Author: 50ftQueenie PM
It's the touch of PTSD that gets them running for the door. Women love a man with a battle scar unless it's the kind that has cut him across his soul and occasionally causes him to wake up hyperventilating in a cold sweat. Totally not slash.Rated: Fiction T - English - Tim G. & Raylan G. - Chapters: 13 - Words: 26,408 - Reviews: 56 - Favs: 13 - Follows: 20 - Updated: 03-14-12 - Published: 01-27-12 - Status: Complete - id: 7779190
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I do not own Justified.
Moonshine Blind- Thirteen
Seven o'clock comes and goes and Tim keeps driving around Lexington. To avoid thinking about avoiding Randi, he starts thinking about what Art had said- that he drinks too much and for all the wrong reasons. Thinking about that makes him think about how bad he wants a drink. He tells the imaginary Art sitting on his shoulder that he'll just have one…or two…while he thinks up what he's going to tell the girl. Otherwise, the guy who is never late has no words to explain why he's late for dinner.
Then nine o'clock comes and goes and by midnight, he smells too much like Grain Belt to dare show up on her doorstep. He decides a shower is in order. Maybe a game of GTA to steady his nerves.
He antes up to the waitress, promises to drive carefully, and heads out to his truck. The moon is full, just like the night before, and so bright he doesn't even need headlights. Maybe that's why he doesn't turn them on. He makes it to the 'burbs, within blocks of the duplex where he lives, before Lexington PD notices and turns on the red-and-whites.
Instead of showing the officer his license, Tim offers him his badge. The officer barely looks at it.
"Son, tell me you're not on your way to the scene of something."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He steps back and asks Tim to step out of his truck. They go through the whole routine- turn and face the truck, hands above your head, are you carrying a weapon. He tells the officer that his side arm is in the truck, but he has his secondary on him. He tells him he has a license for that.
"I figured," the officer says. He pats his way down Tim's leg and removes the pistol. He tells Tim to turn around. "You want to go through the whole dog-and-pony act, son, or just the breathalyzer?"
Tim asks to call Art Mullin.
"You don't need a lawyer yet," the officer tells him. "You haven't been charged with anything. I have a feeling you will be, but no need to hurry."
"He's my boss."
"Son, in your position, last person I'd be calling was my boss. Blow."
Tim blows a .17. The officer tells him he can call his lawyer now and rambles through his rights. Tim declines the lawyer. He lets the office guide him into the back of the squad car.
Tim ponders- as well as he's able- calling Art. He imagines Art mumbling something about does Tim being so thorough, does he think he needs to experience the job from every angle. He knows Art won't bail him. He's fairly sure he'll be put on administrative leave. There's no sense in calling Art tonight. His fate there is certain.
"When can I go?" He asks the officer.
"As soon as you're sobered up. We'll impound your truck. Get a couple of hours sleep and we'll give you a date to appear and turn you loose."
Tim lays his head against the back of the seat and stares up at the streetlights until he feels sick. He's tired. It takes about this much, on a given night, to get him to sleep. Now, like a trained fuckin' monkey, he's ready to doze off to the murky place where the dreams can't catch him.
"You still awake, son?" The officer calls to him. "'Cause I'm an old man. I ain't carrying you into the station."
Tim mumbles that he doesn't require much sleep since the Rangers, and then he goes under, dead to the world.
Tim is waiting at his desk the next morning when Art comes in at eight.
"Can I speak to you?"
"You can," Art says. "I should warn you that I already have a good idea what you want to speak to me about. How about we skip it and just move on along to what I have to do about it?"
Tim nods. He follows Art into his office and shuts the door. Art keeps talking while he takes his jacket off.
"I need your badge and your weapon. You'll be on administrative leave until…when's your court date?"
"Well, until then, and then it will depend on sentencing. Since this is your first, you won't have to sit any time. We will have to talk about you participating in some kind of program. There will be an evaluation. The date of your reinstatement will be dependent on the recommendations from that."
Tim nods. "Am I getting transferred?"
"Nope. Your penance is staying here with us. I'd like to assign you some time to talk with the psych intern, but- oh- you're sleeping with her."
Tim looks at Art's desk.
He says, "I don't think I am anymore."
"Ah, blew that all to hell, too, did you?" Art replies. "All I can say, Tim, is that you had better take full advantage of whatever rehab, talk-therapy, electro-shock therapy, petting-puppy-dogs-therapy they offer you. Otherwise, you're going to find yourself on the fast track to the private sector."
"Knock it off. And quit ducking your head like a six-year old. We both know that- right now- the only reason you're sorry now is that you got caught. You have any questions?"
Tim shakes his head.
"Okay, go on home then. I'll see you next week. I'll sit with you at your court date. Maybe I'll make you look good."
Tim asks him, "Could I pull some desk duty till then?"
"Do you remember the last time I assigned Raylan desk duty? I seem to remember it was you who dragged him out of here. I get the feeling you don't quite respect the concept of desk duty. Go home."
Tim says, "yes, sir" again and then is up and out of there before Art can chastise him for it.
He goes to the elevator and waits. When the doors open, he finds himself standing face-to-face with Randi.
"I'll be gone all week," he says.
She brushes past him. "I'm going to ask to be transferred. I should be gone when you get back."
She keeps walking, but he says to her anyway, "I got really drunk."
"You want to know what I did?" She wheels around to look at him, but keeps walking backward towards the Marshall's office door. "I read a book about skinheads and painted my toenails. They're very pretty."
He can't stop himself. "Skinheads or your toenails?"
She shakes her head at him and turns around. Tim watches through the glass as she walks straight up to Art's office door. She's doesn't need any more time to think about that transfer. She's had all night to think.
Tim turns back to the elevator to find Raylan standing there, holding the door and smirking from underneath his hat.
"Thought you said you never missed," Raylan says.
"I'm going home," Tim tells him. "You're going to have to find someone else to play your secretary for a week."
"I guess I can't ask the intern."
"Ask her whatever you want. Can I get on the elevator?"
Rather than stepping out in to the hall, Raylan backs into the elevator. He continues to hold the door with his foot until Tim gets on with him. Then, he lets the door shut and hits the button for the parking garage.
"I'm not asking the intern shit," Raylan says, looking up at the ceiling. "I've heard plenty out of her. She thinks I'm just like Boyd."
"You are just like Boyd. I bet her she couldn't make you say it. Did she make you say it or did she tell you."
"Nope, her. She didn't say it outright, but she said as much. That mean you won the bet?"
Tim rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm the winner."
"Got me to thinking though…"
"Dear God, no."
"I'm going to beat your ass when we get to garage, you little punk. Don't think I can't… No, it got me thinking that maybe we all have an alter-ego in this. Like Boyd is me, except in Harlan."
"That's deep, Raylan. No today, alright? My head hurts." There is silence for a moment, and then he can't resist asking, "Shouldn't Art be Boyd?"
Raylan shakes his head. "I haven't figured that out yet. I figured you out though. Should've known it all along. I knew that irascible spirit of yours was familiar to me somehow."
Tim silently thanks God when the elevator stops and the doors open.
"Who? Devil?" He asks.
"No, fortunately for us, Devil has no equal. No, you're Arlo."
"When'd you ever see me beat anybody up?" Tim snaps at him, and then feels back about it.
Raylan doesn't miss a beat. "You never get there. You always shoot 'em first. If you ever missed, you'd be beating people's asses all over the place. Or blowing your own head off."
Raylan gestures to the door and ushers Tim out.
"I'm probably the only person who's ever said this to you, Raylan," Tim says and gets off the elevator, "but don't quit your day job."
"You neither," Raylan says. "See you next week."
The elevator doors slide closed, and Tim is alone in the garage.
I have a funny habit of writing thirteen chapter stories and avoiding closure. Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. You are all very kind.
I know that I didn't entirely solve the issue with Carol. I would like to make her a reoccurring villan. Her sense of entitlement is so massive; I don't think she has the sense to stay out of Harlan.