He holds out a hand. “C’mere.”
“We ain’t both gonna fit on that bed,” Tim says, taking it anyway.
“Not with that attitude, we won’t.”
Tim huffs a laugh. He doesn’t actually try to climb into the bed — there really isn’t enough room for two grown men — but he scoots the chair as close as it can get, lets Raylan coax him into laying his head down. He closes his eyes as Raylan cups the back of his neck, then slides his fingers into Tim’s hair in the way they’ve both learned Tim enjoys.
He’s not going to be able to sleep like this. It’s too exposed, and he’s too on edge.
But Raylan keeps touching him, a touchstone anchor amidst the persistent buzz of paranoia hovering at the back of his mind. Murmurs to Tim, in the same tone he uses when Tim wakes up from some of his worst nightmares, “We’re okay.”
And maybe, slowly, Tim starts to believe him.