tinstar | Slingin' from the hip, never the heart.

This was how they operated; tit for tat, snark for snark, a favor for a favor. It was a comfortable push-and-pull they'd picked up in a fairly short amount of time. Where Tim liked working with Rachel for her level head and decisiveness, he liked working with Raylan for his wildcard nature and how it kept Tim on his toes.

He trusted very few people to watch his back the way Raylan did.

"He was still standin' when I left him," Tim said, waving a dismissive hand between them. He was pretty sure the guy puked in the bathroom for ten minutes afterwards, and was certainly unsteady on his feet outside, but that wasn't Tim's problem.

To answer Raylan's question, he tugged on the worn collar of the too-big flannel hanging off his frame. "Gonna start a collection."

That trust was a two way street and one of the many reasons that Raylan didn't have a problem getting Tim home securely. Tim Gutterson had saved his ass several times already, in ways that Raylan couldn't ever repay.

"I was wonderin' if that was yours." Yes, he had several jokes lined up about it. (Nevermind that Tim was inexplicably some kind of 'cute' with the bigness of it on him, though Raylan would be very hard pressed to say that statement out loud.) There was a half second where Raylan considered joking about the security of his own flannel, but he decides that its too suggestive, considering everything.

"You got a lotta flannel trophies then?"

Tim didn't live too far away, though everything was all of twenty minutes from itself until you really got outta town, and Raylan didn't need directions. Not that he'd ever been to Tim's apartment, but he knew the address.

"Well, it is now," Tim reminded.

Raylan knew where he lived, despite never having been over, and that was something Tim was well aware of. It'd be difficult to be partners with someone for this long without learning more about them than they actually shared. Where they lived, how they took their coffee or their bourbon-- even Tim, as private as he was, could only keep so much of himself unknown at this point.

Tim cut his gaze briefly to Raylan. It felt a little bit like a loaded question, like he couldn't answer it without revealing something about himself. The short answer was yes and the long answer was that they hadn't all been obtained through drinking contests.

Some of them were obtained off of motel room floors, usually when their owner's were cleaning up in the shower.

"I don't lose often."

"Don't I know it," he quips with a smirk as he turns them another corner.

Tim had always been private and Raylan had been respectful of the man's inclination. It went back to their lives being their own business, but that didn't stop Raylan from using his eyes. Couldn't stop him from finding out what he could when the opportunity presented. Something else they shared and Tim, unfortunately, knew too much about Raylan's personal life so he took any chance to balance that. He had Arlo to thank for that little disadvantage.

"Suppose we should be happy you didn't, don't know that I signed up for carryin' you up some stairs." He would have, if he needed to. Or just brought Tim to his motel room - they'd both slept in chairs too much in their life, what would another 8 hours be.

"Oh, you're sayin' you would've, though?" It was a quick quip, an easy tease, the back-and-forth of their rapport as comfortable as ever. Tim didn't call on people for favors, as a rule. He preferred to do what needed to be done to handle his own shit. But if he ever did need a favor (and this was the first), it'd be Raylan he called every time.

Easy to tell himself it was because Raylan owed him a few favors by now.

They'd pulled up to Tim's modest apartment building. His hand found the door handle before looking at Raylan. "You want a drink?"

How else did men say thank you in Kentucky besides sharing their bourbon? If there was a way, Tim hadn't learned it yet.

Raylan smiles that crooked, cat in the cream easy and amused smile of his, eyes half-mooning as he lets his expression do all the answering that might be needed. That was an image just for themselves. Anyway, did Tim think he'd just leave him in the car?

Of course not.

The car was thrown into park, engine killed and keys pulled out of habit, dark eyes sliding over to his partner at the question. Raylan always wanted a drink, but Tim was drunk and inviting him into his space. If he said yes, would Tim kinda hate him for it in the morning when he realizes he's given Raylan a glimpse into something he keeps so close to the chest?

But if Raylan were a cat, he would have already burned through his 9 lives for his curiosity and now was no different.

"Yeah, I could handle one." The smile stays playing on his lips as he moves out of the car and follows Tim towards his door.

"What'd'ya keep in stock?"

Would Tim regret this in the morning? Maybe. But if he was going to regret anything, it was going to be having Raylan pick him up at the not-so-stealthy gay bar instead of a couple of blocks down the road. And since that was already said and done, he didn't have much more to lose.

"Jim Beam and Modelos." Tim handled the stairs easily, only the slightest sway in his step, and the door was unlocked with the practiced ease of someone who'd done it many times before.

The apartment itself was, unsurprisingly, very neat. There was no mess, no clutter, and very little unnecessary décor. There was a bookshelf with a variety of books on it, all some genre of fantasy, and a small stack of Guns&Ammo catalogues on the coffee table. There were no decorations or knick-knacks, and the only true personal item on view was a single framed photo by the couch of Tim in dress blues, standing next to an older blonde woman.

Tim's keys were tipped back into his jacket pocket as he wandered into the kitchen. He flipped on lights as he went, glancing back at Raylan to ask what he preferred without saying anything at all.

Raylan didn't think Tim was drunk enough to not walk successfully, but he stayed prepared to have to catch the smaller man in the case of a misstep. He was deeply curious to see how Tim lived, to see the inside of his apartment - almost like it was fair game because of how much of how he lived Tim had seen in return.

He wasn't particularly surprised by the sparten-esk living space, hat coming off to find a home on the first flat safe surface he finds, and he catches Tim's eye with a faint lift of his head.

"Jim Beam, please. Modelos should be saved for afternoons or a porch." What could he say, he loved a porch.

"Nice place." Hellva lot nicer than the one room Raylan had been living in for nearly a year and a half.

Tim busied himself with pulling glasses and a bottle out of a cabinet. He knew how Raylan took his bourbon, and he poured drinks for the both of them. Did Tim need more to drink? No, probably not. But he was at his apartment now, so the repercussions of getting absolutely shit-faced were few and far between.

Whatever helped him sleep without dreaming, honestly.

He handed one glass off to Raylan before dropping himself onto one end of the couch. Other than the rest of the couch beside him, there was an armchair across the coffee table for sitting. Raylan could take his pick.

"Sure beats some cliff side perch in Kandahar." He cut an amused glance to Raylan. "Or a motel."

The glass is taken with a faint nod of his head, eyes dancing around the room again before settling back on the sniper, scoffing softly.

"Hey, least my motel room is sand free," he replies good naturedly as he ambles over to sit on the other end of Tim's couch with him. "That's gotta count for somethin'. Barely even have any shootin's too. My room would be the four seasons in Kandahar."

For all that really did for the argument. Raylan wanted to ask if Tim was okay, if there was something weighing on him that drove him to the bottle so hard tonight, but it was openly against their rules to go at something like that so directly. That was generally Art's job.

Talking to Tim when he was this drunk was a lot like navigating a minefield. It was hard to tell which sentence would trigger the thought that would get him talking. One wrong step and Tim would be spilling his guts about something he'd normally keep private.

But that would be his own damn fault, not Raylan's.

"Oh, come on, now." He stretched an arm across the back of the couch, leaving his fingers inches from Raylan's shoulder. "The shootin's the fun part."

It was ironic, the thing he was best at also being the thing to cause so many nightmares.

Talking to Tim when he was sober was also like navigating a minefield sometimes but that was just part of the package that he'd come to accept. Tim held a lotta stories, a lotta weighty personal secrets so when any hint of something came out, it wasn't something to be taken as frivolous.

He doesn't glance at the outstretched fingers but he feels them there, like hot little rods of dangerous possibility.

"Shootin's always the fun part." Especially when they knew they were after someone who really deserved a bullet. It was satisfying to Raylan in a way he did not want to explore too deeply.

"But then it turns into us talkin' about effort verses reward." He grins crookedly. "I think our job is better balanced."

It was probably a mistake, calling Raylan up for a ride. It was probably a bigger mistake, inviting him up for a drink. They were almost certainly just the first two steps to more catastrophic mistakes, if his level of intoxication was anything to go by. And it was only this drunk that he was prone to making such mistakes.

You'd think maybe it'd give him reason to quit drinking. But he had far more reasons not to quit than to quit.

"Easy enough when you're just followin' orders." And Tim liked following orders, having the weight of making decisions off his shoulders. Falling in line, no questions asked. Unless the orders were coming from Raylan.

"Not that you'd know anything about that." He wiggled his fingers at Raylan for emphasis, and this time the tips of them brushed against the other man's shoulder.

"If I did, your day wouldn't be half as interesting," he says cheekily, grin steady and edging that shit eating 'I'm about to have a lotta fun' that was broken out now and then. Tim was a pain in his ass sometimes, but the good he did far far outweighs the sometimes pot shots he took at Raylan. Raylan was sure he deserved it and it was a small price to pay.

He shifts, a pull of his jacket the excuse but when he settles back, Tim's fingers only have to come down a fraction to be on his shoulder. The whiskey made him brave, but whiskey also made him dumb in a way that served most of his needs and even more of his impulses. You'd think he'd learn but he'd fucked around plenty and not found a single thing out.

"'Sides, I get the job done-" Even if it wasn't assigned to him or he'd been told specifically to not. The grin had slips to a careful eyed wondering over the easy slant of his closed lips. "-And that's the important thing. Better to ask forgiveness than permission."

That much was true. Raylan did make things more fun. To Tim, there was a distinct before and after in the marshal's office. Before Raylan got there, and after Raylan got there. Before, the most entertainment Tim could find most days was picking on Nelson. After? Well, it was safe to say that Raylan kept him on his toes.

Besides, Raylan was much better eye candy. Long legs, strong jaw, that charming crooked smirk. Tim got a lot less paperwork done sitting at the desk next to him than he used to.

And now, with the bourbon buzzing through his veins, his gaze flicks over Raylan openly, only half-hiding it behind the rim of his glass as he takes another drink. He definitely doesn't need anymore. The fingers now resting steadily on Raylan's shoulder say as much. Idly, he traces his middle finger along the jacket seam.

"I'm not complainin'. But I don't reckon I've ever seen you actually do the ask forgiveness part."

The touch was like a jolt of electricity through Raylan's veins, the best and worst of himself warring with each other as he gauges Tim. Those lazy half lidded eyes that struck Raylan the same way all blue eyes did, the equally lazy confidence that Tim carried on him like easy armor. They were alike in a lotta ways. Except Tim wore himself more easily than Raylan did, in reality. Yeah, Raylan put on a good show but Gutterson was more.. disciplined.

Must be all that training.

He was about to do something stupid, he could feel it. And yet, he couldn't stop it. He shifts again, taking one last drink of his whiskey before setting it on the coffee table and turning a little as he settles back, closer than he was before.

"Most people find themselves okay with what I've done, once it's all said and done. Only had a few complaints anyway."

Would Tim freak out? Hit him? Shove him away, kick him out and then ignore him at work for the terrible assumption. The more he thought about it, the more the whiskey loudly proclaimed that it didn't matter.

"'Sides, I don't find myself needin' it either way. Helps if I don't regret my actions."

Tim certainly wasn't being very disciplined at the moment. Not when Raylan was sitting right by him on his couch and it was the time of night that bad decisions were made, and the alcohol was making him feel warm and loose and like repercussions weren't real.

What was the worst that could happen? It wasn't like either of them were going to say anything to anyone about it. Maybe they'd have to adjust to looking each other in the eye again under the bright fluorescent lights of the marshal's office, but whatever liquor laden trouble they got up to tonight was between them.

Though Raylan's track record with keeping his illicit affairs a secret wasn't that great. Maybe the fact that Tim was very good at hiding his would balance it out.

He's getting a little ahead of himself, but the way Raylan settles back a little bit closer than before doesn't go unnoticed. Tim knocks back what's left in his glass and sets it aside, his gaze never leaving Raylan. The glint in his eye looks like it offers a challenge.

"Not a single one, huh?"

His fingers slide up Raylan's shoulder, still tracing the seam of his jacket. They continue up until they run out of fabric, and he's grazing the skin of Raylan's neck with his fingertips. It feels like sparks and fire.

The real trouble with Raylan Givens, evidenced time and again, was his brain's inability to work when he was in a certain state. It was why he'd had as much fun as he'd had in his life and it was a flaw he'd made only a scant amount of progress in correcting. The challenge in Tim's eye, everything the the double layers of their conversation held, was something the deep in him couldn't help but answer.

"Not a single one," he reiterates huskily.

A confident hand moves up Tim's jaw and around to his neck, pulling the man into a firm and commanding kind of kiss. A hundred fantasies stirred in his mind about what would happen next, but he was a man that worked on feeling and went with it. To hell with what trouble it might get them in - they could keep their mouths shut.

No one had to know anything outside of a closed door.

Edited 2025-03-17 00:43 (UTC)

Tim's almost smiling by the time their lips meet. It took a bit less goading than he expected, but that was the beauty of alcohol. Was there a small part of him that felt guilty for calling Raylan out so late at night for a favor, inviting him inside, and then plying him with bourbon until the walls came crumbling down?

No, actually, there wasn't. He's thought about this since the first day Raylan strut into the office.

Raylan kisses exactly how Tim imagined -- assured, in control -- and his mouth is pliant beneath his partner's. The hand from the back of the couch slides along the nape of Raylan's neck, fingers intertwining with the soft locks of hair there. His head tips, teeth nipping experimentally at Raylan's lower lip.

A part of him thinks if he moves too fast, he'll spook Raylan off. But the whiskey makes him confident and comfortable, and his free hand find Raylan's thigh, long fingers sliding inward until the find the in-seam.

There was no moving too fast now. Raylan held himself back, as many cards as he could close to his chest because of pride and fear. A small cowardice and a greed for the power he had as he was perceived now kept him well in line, every action considered. But once he got a green light - the way Tim's mouth opened to his, the fingers playing in his hair, the nip of his lip that earned a soft involuntary grunt of approval as he slides closer.

The hand on his thigh only encouraged him, hips lifting a little like he was guiding Tim's fingers to the girth growing in his jeans as his off hand slides along Tim's waist, pulling up the oversized flannel and the tanktop underneath so he could get palm on skin.

No, he was drunk enough that it didn't matter; he was already in over his head, amazed that this was happening, unable to stop or question either of their ability to have any sense around themselves right now.

All it takes is that hand under his shirt sending sparks like a live wire across his skin for him to decide that, no, Raylan isn't going anywhere. He's just as into this as Tim is, and that little arch of his hips proves it. A hundred different fantasies he's had like this, late at night, alone, frustrated. Now it's happening and his imagination couldn't possibly have prepared him for how Raylan's mouth actually tastes.

He's fueled by Raylan's encouragement, but instead of sliding his hand further, he removes it completely. It's only so he can move, swinging a leg over Raylan's lap to straddle it with more practiced ease than a drunk man should have. His jeans are uncomfortably tight, and he can tell when he shifts his weight down that Raylan's just as hard in his own pants.

He breaks the kiss, pulling in an unsteady breath before ducking his head for the other man's throat. He hovers a second before placing an opened mouthed kiss against the side of Raylan's neck, teeth scraping dangerously against the skin. The idea of leaving a mark behind that he can stare at at work is a very tempting one.

Raylan can't help but groan softly into the kiss as Tim slides onto him, one hand moving to get further up under that fabric as the other curves around Tim's ass. How many times has he fantasized about them this way? It didn't hurt anything that Raylan loved being ridden and Tim's weight felt so good and right on him.

The kiss brakes and Raylan is almost entranced by the sound of Tim's uneven breath. What did he sound like when he moaned, when something felt good to him too? He couldn't wait to find out.

His head tilts a little, enough to give Tim the range Raylan's neck if he wanted it and the brush of teeth earns a sharp inhale, fingers digging into Tim's hip as his own lift slightly. Oh yeah, if it weren't for the excuses they'd have to make at work, Raylan was all for being bitten. Being marked. But that didn't stop the wash of worry that manages to peek through the Whiskey veil.

"Gonna make me a liar at work, you leave something visible above my collar," he says, voice tight and sultry in Tim's ear. Then again, that phrasing suggested that Tim could leave something visible below his collar without reproach. Either way, Raylan sure as hell wasn't going to stop his partner; he'd be made a liar if he had to - this was more than worth it.

Tim grins against Raylan's neck. It would be highly entertaining to listen to Raylan make up excuses and fend off comments about a hickey all day. Might be even better to watch him shift uncomfortably in his chair every time the fabric of his shirt rubs against the mark, though. Hidden, a secret shared just between the two of them.

He likes that better.

"It'd be kinda fun," Tim murmurs, lips brushing against Raylan's throat. His hands move between them, finding the front of Raylan's shirt to undo the buttons. He's drunk, and buttons take a little more coordination than pouring glasses and unlocking doors. His fingers fumble once, but he gets the first few undone, enough that he can lower his head to Raylan's collarbone.

This will do just fine. He places a series of soft, simple kisses along the curve of the other man's clavicle, starting inwards near Raylan's throat and moving out toward his shoulder. His tongue darts out over the dip where the collarbone meets the shoulder, and with no other preamble, he bites down properly to begin sucking and nipping a mark into Raylan's skin.

He can feel the grin enough to imagine it in his head - grins always felt like a victory, Tim had high standards sometimes. (Or, Raylan's jokes were just that bad, which was very possible.) Either way, as soon as Tim was in his shirt, the hand on his ass moves up so Raylan can hastily work the other buttons free and tug his shirt out from his waistband. Tim dealt with his undershirt easily, the fabric moving aside and Raylan didn't hear his own grunt as Tim bites, only lets himself get carried on the wash of arousal.

"Fun until you're the one gettin' the questions."

Fuck that felt good.

He pushes and pulls at Tim's won overshirt, peeling it off and discarding it to the side somewhere so he could come back to try and do the same to the undershirt that was strikingly like his. There were too many layers between them and goddamnit, he wanted to leave some marks himself.

Tim is patient. Part of it natural, engrained in him a long time ago from spending days tucked away on rocky cliff slides, simply watching and waiting. But some of it is definitely because he wants to savor every single second he has Raylan beneath him like this. Just in case it's the only time he ever gets to outside of his own fantasies.

He takes his time, biting and sucking a sizeable mark below Raylan's collarbone. When he leans back, he leaves behind an angry red blotch that promises to bruise. He takes the hem of Raylan's undershirt, pulling it straight up over his head and tossing it aside, and only then does he allow Raylan to pull his shirt off too.

"Then make 'em ask some questions."

Oh, he's definitely properly drunk. A little more sober, and he might not be inviting Raylan to leave his neck littered in marks. At the same time, nobody in the office had the balls to try to pry into Tim's personal life, and the only one stupid enough to try was Nelson.

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