Slingin' from the hip, never the heart. | Open Post

[tinstar]

Raylan's job took him everywhere, from Harlan to Los Angeles to Paris. The Marshals service was demanding but Raylan leaned into the work, traveling as needed to get to get his man.

[Use this post to start threads or PSL'S!]

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hello chase said i could come here

[boltactions]

Sometimes, it was a boring job. Actually, most of the time the job was pretty boring, and Tim spent more time doing shit-all around the office than actually out doing leg work. At least Raylan had brought some drama with him when he arrived. Tim had to admire the way trouble followed Raylan around like a lost puppy looking for a home. It made work way more interesting.

Usually.

But that wasn't the case at the moment. It was a later night at the office than usual, spent waiting on some important paperwork to be faxed over that absolutely couldn't wait until morning. (Tim suspected that Art was punishing Raylan for doing something stupid and he got caught in the gravitational pull.) Tim sat, leaning back in his chair, feet up on his desk while he ate some sour candies.

After a long stretch of silence, one of those candies hit Raylan's cheek with a soft pap sound.

YES YOU ARE MOST WELCOME, YOU AND YOUR TIM

[tinstar]

Ah the job of babysitting; something Tim got saddled with largely because he could handle Raylan and his shit and everyone including Raylan knew it. If this was anything else, he would have just asked Tim to cover for him - wasn't like the man ever seemed to be doing anything on his off time anyway - but it wasn't. After the shit he'd pulled, both he and Art knew that he was on the hook for whatever gruntwork Art decided needed to be assigned to him.

His expression remained unchanged as the candy hit the ground, eyebrows lifting a little in question as he turned his chin in his hand to look over, thumb holding his place in the book he was reading.

"We hit that part of the night, huh?" He looked back at his book. "Surprised it didn't take longer, to be honest."

[thering]

"Can I ask you sommin', marshal?" It's quiet out on the porch, especially at night. No crickets. No birds. Barely even the sound of the wind tickling the brims of their hats as crispy leaves sweep across the deserted footpath. Doc is leaning back against his favoured pillar, smoking a cigarette. It's not a cigarillo, but. This particular beggar is not in the mood to be choosing.

With his feet crossed at the ankles, his right elbow atop the rails supports his weight. The other, dangling loosely, tends to the cigarette when the barrel of ashes get too long.

"You ever thought of yourself as a serial killer?" He is a US Marshal who had taught firearms; he must have shot more than just tin cans and paper targets. And if he has killed multiple people, one after another, then, well. Is that not what serial means?

[tinstar]

Having settled in one of the porch chairs behind him, Raylan left one long leg angled out with the other serving as a shelf for the bottom of his cup that he turned idly as he enjoyed the quiet. So much of life was chaos and noise, giving a delightful sense of contrast sometimes, when self loathing didn't ruin it.

Raylan had lifted his chin at the first question, humming a soft passing note of permission, not that Doc really needed it, and lifted his eyebrows a little at the second.

"No. Serial killers murder for fun or some twisted, broken selfish reason. Take joy in it. Every man and the one woman I put down.. They were all justified, every bullet. Doesn't make me a serial killer.. though the argument for murderer still remains. Onna Arlo's favorites. For all he's done, he's never murdered someone." Arlo did love lording that over him.

"Don't know that murderer bothers me so much sometimes. Better I stop 'em then lettin' more people get hurt." He'd ask what prompted the question, but he also knew that Doc might get around to that explanation himself. "I imagine you've shot a few people, considerin'. You find it to be any different?"

Yeah so what if they tempted their own damnation for the greater good? Raylan would rather carry the unsure weight of it around then leave it on narrower, younger shoulders or innocent ones.

[articulatings]

[ 1 | 2 | 3 ]

[tinstar]

[ How would you feel about Raylan comin' to arrest Arlo from Boyd's general custody, ala Image 2?]

[conning]

The first time he'd been outside of New York State in over three years, and he and Peter had ended up in Kentucky. Granted, it was Lexington, which landed it in the "It could be worse, I guess" category of travel destinations, but that wasn't the point.

The first time in over three years, and he was in Kentucky, and he wasn't even sure why. It was a case, Peter said. That was basically what Neal knew about the situation. Something something Detroit mob, something something seized art, something something Manhattan white collar unit case.

He minced through the Lexington courthouse in Peter's wake, feeling wildly overdressed and, for once, not in a good way. There was standing out, and then there was sticking out, and he was doing the latter. Peter at least had the benefit of the FBI uniform, that was to say, a middling-quality suit that had been worn several years past the expiration date of the style. Neal hadn't bothered to tailor his clothes to the region, which left him with little choice but to lean into it. Smile at the women who walked by. Hold the doors open with little half-bows, wear his hat at just a bit more jaunty of an angle.

When they stepped off the elevator and Neal realized they were heading for the US Marshals' offices, he almost stopped dead. He caught up with Peter just in time to walk inside, whispering in the man's ear, "Really? We're helping the Marshals Service?"

[tinstar]

The FBI uniform stuck out just as much as Neal's hat, people openly staring at the fedora more than the suit with it, by and large - they were used to the latter coming through now and then but Jazz hadn't exactly found a fond home in the middle of Lexington, the tryhard city in Kentucky. Being the capital had that effect if you understood anything about the unfortunate land and people around it.

The office was pretty transparent in all the glass that it had and the back most conference room had the most bodies in it, but it was Tim, sitting at his desk, who stood up and stepped around to greet them. The elevator dinged behind the closing glass doors and they were promptly pushed back open by one tall, too lean man in a hat.

"Heya, how can I help you," Tim started, glancing at Raylan who was glancing at the obvious strangers to town from under his own hat as he slipped past them with a polite 'Scuse me' as he went past them and into the bustling conference room that introduced the hatted cowboy with a 'Raylan, good-' by a stout older man, obviously the Chief. Tim smiled faintly, lifting his eyebrows with a little tilt of his head to draw the two men back to his question after the noise is muted by the closing glass door.

It's called a joint taskforce

[this_ismydesign]

“ViCap?!” Will Graham and Jack Crawford said the word at the same time with the same level of incredulity, neither of which appeared to have any effect on the beautiful but hard looking woman who stood in the room with them.

“Be glad it isn’t back into a jail cell,” she said without any hint of mercy. “Which would have been my preference but when you bring in a high-profile serial killer it appears that gains you special friends.”

“Settling the wrongful arrest lawsuit made those friends,” Will remarked with an innocent expression on his face that earned him a narrowed eye glare from Prurnell, Jack growled in his throat and gave Will a stand down side glance.

“I need Will, right here in the BAU.” He said with firm directness. A man used to getting his own way through the sheer force of his personality. Except Kade Prurnell was a woman who was also used to getting her own way through the sheer force of her personality and she quickly fired back, “Your needs are the least of our concerns, Jack.”

It was at this point that Will decided to slouch down a bit in his chair and hope the both of them forgot he was in the room.

“Look!” Jack stood up going for intimidation through size, but Prurnell was having none of it and stepped right into his desk, finger jabbing in the big man’s direction. It was like watching a chess match with each player vying for dominance over the center of the desk … er … board and Jack was not winning this.

“This is not a discussion, Jack! I am here telling you about the reassignment as a courtesy…”

“COURTESY?!?”

“YES!”

“You are taking one of my strongest assets…”

“Strongest?? Three department psychiatrists agree that Will Graham is an unfit, unstable, broken pony who should be taken out behind the stable and shot!” She paused and looked at Will. “No offense.”

“None taken,” really. It was not anything he had not already called himself, and worse.

Jack looked ready to launch into his next argument but Prurnell got in there first.

“You are never getting field clearance for him again, AND it is on his permanent record that he is never allowed to own or carry a firearm.” She looked at Will flatly. “Not that the last one is any great loss.” Will shrugged. His questionable marksmanship with a pistol was one of the less offensive running jokes about him making its way around the office.

Jack set his hands on his hips. It made him look twice as pugnacious but Will and Prurnell both knew it meant that Crawford was beginning to accept defeat. Will straightened in the chair and picked up the conversation.

“Violent Crimes Apprehension Program,” he spelled out ViCap. “Not like we’re not in the same building,” he offered to Jack only to catch Prurnell’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.

Uh oh.

Jack saw it as well and his bullish shoulders tensed. “What?”

Prurnell leaned back with a smile that was sweet, in the way that cyanide gas had a sweet almond scent.

“Mr. Graham’s doctors feel it would be in his best interests to relocate from the area of such recent trauma. It so happens that the FBI and the US Marshals office have been discussing joint operation initiatives. One of the pilot programs is being stood up as we speak.”

Both Jack and Will wore the same are you shitting me expression. Will recovered his voice first as he shifted in the chair with a humorless snort.

“The FBI and the US Marshals office? Joint … anything? We can’t share a urinal without trying to piss on each other.”

Jack scoffed as Prurnell looked pained.

“Part of why it has been decided that more interagency cooperative efforts…” both Jack and Will groaned like teenage boys having to hear reprimand from the school principal for the hundredth time. Prurnell rolled her eyes and reached for her briefcase. She reached into it and pulled out a file folder, throwing it into Will’s lap and looking smug when he ooofed as the corner caught his crotch.

“Everything you need is in there,” she said without sympathy watching as Graham opened the file.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

“Harlan Kentucky?” He looked up over his glasses at her. Prurnell smirked. “What? You like remote areas. You report to Chief Mullen two weeks from Monday.”

“Is this our punishment or theirs?” Jack asked in an unpleasant tone. Prurnell just smiled sweetly and turned for the door.

“Don’t think of it as an either/or, Jack.” She paused fingers curled around the door handle. “In this instance the answer is both.”

As the door closed behind her Crawford fell into his chair with a long exhale, like a deflating balloon. He stared at the door for almost three minutes, the silence broken only by the rustle of paper as Will flipped through the file.

“This is bullshit.” Jack said.

“Mmm.” Will acknowledged absently.

“What do they think a forensic profiler is going to do with the US Marshal service?!” Jack was starting to wind back up, but Will ignored him as he read from the file.

“’…assigned to provide support service to the US Marshals in the development of criminal profiles that will aid in the apprehension of fugitives from the law’.”

Jack made a face.

‘That’s like …”

“…teaching my grandmother how to suck eggs?”

Jack snorted. “They are going to hate you.”

Will sighed and shrugged as he pried himself out of the chair. “Can’t be any more annoying about it than Zeller and Price. That’s not what worries me.”

Jack grunted an unspoken inquiry as he began to look back down at his own work.

“Eastern Kentucky without a sidearm? I’m going to be underdressed.”

[tinstar]

"Oh Jesus, Art, a joint operation initiative pilot program?" The question was asked with an expression like he'd had shit waved under his nose, head pulling back like he could get away from the suggestion via space from the file in front of him alone.

"Yes, Raylan, because believe it or not, we are supposed to be on the same side."

The curl of Raylan's face suggested he'd believe that when pig sprouted wings. "Except when they get in our way, take over our cases and treat us like we're shit on their shoes."

"Yeah well, it's still a day that ends in 'y' and you ain't got a choice. There's cases we ain't solved yet the the Federal Government would like us to practice on."

Raylan sighed and dropped the file onto the table. "Fine. They at least tell you who we're stuck with?"

"One agent and one consultant. A.. Jack Crawford and Will Graham," Art replied, head pulling back as he tromboned the file a little, glasses lost somewhere on the desk. "And we already got your first case." The thump of the file dropped on the desk was almost intimidating. "Read up, because you're gonna be the one greetin' them when they get here."

"Joy," Raylan drawled, eyeing the file with distaste.

"They get here in two weeks, so read up."

Raylan just grunted and looked away.

--

Two weeks later, Raylan was sat behind his desk, the fat file spread out in front of him. He already had a lead but he had to wait for his 'help'. It annoyed him, just like reading this file had. This wasn't what he was meant to do; be a desk jockey, waiting for carpetbaggers to come and tell him how bad he was at his job, regardless of the fact that he wasn't on the case when it happened.

He sighed roughly as he looked at the office doors. They should have been picked up by now, driven in by a Marshal that knew where he was going. Raylan couldn't imagine what was keeping them.

through the (wrong) looking glass

[citharede]

Athena wasn't sure how she expected going home to feel. Would it hurt? Would it be dizzying, scary? Or would she just take a step and find herself waking up somewhere familiar? She really hoped it would be somewhere familiar and not some random East Coast beach or something.

She and Jeff were in the middle of the pack when it came to the timing of exits. It had only seemed right that the people who came first got to leave first. Saying goodbye was a wrench, in a few cases in particular, but it wasn't the first time she'd had to walk away from people she loved for the sake of someplace different. Someplace better. And home really, really would be better than Mathias.

Athena took a deep breath, hoisting her backpack a little more firmly onto her back and flashing Jeff a smile--

Then they were in it. Or rather, there was a moment of nothing, and then she stumbled forward onto her knees against a marble floor. The building fairly roared with noise after the quiet of Mathias, and Athena clapped her hands over her ears, swearing under her breath as she tried to orient herself. A suited man reached down to help her up and she scrambled back and to her feet, backing away fast enough that she rammed a woman in business clothes.

"I'm fi-- shit, sorry, um--" She turned in a quick circle, struggling to get a grip on where she was. Definitely not somewhere familiar.

"You all right, miss?" The suited man peered at her in concern, speaking with a distinctly familiar twang.

"Oh fuck no," Athena whispered, pushing past him and running for the nearest directory.

Courthouse. She was in a Lexington courthouse. One with a Marshals office. Too damn big of a coincidence. Athena tried to keep her shit together, forcing herself not to panic. Not yet. She pushed her way onto the elevator, practically dancing from foot to foot as it crawled up to the right floor. She shoved her way out with equal disregard for manners, stopping short at the clear doors bearing the Marshals' logo.

It's Raylan. She could see him from where she was standing, his hat set to one side, focusing on paperwork at his desk. For a second Athena considered just turning around and walking away. He didn't deserve to have this shitstorm dropped into his lap. He didn't owe her anything. If anything, she owed him. Owed him enough to let him have a life without stepping into the middle of it and fucking things up for him even worse than she did for her aunt.

Except she couldn't do it. She couldn't just leave. The thought terrified her, for more reasons than she could get her head around. God, had she always been so fucking selfish?

She knew the answer was yes.

Athena shoved her way through the front doors of the Lexington Courthouse Marshals Office, stopping short half-way to Raylan's desk. What exactly was she supposed to say?

She was clean, at least. Showered. But her clothes were ill-fitting nineties hand-me-downs from some disappeared boy's closet, and her backpack showed all the abuse of its time in the middle of nowhere. And she was just standing there.

Give it another minute, and the eyes of everyone in the office would be on her anyway.

smudge smudge

[tinstar]

It had been three months since Raylan had woke back up in Harlan, in his shitty motel room that smelled of boot and faintly of Jim beam and gun oil - You know how sad that sounds, that room, someone had said to him at it's description. He had not been at all well, and it had taken 3 weeks before he started to realign. The nightmares ebbed off, the affects of drinking too much moonshine on a regular basis eased, letting him maintain the weight that he had lost in Mathis and magically regained when waking up here.

Physically, he was fine. No scars on his face and body, despite the fact that his fingers felt the ghosts of them when he touched his face, but mentally, Raylan was broken. Even after 3 weeks, he was still a little shaky. Art had sensed Something was Wrong when Raylan threatened to leave if he couldn't have his own leave but so far, no one else in the office had dared asked him what the hell had happened.

Another 3 weeks passed before Raylan appeared in the office like he had never left, tucking everything under the hood, in spite of the emptiness that had settled in him. He was back in reality; he knew who he was and he could sort out there from here. He had his guns. And he was all alone again. Tim remembered nothing, staring at him with that narrowed eyed suspicion as Raylan had danced around his questions, his hints and his searches for Malcolm had been all in vain. So it was back to work. Another pyre of things he couldn't resolve and couldn't talk about.

Same place he'd been in when he'd left but worse. It was all so much worse.

Another extra month hadn't made it much better but Raylan was working on it, night after night, drink after drink.

Today was a Tuesday. He'd looked on his calender not five minutes before the doors to the office opened violently and the file in his hand slowly lowered to his desk as Athena charged over and stood before him like she was just there. Like she wasn't some hallucination.

But this was The Office. Raylan glanced around, at Rachel and Tim before standing up. "Athena."

There was no hesitation in pushing up from and moving around his desk, one hand settling on the outside of her shoulder as he guided her into the conference room across from his desk with a soft "Come with me."

Once inside the room, Raylan shut the door and pulled the blinds, like he was worried she wouldn't be there when he turned around from his task. But there was no use in waiting, in torturing himself with the what ifs and Raylan turned.

"Please tell me I'm not havin' some kinda flash back hallucination." It was a roll of the dice, if she understood what that meant or if he just made himself to look like the weirdest fucking adult in the office. But he had to know, right out of the gate. Did she remember him or did he have to compartmentalize?

I just wanted to write Tim

[walkingtrigger]

Tim was asleep, face first in a pillow when the phone rang. Instinct saw him reaching over to grab up the landline before he was conscious enough to recall that this was Raylan’s phone, not his own.

“What,” he mumbled into the receiver, expecting to hear Art’s voice.

“Tim?”

That was not Art’s voice. The sharp exclamation of his name uttered with just the right lift of tone to make it sound imperious could belong to none other than Winona whateverherlastnamewasthisyear. Tim pulled the received from his ear and glared at the handset. Why the fuck was Winona calling him …

“Shit.”

“My sentiments exactly,” she responded. “Raylan there?”

Tim lay quiet for a moment and let his brain get online. Because he was not in Kentucky, he was in Miami. Specifically, he was in Raylan Givens’ small beach somewhat-adjacent bungalow, having arrived around four in the morning after an all-night drive down from Lexington. Raylan had not been home, but Tim had been aware of the fact and simply helped himself to the spare key the older marshal kept tucked away in a fake rock.

“No.” Tim finally responded and before she could jump on him, he explained. “He’s still in Mississippi on that manhunt.”

“Then why are you…”

“Winona, did you need something?” Tim was sitting up now blinking with great offense at the sun pouring in the window from the east. He and Winona tolerated each other. Because it was a complicated thing when you were both sleeping with the same man, off and on. Winona and Raylan were a goddamn cycle; dating, fucking, talking marriage, getting tired of each other’s shit, breaking up, rinse, lather, and repeat. Tim had no idea why he’d decided to get on this particular roundabout. Crawling into Raylan’s bed when Winona was off marrying some other asshole, who would eventually bore her and then she’d come back to Raylan. At which point Tim would crawl out of Raylan’s bed until the cycle started all over again.

It was fucked up and confusing as hell, but it was also the closest thing to a stable relationship Tim had in his life.

“Willa’s daycare provider just called, she’s sick and has to close the daycare early,”

Tim picked up his watch and looked at the time. Just a little after ten in the morning. The could not sleep after 6:30am only worked when he didn’t fall asleep until after 6:30am.

“Winona,” Tim began to caution, but she rode right over him.

“I’m in court all day on this murder trial and Brody is out on the boat,” at least she had the grace to sound as unhappy with what she was about to suggest as Tim knew he was going to be. “Tim…”

“Yeah, alright. Same place I assume?”

“Yes. I have a call in to Brody, as soon as the boat gets back this afternoon, he’ll come pick her up.”

“Tell him to bring ID,” it was a low jab, the blatant suggestion that he couldn’t keep track of who she was married to/dating/etc, but he was tired and exceptionally cranky.

“Fuck you, Tim.” Winona hung up.

Tim looked at the handset, couldn’t think of a witty comeback so he just flipped it over towards Raylan’s side of the bed. Taking another deep breath, he pried himself out of the comfortable bed, glad he’d stayed awake long enough to shower just a few hours earlier.

Willa Givens was the one subject upon which the adults in her life made an above and beyond effort to be civil and functional. Tim would never bad mouth or smart ass at Winona in front of Willa and Winona never disparaged him to her daughter. For Willa her mother, father, the man her father sometimes had ‘sleep overs’ with and the men in her mother’s life were all there to support and shower her with affection. There was no back biting or subtle sabotage when it came to Willa. Tim’s name was on the list of emergency contacts with the daycare, he had a copy of Willa’s insurance card in his wallet, and he was cleared to pick her up from the daycare.

Back in the Tahoe (because fuck if he was putting these kinds of miles on her personal car) Tim swung by a local convenience store for coffee, juice, an apple, and some string cheese. He then made his way to the home daycare provider, located up near Oleta River State park. Watching as a young mother herded her pair of children to a shiny mini-van, Tim climbed the steps and waved at the exhausted looking teenage girl behind the screen.

“Hey.” He greeted her. She was the daycare provider’s daughter and worked as an assistant with her mom. Nice enough kid but looking overwhelmed and pleased to see him.

“Hi Mr. Gutterson,” she never remembered his title and Tim had no reason to make hay about it. “Willa’s the last one here.” The unspoken question about why he was here lingered in the air as she stepped back, and Tim just shrugged and pulled open the door.

“Communication snafu,” he explained, and no sooner had he cleared the threshold than a happy squeal spit the air and his legs were cannonballed into. “Why the hell did we teach you to walk,” he groused down at shiny dark curls, the same color as her father’s. Willa laughed without remorse and proceeded to wrap her arms and legs around his lower calf, sitting perched on the top of his boot.

Tim rolled his eyes, which did not dissuade his new attachment and might have gotten a small giggle out of the teenage girl who was walking over with Willa’ Little Mermaid knapsack.

“There are some diapers and a packed lunch in there, but I just changed her. She should be ready for her nap soon.” she offered as Tim stared balefully at the glittering pink and aqua bookbag. He finally accepted his fate and reached to take the straps, slinging it over one shoulder before leaning down to collect Willa. She transferred agreeably to his arms, especially as this brought her within range of his nose, which had been a fascination for her since the first time she got close enough to grab it.

“Hope your mom feels better,” he made the polite noises, though his drawl was a little more nasal than usual due to the small fingers trying to smoother him as he headed out the door.

“ ‘im, ‘im, ‘im!’ “the twenty-two-month-old crowed with glee.

“Still having problems with the letter T hhmmm?” He drew his head back, retrieving his nose as he looked into hazel eyes. Yeah, no matter what Art liked to believe, Willa was the spitting image of Raylan, just with feminine features that were going to devastate boys (or girls) in about twelve years.

“T-ah, T-ah,” he sounded out the T and watched as Willa’s little face scrunched up. The child made a couple of attempts, before giving up and grabbing his nose again. By which time he had arrived at the back passenger side door of the Tahoe, which he pulled open and set Willa down.

….

On the goddamn bench seat devoid of goddamn car seat.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, smacking his hand on the door frame.

“Fuck!” came a cheerful little voice and Tim peered down from overtop his sunglasses at the child.

“Really? Can’t manage T but F you’ve already got mastered?”

“Fuck!” She repeated, mostly because she knew she had gotten a reaction out of him, and just like her daddy she did love to stir the shit.

“Remind me to be back in Kentucky before you say that in front of your mother,” he remarked, drumming his fingers against the roof of the truck, and considering his severely limited options.

As Tim stared off to the side pondering his next move, Willa decided he was being boring and started to head for the front seat. She neatly crawled over the console and landed in the driver seat, grabbing at the steering wheel. It moved!!! This was great fun and she twisted and turned it about before discovering that if she smacked the pretty little symbol in the center, the big car made a pathetic little honk noise!

It was the honk that shook Tim out of his combination of self-pity and attempted planning as he looked towards the happy child who was beating on the horn, making gradually louder and louder honks.

“Could you stop that?”

HONNKKK!!

Groaning, Tim pushed himself upright, grabbed the stupid little pink and aqua backpack and then closed the door. He headed next around to the driver side door and pulled it open to extract his coffee, apple, string cheese, juice, and child. Will was not pleased at being taking away from her toy and gave an imperious howl.

Tim gave her a jiggle on his hip as he carried her around to the back of the Tahoe. “Quit yer fussing child. I’ve got your favorite chew toy back here.”

Opening the back gate, Tim reached in and rummaged about before he set Willa down on the carpet.

“First, little change of attire,” he said blandly. She was dressed in a sweet as a picture little yellow frock, complete with lace and pale pink tights. Tim knew that if the dress, tights, let alone the white leather shoes got dirty Winona would have a fit. So, he took the only logical course of action. He stripped the child down to her diaper and then re-dressed her in one of his black t-shirts. It swamped the child, as did his marshal ballcap, which he fitted onto her head as a sunshade, because he did not have any sunscreen.

“There, now I don’t have to worry about you becoming a shrimp,” he decided as he packed the little bookbag, slung it over Willa’s shoulder, so he could grab another large canvas bag to throw over his own shoulder. At the sight of the bag, Willa squealed with absolute delight and he felt her tiny fingers reaching for the adjustment buckle as she pulled the shoulder strap towards her mouth.

“I’ll be so glad when you’re done teething,” he groused, closing the Tahoe, and locked it behind them.

With Willa on his hip gnawing contentedly and drooling down his shoulder, Tim hiked them both up a couple of blocks and over to the large park. He paused long enough to send a text, outlining his intention and location to the child’s parents, then headed on into the park proper. It did not take long for him to come upon the wholesome scene of a children’s’ playground, full of … children.

“You sure you wouldn’t rather go to a strip club?” He asked Willa, who scrunched up her face, teeth still locked on drool-soaked canvas. “Yeah, you’re right. It’d just be the back-up dancers at work this hour.”

A gasp off to his left had Tim glancing in the direction of a horrified looking grandmother sitting at a picnic table. He considered whether there was any chance of walking his comment back. Accepted there was not and so he just smiled.

“Ma’am,” he said politely before moving on. The playground was a mixture of dirt, sand, and artificial rubber type material. It had some dips and valleys that had mud and water collected in them. Willa made happy noises as Tim stopped and lowered her into one with mud. He knew for a fact that Winona did not allow for playing in the mud, and while Tim held fast to rules of discipline and supported Willa’s parents in that regard, he was also here to broaden her horizons.

“No throwing,” he said in a stern voice as he left her kneeling in the mud and walked over to claim a nice shade tree as ‘home base’. He set down the little backpack, as well as the large canvas back he had brought from the truck, then sat himself down and crossed his arms, watching as sharp as a hawk while looking half asleep.

Willa played for a time in the mud before she got caught up with a couple other little ankle biters and they ran around squealing at decibels only bats could understand. At one point, Willa decided she was going to make her way up the slide from the bottom to the top. She made it about a third of the way before sliding back down and landing on her well-padded bottom. She looked over at Tim with a calculating expression of whether to cry.

“Don’t even,” he drawled out. “Get your ass up that slide,” he pointed towards the top.

Once again Tim had to ignore a few indignant glares from soccer moms and nannies. However, he did indulge in shooting them all a smug smirk when Willa, resolutely and stubbornly, made her way up the slide to the top. It took her a couple of missteps, but she never once looked to Tim again, head down she was determined and triumphant!

And then kinda a little stuck.

Tim unfolded himself from the tree trunk and walked over to the structure where his shoulders were about level with the platform Willa stood on. She climbed nimbly onto his shoulders, muddy, sandy fingers digging into his hair for grip as he refused to grab her small legs. They walked over to the tree and here Tim reached back to pluck her off her perch, lowering both child and himself safely to the ground.

“Lunch,” he announced, reaching into her backpack for the wipes he knew were within. Cleaning up her hands and her face, he also traded out the wet diaper for a dry one. The pair then sat under the tree and shared a lunch of string cheese, apple slices, crackers, and grapes. Tim figured Brody must have packed the damn grapes, because they were whole, and he sat there, carefully cutting them in half and then quarters before letting Willa eat them.

With a full belly, dry diaper, warm weather having dried the t-shirt, Ms. Willa Givens was well and truly ready for her nap. Tim carefully packed up their trash, then moved the long canvas bag into position along his left side. He settled Willa down atop the bag, letting her tangle her little fingers in the shoulder strap, thumb heading into her mouth as she curled up with her back against his side and fell asleep. Her bed, one of her favorite beds, was the padded canvas gun case where Tim kept sniper rifle.

Resting his left hand against her chest -makeshift baby monitor- Tim set his right on his hip within quick reach of his service pistol. He also closed his eyes, letting himself drift into a shallow state of sleep that he had perfected in the Rangers. It was mostly restful but if anyone was foolish in how they approached the pair, Tim was in position to shoot a body.

Me: I have work to do. My Brain: Yeah but how about ...

[walkingtrigger]

Tim was sitting at the kitchen table cleaning his sniper rifle, one ear cocked for the sound of the school bus. From the moment he heard its distinctive rumble, he then counted down how long it took to get from the curb to the front door and he exhaled a breath when the door slammed shut. It would have been nicer if the door had closed politely, but this was one of those ‘work in progress’ situations.

Thump!

“Willa Givens,” Tim drawled out the child’s name, waited a moment and then nodded when the backpack, that had been haphazardly dumped on the entry way floor, was picked up and set on the shelf under the coats. He glanced up when six-year-old Willa Givens came skipping into the kitchen, looking too adorable to be Winona’s daughter and too tidy to be Raylan’s daughter.

“Hello, Tim!” She chirped with delight, crawling up onto one of the kitchen chairs and settling with her knees in the seat so she could get enough height to have her elbows on the table. It was not ladylike in the least, but the sniper left her too it.

“How was school?” He dutifully inquired and then sat quietly as Willa was off to the races in relaying her day. She was still at the point of her school career where school was fun!

As she talked, Tim cleaned. The first time Winona had caught him cleaning his weapons on the kitchen table with Willa in her booster seat making a mess of a banana, she had gone off the deep end. The explosion had started Willa crying, brought Raylan dashing down the stairs -the older marshal had been asleep after a three-day stakeout- and made a hell of a scene. Usually, Tim gave ground to Winona in matters like these, apologized profusely and made a note to never repeat the behavior, but this time he held his ground.

His argument, when he finally got a word in edgewise, was that pretending guns did not exist in her father’s house would only lead to curiosity in time and the risk of unsafe behavior out of ignorance. He held firm that Willa would learn gun safety, gun discipline and most of all that guns were boring because she would see them, know about them, and they would cease to hold any sort of mysterious appeal. It had taken some discussion with Art Mullen before Winona had accepted that Tim’s logic was sound and relented.

Tim’s approach had proven out. Willa sat close to all the bits and pieces of the big sniper rifle, but she did not try to touch any of them, and she ignored them with the air of boring adult things. There were still multiple gun and rifle safes in the house, but they were of no interest to the child. She knew what was in there, she knew they were off limits, but she also knew that if she asked her father or Tim would talk to her honestly about them. Curiosity satisfied.

“…oh! I need cupcakes for the bake sale tomorrow!” Willa’s chirp on this last sentence drew the younger marshal out of the mental wanderings he’d been traveling while the child rattled off about swing set etiquette and he paused and blinked.

“Come again?”

“I signed up for cupcakes for the bake sale and the sale is tomorrow?”

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” duh, Tim pay attention.

“No, no. I mean when did you sign up?”

“Two weeks ago!”

Tim turned his head and looked at the calendar that they tried to keep updated with the various comings and goings of the household. Tim and Willa were mostly successful; things were still hit or miss with Raylan.

“It’s not on the calendar.” Point point.

“I told Daddy.”

Fuck. Daddy was currently on a prisoner transport detail from Florida to California. Tim rubbed his fingers over his eyes, immediately regretting that action as he got gun oil in his eyes. Ow ow ow ow! “How many cupcakes are we in for?”

“Three dozen,” Willa sounded so pleased that Tim swallowed his groan of dismay.

“Alright,” he said reaching to swiftly reassembled the cleaned rifle. “Let me put this away and change, then we’ll go down to the store and pick up some cupcakes.”

Silence.

Lingering silence.

Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me Tim glanced up from where he was deftly snapping gun parts together and hit the full force of woeful hazel eyes.

Not just woeful hazel eyes. Large, woeful hazel eyes with a hint of shine in them that went along with the perfect moue of sadness that Willa had perfected from her mother. On Winona it was just a bitchy, pouty look. On Willa it brought grown men to their knees.

“What.” He stated, already suspecting where this was going and feeling dread crawl down his spine.

“Becky was boasting about how her mom was going to bake cakes, and Amber said her mom was going to do a hundred dozen cookies, and Elsie said her mom was making fudge and …”

“Enough,” Tim said, raising his hand. “What has your Daddy told you about wanting to do what everybody else does?”

“That it’s stupid and I wouldn’t jump off a bridge if everybody else did,” Willa repeated the words dutifully. And continued to look at Tim woefully.

“Exactly. We do not measure ourselves against the accomplishment of others, only against…” he was reciting Raylan’s words and watching as one single, solitary tear escaped and tracked down Willa’s cheek. “Fuck.”

Tim hung his head and put the now assembled rifle back into its tactical bag and pushed up from the table.

“What flavors are you thinking for these three dozen cupcakes?” He asked as he headed towards the main bedroom where the gun locker was stashed. Willa gave a whoop of delight and scrambled after him.

“Chocolate,” as if that were a given. “And Funfetti, and salted caramel, and grasshopper, and Red velvet, and…”

In the end Tim did put his foot down and held the line at three flavors. Army Ranger and child had stood in the middle of the baking supplies aisle for a good twenty minutes debating this fact and debating which flavors would make the cut. In the end they agreed on Red Velvet (since that was just hyped-up chocolate), Key Lime (they were in FL after all) and Salted Caramel with Sea Salt! With the mission accepted Tim Gutterson did not do anything by halves. They walked past the premade cake/cupcake mix, snorted with derision at the canned frostings and proceeded to the raw ingredients.

When they were elbow deep in measuring out flour, the kitchen slowly becoming a disaster area, Tim decided that this was not the worst set of circumstances in the world. Raylan was out on the job, but Winona had fucked off on an impromptu vacation with her latest to salvage the relationship. Tim knew it wasn’t going to work, Willa knew it wasn’t going to work and baking cupcakes was a good distraction. Military discipline came to the fore and Tim made the project into a learning experience as well as a baking one. He challenged Willa on converting measurements, stretching her exposure to mathematics as they scratch made the cupcakes through the evening and all the way up to bedtime.

Willa needed a bath, an act the young lady was capable of on her own, Tim needed a bath -there was frosting in his hair and he had flour down the back of his shirt- and the kitchen needed a deep clean. These last two would happen once the child was in bed and asleep.

“Tim?” Willa began as she climbed into her bed and began to settle down in her nest of stuffed animals. “Do you think it would be okay to save one of each cupcake for Daddy?”

Tim was over by the window, making sure it was locked and the lock bar was in place. Raylan had enough enemies that a couple extra layers of protection were not unwarranted.

“Maybe not save,” Tim said as he pulled the curtains. “But how about we buy him one of each kind?”

Willa smiled. “That’d be good!” She had successfully shifted all her stuffies around and slithered under her blankets, practically disappearing into the collection of fuzzy faces. Tim sighed and walked over to move a few to different locations.

“I swear you are going to smoother yourself, child.” He groused as he picked up a lime green frog that he was absolutely certain had not been there the last time Willa had stayed with them. He held it up and looked at her with raised eyebrows. Willa grinned and reached for the frog.

“This is Tolstoy,” she announced. Winona’s current was an English professor at one of the local colleges who liked to boast about his reading accomplishments. Given that he tended to rattle off the big names in literature, Tim suspected the man had gotten his PhD from the bottom of a box of Cracker Jacks and did not know Tolstoy from Dostoyevsky. Regardless Willa had picked up on naming her stuffed animals after famous authors, in the never-ending effort to please her mother and try to keep one of her ‘step-fathers’ happy.

Tim was reminded once again that he wanted to discuss suing Winona for primary custody of the child. For now, he gave his patented look of resignation, which made Willa giggle as she watched him expectantly. Tim exhaled and introduced himself to the stuffed animal.

“Hello, Tolstoy.” He shook one of the frog’s little arms and then dropped the stuffy on Willa’s face, making the child giggle harder as she gathered it close and rolled onto her side to get comfortable for sleep.

“Will Daddy be home in the morning?” She asked hopefully.

Tim hunkered down beside the bed, he did not want to leave flour all over her sheets, and he did a mental calculation of Raylan’s travel plans. In the end he had to shake his head.

“I don’t know, Willa.” He gave the honest answer and reached to take a lock of her hair and tickle her nose with it. She grinned, though he could tell his answer made her sad, but she also accepted the answer with good grace. Tim considered the situation for a moment and then he smiled knowingly and let go of her hair. “How about ice cream for breakfast?” He didn’t doubt that Willa wanted her father, but he also knew that Willa enjoyed the mornings when Raylan snuck her ice cream for breakfast.

Willa grinned. She lifted her hand and kissed her fingers before reaching out to touch the side of Tim’s cheek. Tim groaned and fell back. “Girl, cooties!” He exclaimed writhing around on the floor, while Willa laughed. His wriggling took him towards the door, so that when he climbed to his feet, he was close enough to turn off the light.

“Goodnight, Tim!”

“You have reached Tim’s answering service. Tim can’t come to the phone right now, he’s been felled by girl cooties,” the sniper responded as he turned off the light and closed the door on another set of giggles.

Memorial Day Tim Gutterson Style

[walkingtrigger]

It was Memorial Day weekend. Raylan had Willa for the weekend, but it was time for the hand-off to Winona and her current beau a younger man named Tyler.

They had agreed to meet at the annual Miami Memorial Day festival down on the boardwalk and when they had arrived Winona came bearing paperwork that she needed to discuss with Raylan. Without a word Tim had collected Willa and the two made themselves scarce so that the child’s parents could talk without upsetting small ears.

At some point Tim had put Willa up on his shoulders so she could have a good view of all the festivities going on around them, particularly the parade. All around them were families, men and women in uniform celebrating the day. Willa had her fingers curled in his hair but was otherwise a quiet passenger as they walked along. It wasn’t until they were standing and watching more of the parade go by that she leaned down and pressed her head against his.

“What does that sign say over there?”

“Hmm?”

She pointed and Tim felt his lips twist into an amused smirk. Leave it to Raylan Given’s daughter to home in on ice cream.

“It says ‘free large ice cream to in uniform military personnel’.”

“Oh.”

Willa went quiet for a bit one arm leaning on the top of Tim’s head and he knew she was watching various families going up to the vendor and getting the free ice cream. He knew the question was coming and turned to walk them away from the noise of the parade, over to a low retaining wall where they could walk in the shade and a bit of quiet. Willa didn’t protest the change of scenery and rode along quietly for quite a bit longer than Tim had anticipated.

Girl really was chewing on her thoughts. Just like her daddy.

“Why aren’t you wearing your uniform?”

And there was question Tim had been waiting for most of the day. He walked a little further until they came upon an area that had been sectioned off for people who wanted to sit and have quiet picnics, yet still be part of the celebration. Here Tim lowered himself, silently prompting Willa to get off his shoulders and on to the retaining wall. This put her a little more even with him when he stepped up beside her so they could talk quietly.

“It’s a personal choice,” he began. “Memorial Day is celebrated a lot of different ways. For some people it’s the start of summer, for others just a long weekend. Some people approach it to show respect to the men and women of the armed forces. That’s why you see signs like that one for the ice cream and it doesn’t have to be all one or the other.”

As he spoke Tim’s eyes scanned the picnic people until he spotted what he sought. Leaning close to Willa’s shoulder, he didn’t point (that would be rude) but verbally directed her gaze.

“See the people over by that big tree to the left? The man with the three children and the couple that look like grandparents?”

Willa put on her serious searching face, the one that made her look like her father when he was after a hillbilly in the wild. It took her a minute or so but then she perked up.

“The people on the green blanket with the red cooler?”

“Good spotting.”

Willa beamed at the praise and then tilted her head, long dark hair falling over her shoulders as her expression turned curious.

“What about them?”

“Do you see the flag just behind the man’s shoulder? On the flag rod?”

“The one with the gold star?”

“Yes.” Tim confirmed and he moved to pick Willa up in his arms, putting her on his hip. She was almost too big for this, probably six more months before he’d have to stop holding her this way so he was going to enjoy it while he could.

“That gold star means they lost an immediate family member in service combat,” he explained as he started to walk them back to where Raylan and Winona were hopefully wrapping up their conversation. “I suspect that man is a widower and lost his wife, the children their mother and the older couple probably their daughter. Men and women like her, those who fell in service to their country and in service to the welfare of those of us -like me- who survived? They’re the ones I want to honor on Memorial Day.”

Willa had her arms around Tim’s neck, her head on his shoulder, but he could feel her lips pulled into a little frown as she processed his words. At one point she turned her head back towards the park in a pensive manner.

“But why does that mean you can’t wear your uniform?”

“I can, Willa.” He corrected. “I choose not to because I don’t believe that Memorial Day should be about me. I am here to celebrate the day because of the sacrifices made by the men and women and their families when they didn’t come back. For me, the day is about them, not me getting free ice cream.”

Willa was quiet the rest of the trip back to her folks, wriggling as they got within eyesight of Raylan, Winona, and a handsome young blonde man in a Reservist Uniform. Tyler was maybe close to turning twenty-six, an IT specialist who was attached to the US Coast Guard Reserve, a man who had paid for his college career with service time. Tim could respect that; he had no issue with Tyler and honestly enjoyed watching Raylan rumble and growl over Winona having gone out and getting herself a boy toy. Tyler was good with Willa and that was enough for Tim.

“Hey Tyler!” The little girl in question piped up as she ran over and threw her arms around his waist. The young man smiled warmly and reached down to give her a hug. He was nervous about picking her up and Raylan’s glaring at him wasn’t encouraging the familiarity.

“Hey pipsqueak! You enjoying the festival?” Tyler looked up at Tim as the sniper stepped up beside Raylan and the two men gave each other a small nod. They might not have much in common, but they were both in the position of partners to the Raylan and Winona rodeo. That made for a common bond.

“I am! Tim took me to see…” and Willa was off to the races mentioning everything they had done together and the parade. Oddly, Willa did not mention the park or the families having a picnic. Tim wasn’t too surprised; it was a heavy subject for a child to process.

“Sounds like you and Tim have hit up most of the best activities,” Tyler said reaching out a hand for Willa to take and one for Winona. “How about we go find some ice cream hmmm? We can get an extra large with sprinkles for free!”

Willa smiled and was ready to skip off with her mother and her mother’s boyfriend.

“Can we get three small ones instead? There’s someones I want to share it with!”

The three had moved out of hearing range so Tim didn’t get a chance to learn what response came to this request. He pushed his hands into his pockets and smirked at Raylan. “I’m just gonna apologize now for the phone call you’ll be getting tonight after she goes to sleep.”

[thering]

Finally, they are here. That wet dream of an impossible life - two lives, in one farmhouse - . That somehow coherent sequence of a sharp inhale awakening, the realisation of being in that precarious big spoon position and not wanting to shake up the drawer, the five-minutes-more yearning to stay, headbutting a shoulder because real men don't nuzzle, inevitably shifting to warm feet on cool floorboards, the bite of cold water on his cheeks and in his mouth, the hiss-spurt-clicking of a still-warming-up coffee machine that fills the cool air with the promise of a quiet but decent morning even though nothing is supposed to make sense in a dream.

But this isn't a dream. Just-- too much whiskey last night. Empty bottles that clink guiltily on the porch when Henry steps out to clear away the evidence while the coffee mug is slowly filling up. They'll be having daughters over a little later, small fragments of their old and battered hearts to fill child seats and breathe life into the house with the pitter-patter of little feet and shrill laughter. Can't have them see the damaged sides of the men who hung the moon and all the stars up in the sky.

The smell-sizzle-sputter of bacon and eggs slither and waft in through the ajar bedroom door, attempting to lure the hungover deadweight out of bed if the coffee didn't work enough of its enchantment magic.

[tinstar]

It was colder here than in Kentucky. The kind of persistent cold that made Raylan sleep harder, made him curl more insistently into the bed and threatened him with the day by stealing what bits of lingering body heat they'd stoked together under the blanket. He'd hummed softly in his sleep, in soft protest of Henry leaving, but slipped back under into proper darkness until the sounds and smells of this dream pulled him back up to greet the chill of the morning.

He had to lay there for a few minutes after stretching out, to soak in the fact that he was here at all, that his bed smelled like the gunoil and smoke musk that followed Henry's musk underneath the wafting smell of breakfast. The stupid smile it left on his face stayed as he finally talked himself out of bed and into his jeans, an undershirt and a flannel. He might have accidently grabbed one of Henry's but it didn't much matter.

"Mornin' you," he greeted, voice still rough and deep from sleep as he beelined for the coffee pot, eyeing Henry and breakfast sidelong with that same stupid little smile. "Smells good."

[liveforthemoment]

The days were long for Maggie, even longer now that she found her self starting her life over again, New town, new bar to sit at peeling the lable off a long neck bottle. It was easier to be out than it was moving more boxes into the apartment above the tattoo shop that soon enough would be her business.

She looked out of place with her flame red hair and heavily tattooed body. Her style of dress was even different from the other patrons. She'd been sitting at the bar for a good 20 minutes, watching the beads of sweat build on the bottom of the bottle of beer, that was about the time that one of the more drunk men in the bar stumbled up to her.

He was acting way to familiar bringing his hands up touching her hair, Maggie appeared to be trying to ignore the man up til he was putting his hand on her thigh. It was then that she shoved him rather hard back and away from her, but drunk and rejected didn't ever look good on some folks and so the man swung back.

[tinstar]

All sorts of people got into bars - Raylan was used to seeing a wide and varied sort of folk but he was polite enough to mind his own business and the two fingers of whiskey that he had been nursing for 15 minutes after slamming down two to start. He was here for a little peace; okay, fine and some time to think over Winona and her most recent act of fucking insanity. He'd asked her that explicitly, more than once.

The whiskey helped, but it didn't erase the world around him like a porch did. He was still very much aware and present in the moment, even as he drifted into his own thoughts. So the ruckus stirring up a few stools down from him drew his attention, as much as everyone else in the bar.

He hadn't paid attention enough to know what started it all but what mattered was the energy of it. She was upset, had shoved him. He swung. Regardless of if it hits, Raylan is moving before he thinks about it, snatching the man back by his collar and punching him in the face as the man falls. But Raylan's grip doesn't loosen in the fabric and the man rolls to his side, giving up a weak protest, a push of his hands under a flurry of slurred curse words, but Raylan paid him no mind and drags him from the bar with a long stride and enough power to get it done without much practical or effective argument.

Once the guy was out on the sidewalk, Raylan pointed a finger at him. "Come in again, and I'll break your nose."

With that, he turns and walks back into the bar, attention focused on the tattooed redhead.

"You okay?"

😏

[thering]

Mid-morning frost hadn't yet turned to sludge and mud on the edge of the dirt track leading in between the trees and overgrown, more-wilderness-than-lawn encroaching insidiously into the driveway when the low growl of an old engine and the crunching of gravel under new tyres rumbles into silence in front of the old family home.

Uninvited holiday guests are rarely a treat, but when the cowboy emerges from behind a thrown-open car door, brim of an old black hat shielding his eyes from the sunlight, there appears to be a bottle with a festive red and green ribbon tied around the base of its neck intended to make the unplanned visit a little easier to swallow. If it happens to be a little early to start drinking - at least, according to proper gentlemen following proper decorum - thankfully, there happens to be none within a hundred miles of this place.

Narrowed eyes make a quick, casual study of the town car that he's pulled up right next to and all the little oddities peppered around the vicinity. It's no small miracle that a place like this can survive any manner of natural and unnatural disasters. By the time those boots chew stones and crisp bark up to the porch, two steps of floorboards creaking under his weight, half a cigarillo had been smoked away. With any luck it'll be all gone by the time the marshal answers those cold knuckles summoning him over to his front door.

"Pardon the intrusion," Doc drawls, tilting his head just enough to make eye contact. He always sounds like he's teasing, but in a good-natured, disarming and playful rather than a cruel or needling way. "But I heard on the wind that you took a bullet for Christmas. That's awful kind of you, standing there letting 'em get one in for a change. Brought you some get well whiskey."

[tinstar]

Raylan hated catching a bullet. The pain was annoying, the itch of healing skin drove him mad and not being able to draw like he normally does makes every hair on the back of his neck stiffen in warning. Art had warned him about barging in and his cover had been more lean than he thought. Honest mistake - only a flesh wound. A flesh wound that put him out of service for at least a month. Raylan bet he could get back into the field in three weeks though. Just long enough to miss the whole 'Christmas schtick' that the office and every other sane, jolly person was celebrating.

There was work that needed to be done on the house in Harlan anyway. With Arlo and Helen gone, Raylan really could use the free time to finish up or, in some cases, start a few projects, depending on the reach they demanded. But the country was still the country and his bat was kept next to the door, loaded shotgun companion with it to match the set leaned in the kitchen. He never paid any mind to the driveway facing windows but he heard the car pull up.

Anyone from the office would have called first, made sure he was still even at the house - so it wasn't them. Which left him with the most likely option - someone saw his car posted up in the driveway and ran down the road to tell someone else. The car had left. Someone had been dropped off. Someone didn't mean to leave. He was real short on ideas now, and the shotgun was collected silently on his way towards the door-

That was until he saw the hat, the familiar smoking stick. Doc hadn't been anywhere on his lists.

His door opens, the shotgun set gently to the side as he looks Doc up and down, stunned. Goddamn. He didn't look a fraction different standing in his door than Raylan had imagined.

"Yeah, figured it was about time they got one on the scoreboard." He steps back, opening the door further. The house was still decorated as it always had been, aside from the faint ghost of drywall in the air, accompanied with the smell of fresh wood and a cold fire. God it was good to see him. "Don't just stand out there, come in, have some with me and tell me how bad that cab fare was gettin' you all the way out here. How long'd it take you to get here?"

Mathias Timeskip AU

[citharede]

She walks out of the airport and into the damp heat of Miami, making a face as the humidity settles over her like a blanket. Her hair is even shorter than it was when she ended up in Mathias, certainly shorter than when Raylan saw her off at the beginning of the school year.

It only takes a few seconds of scanning for a taxi to spot Raylan, lounging against the side of the inevitable town car. She lights up, shedding the dignity she's managed to gather at the ripe old age of almost-21 and running the short length from the doors to Raylan's side. She throws herself into a hug.

"I told you I could get home on my own, you motherfucker."

[tinstar]

He'd been waiting an hour and a half. Security had already rolled up and told him that he couldn't part there, but all it took was a flash of his badge and a small white lie - "Waiting for my partner with a prisoner transport," was his excuse - and they left him alone. That didn't mean they weren't keeping an eye on him, several yards away.

Raylan breaks into a grin as he spots Athena in the crowd and waits for the inevitable moment - that break of sunshine across her face as she spots him in return. His whole chest swells as she runs and throws herself at him, securely caught by his still strong arms.

"Like hell I'm trustin' you to a taxi after not gettin' to see you for so long, kiddo. Can't trust those assholes to get you anywhere in a reasonable amount of time." He pulls back enough to see her face, hands squeezing her again. God he'd missed her. She looked well. Happy, if only happy to see him. "It's good to see you darlin'."

He pats her on the back and turns to amble towards the back of the car, already fishing out his keys so he could open the trunk.

"Was your flight okay?"

Darkest Timeline Seven Year Timeskip AU :V

[citharede]

After over a year, they told her—told them both—that they found Jeff Calhoun. Told them both he’d said some strange things about time limits and getting things back to where they were supposed to be, said he needed her to get to him in Virginia, as soon as possible. Not to bring anything but what she’d arrived carrying.

They said they didn’t know what he meant, but that he said to thank Raylan, and to say he was sorry he couldn’t come. That things were fragile, that there couldn’t be too much interference.

So she cried, and she went, and she vanished.

Which is why it makes no sense for Athena Carrigan to be on Raylan’s computer screen, seven years after that point. A young woman now—mid twenties—but the same round face, dimples, cherubic aura. It’s why the stare at the camera—feral in a dangerous way, cold like she never was—is even more alarming.

The APB says very little about why they want her. Just that she’s armed and considered extremely dangerous, and it’s very ill-advised to approach.

She’s in Detroit, the bulletin says. Or at least that’s her last recently known.

[tinstar]

The day that they'd been told that Jeff had been found was a stark and sad one for Raylan. There was no world in which he would ever try to keep Athena from the chaotic Californian, or get in the way of the connection and bond that she had with his face twin. Frankly put, Jeff was there first. He had to respect that. So it was bittersweet to hold her while she wept, to assure her that no matter what happened, he would always be waiting in the wings if she needed something.

Even if she was a million worlds away.

And then Raylan had to get on with his life. It was hard, lonely, and he took what solace he could in Loretta and Willa, in trying to help as many people that crossed his path as he could. He thought about Athena and Jeff often, hoping they were someplace good. Someplace safe.

So when Athena's face comes up on his screen looking the way she does, with the APB that comes with it, his heart chills and stomach sinks. Something Happened. Suddenly, none of his other cases mattered. The APB said she was last in Detroit and Raylan could go there, but his gut told him if she was running, she was going to run to a place she thought was safe. Arlo's house. Except it wasn't Arlo's house anymore; Raylan had signed it over to the mountian folk in reperations for everything Arlo had done. He didn't know if anyone was living there or not, but if there was, they needed to be warned. Athena with a bad mood or attitude under her, whatever the cause of that look on her face was, wasn't something to be messed with. He knew that all too well.

He catches the soonest flight he can and flies himself to Lexington where he rents a car and finds himself a motel for the night. The next morning, he stops at the Marshal's office and finds himself in Chief Deputy Rachel's office, smiling crookedly at the well positioned woman. He wanted to let her know that he was here to check in on something. He mentions Athena and Rachel's face softens a little at the mention of the APB.

"You need any help Raylan, you give us a call, okay?" He said he would.

After that, he heads out to Harlan, swearing internally at being made to come back here, half eaten with worry about Athena and half amped up in the concern that he'd find her and god knows what state she'd be in.

need moar

[greenzone]

She falls asleep on the plane...

...And jolts awake on a bed in the middle of what she’s pretty sure is a confusingly well equipped and kind of seedy motel room.

She sits up sharply, her skull pounding, and actually lifts her hands to grab at her head like that will do anything.

The fuck?

Did her parents pick her up and they went to a motel instead of home? Where’s her backpack? Where’s her suitcase? Where’s her mom?

Willa scoots to the edge of the tidily made bed, gets to her feet and has to put out a hand to balance as the world spins.

“Mom..?” Nothing. She tries one door, finds the bathroom, and finds the exit on her second attempt. Not to a motel front or a hallway, but to a landing with stairs heading down. She eyeballs it suspiciously. “Ok, we’re going into Silent Hill territory.”

Still, she descends, tense and nervous and with no idea why.

AH THE SAD ROOM ABOVE THE BAR

[tinstar]

It was midday in Raylan's morning, he had no reason to lounge in bed when Lindsey wasn't around, and he was pouring over an empty legal pad that, no matter how hard he tried, wasn't reflecting all the words he was supposed to already have worked out. Why Dickie Bennett shouldn't be released from Jail.

'It would be less of a pain in the ass' wasn't a very good reason, no matter how true it was.

He knew he was alone in the bar. He knew Lindsey wouldn't be in for a few hours, nor would the truck and this weeks deliveries. So when he heard the creak of the stairs, he was thoroughly confused. Raylan slides off his barstool, hand sliding back to the gun at the small of his back, readying himself for something if necessary.

The idea of readiness fell back a little at the sight of the girl, blonde hair and blue eyes oddly familiar, something Raylan ascribed to the number of blonde haired, blue eyed girls that he had seen over his life. His features pinch, eyes locked steady on her as soon as she came into his view and his ears tilt towards the upstairs.

"Lotta work to get into them windows up there," he says in way of greeting, in way of asking. Did she have a partner? He'd say she was young for a life of robbing places but age never stopped anything.

On the Hunt (post TLV timeline)

[onlyhearmusic]

New York was a familiar city. Even with the myriad of changes over the years, it still felt familiar at its core. It made it feel a little like coming home, even if this wasn't his time period or even his world. Which also made it relatively easy for him to traverse. It was still a walking city after all.

It was a large city, but the Butcher had hunted many a prey within its space. As long as he knew where to begin the Butcher could easily find who or whatever he was looking for. He didn't have much to start but that was half the fun of it. Eventually he would find his man.

And so he did. Holed up in a decent yet ultimately insignificant hotel. He would have possibly been disappointed in the scenery if he wasn't anticipating the meeting so much. The poor man had no clue that anyone was after him. And Collins wasn't going to give the lawman any--not until he was right in front of the man as he caught him heading out of his room.

"Evenin'," he said as he tipped his hat to the bull, a small sinister smile on his face. That was it, that was the most Raylan got in warning before the Butcher was in the lawman's space, too close, no just close enough for the first punch aimed at Givens's jaw to connect if the reaction was too slow. Then even closer if it did and Collins had free reign to corner the other man.

[tinstar]

For all the cowboy hat and boots that Raylan was insistent on wearing, no matter what city he was in, New York City might seem like something that was Too Much. But bit cities provided Raylan something that the country did not - the ability to blend, hat and all. You get enough bodies moving together, it could all turn into a blur of bodies and faces, the hat providing an extra layer that he could shed or trade to turn even more into an Everyman.

Normally, it served him well, and he had several leads to follow for a case that was hopefully going to lead to getting one 'Chara Barvara' back behind bars where he belonged. Nothing seemed out of sorts otherwise, he hadn't felt any eyes on him that weren't the normal course of being in a city this large. So it was something of a surprise to see Dennis Collins in front of him as he closes the door behind him.

He didn't have any time to do anything but frown sharply in shocked surprise at the visage before Collins punches him and sends the hallway around them to darkness as Raylan crumples like a wet sheet. It was probably some kind of blessing, though Raylan would be hard pressed to say what kind, outside of Collins saving himself a new and fresh bullet hole for now.

Some Action and Reveal (their continued little timeline)

[onlyhearmusic]

He loved it when they ran. Not always so much when it was in a sheer panic and they had not thought to their actions. But, ohhh, when they had half a plan in mind or were good at quick-thinking, clever maneuvers, boy did that get his blood pumping. Collins loved it when they ran like that.

This one had decided to run. Collins didn't blame him, the man was intended to be locked up for a very long time and likely didn't stand a chance to getting out early for good behavior or any other redemptive qualities. And Collins did know that aching, painful feeling of being trapped. He remembered how much it rankled and rubbed, how much it hurt, how much it tortured. Some days it felt like he was still there. That he had never left. He was still being tortured. It was just someone else doing the torturing.

(Himself. It was himself. Playing by new rules. It still hurt. He still missed his old life. Craved it. Longed for it. Ached to return to it. His control on that was strenuous at best most days. Some days he wondered why he bothered.)

The man wasn't the most intelligent one out there but he didn't run in a mere panic. The fugitive was spontaneous but there was a fluidity to his actions that was appealing, that and the chaos, the lack of predictability. Collins had had to track the man down twice now on account of losing him and somehow rather than be upset the Irishman was excited.

Collins knew where the man was headed. The area was area was surrounded by wilderness out here, all green and wet, a Florida swamp at its finest. It was not pleasant. Collins knew there was a small business down this line somewhere, a tiny shack really, where a boat or two waited in the water. With the right kinds of contacts and a chunk of money or something sweet enough to barter, the person that owned said shack and boats would help people disappear. Dead or alive.

It was the kind of place the Butcher wouldn't have used--he did his own disposal--but would have had ties to nonetheless. It didn't hurt to have contacts for all sorts of illicit things back when he was just as unlawful. Now it was smart to know about them but steer clear. Except when he knew where a person would run to on their way out. This quarry was not going to make it out.

Collins saw the signs of his prey just before he heard the man struggling through the brush. It was treacherous out here, and no true roads led to the water bogged area for a myriad of reasons, so they were both on foot. Collins thought he might make it there before his prey but catching up to him before the man got there worked all right for him. He was eager to catch the illusive man.

He must have made too much noise though because a few seconds later the sounds he heard coming from ahead suddenly shifted and he knew the prey was running, literally now, towards his last chance at freedom. Collins heard the music pick up its pace and his feet followed suit as he pursued his prey with renewed vigor.

I Told You I Would Find You - A Post TLV Reunion

[thedeadgirl]

When Raylan left the barge, nothing felt right anymore. She shut everybody out, and stayed away as much as she could unless shit hit the fan, which it always did. It was several months before she finally decided to rejoin the rest of the inmates and wardens, be more present while trying in vain for far too long to graduate. Until she finally did.

Laura can't be sure what exactly it was that did it, but it came shortly after she admitted that she did believe in something: herself. She realized she was worthy of being loved and didn't have to give her whole self to someone who only gave her half of himself. It would have never changed and she's glad she finally understood that it wouldn't. Had she not, Laura wouldn't be standing behind the car of a certain Marshal who she said she would find as soon as she could.

And it's been two, very long, years for her.

[tinstar]

The Barge felt like a million years ago, the edges of the pure wildness of reality breaking possibilities washed away under the familiar comfort of Normalcy. Of the day to day that had taken up so many of his years. It kept him busy, as it always had. Kept him distracted from the yawning hole in his everything that had formed when he left the Barge. James, Malcolm, Sweeney.. Laura.

The Almost Loves hurt the most, right on par with Winona's wounds on him. So he worked and he drank and he took out his feelings on people who deserved a little hardship in their lives.

Which was what he was doing now - posted up for a third day on a run down street, watching a run down house. Tim had gone for food and supplies and Raylan was grateful for the silence. It let him run the facts over in his head as he watches for any sign of life in the house. Focused as he was, he didn't see Laura walking up in his rearview - a rare lapse in attention.

Her knock makes him swivel his head over, ready for trouble and a reason to use his gun and- There should have been a cartoon sound to accompany his face dropping into open shock. Instead, there was just the quiet whir of the window getting rolled down.

"Wha-" Congratulations Laura, you've stunned him into silence for a short moment. But then his eyes are darting at the house he's watching. "Get in."

/nervously drops this here

[comfortablyerect]

Admittedly, this didn't usually happen to him.

There were a few universal truths about Tim Gutterson; he did not miss, his handwriting was absolute shit, and he could drink just about anyone under the table and still be able to drive home. Except for this night, apparently. The guy he was drinking against was twice his size, and usually that didn't matter because Tim had the alcoholic gene on his side, but he'd bitten off a little more than he could chew.

He still won, mind you. Just a little more marginally than he cared for. For his efforts, he got the red flannel off the dude's back. It was two sizes two big on Tim, the cuffs falling down past his fingertips, and a shitty prize for anything in the grand scheme of things, but he wore it anyway.

The bartender took his keys. It was fair enough; Tim wasn't in any state to drive. But it left him figuring out how the hell he was going to get home. Leaning against his truck that he couldn't currently drive, he pulled out his phone. It wasn't like he had many friends to call to come get him.

He settled on a contact to call and listened to it ring. It was late, but he was pretty sure Raylan was going to pick up anyway.

It's great!!

[tinstar]

The sky was blue, water made things wet, coffee was better black, and Raylan Givens was up at ungodly hours of the night. It was a wholesale refusal (or inability) to keep to sane hours. He preferred to drink alone just as often as he did at a bar, but tonight was a night in as he poured over some casefiles. Bars were for when he wanted to forget. 'Home', as much as the motel room could be one, was for work.

"Tim."

Caller ID was a marvelous thing. Tim normally didn't call him at night, unless they were out after someone. He wasn't aware of anything that they were doing that would call for that. So while his tone was the same easy going and largely unflappable, some flags were up.

"What's up?" He was fully expecting to hear some nonplussed grisly detail of something Raylan must have forgotten. It didn't matter that he'd been nursing some Jim Beam for nearly two hours, he was well under his limit to drive, so he could work if needed.

POST-MATHIAS TIME JUMP SITUATION IDK

[stallfortime]

When she walks out the door of her hotel room in DC, she steps into mist. A clamminess that feels otherworldly but familiar, that grasps at her in a way that fog shouldn't. Goosebumps prickle across the back of Athena's neck.

"...Fuck me," she whispers, and the words get eaten up by her surroundings. Her fingers brush the holster under her suit jacket, reassurance she knows is meaningless, and then strides forward. Slow. Slow and careful. Hands clear of her sides and open, empty.

She doesn't want to startle someone if she walks out of this and into Mathias, or somewhere even worse.

[tinstar]

Fog was common in Miami in certain months and it always felt like it hung different than the dense wet fog of the mountains that ran down into the valleys before being abolished by the rise of the morning sun. Miami Fog seemed to like to hang around for a little bit, eventually drawn back out to the sea as things got warmer over the day.

He was up and out early today, readying himself for another 4 hour drive up to some barely inhabited swamp land with a cup of coffee and a breakfast burrito, taking in the easy, if hard to see morning. The sounds of city and the soft milling of people fade out and Raylan doesn't notice until he notices that he's.. all alone. The rest of the burrito is stuffed in his mouth as he listens for anything-

A step behind him wasn't enough time for him to react outside of a "Whoa" as he turns around to be face to face with a woman-

Wait. He knows that face.