The Hillbilly Remix Challenge - Possibly, I like the thrill by engage_protocol
Remixed Author: lymricks
Title: Possibly, I like the thrill
Author: engage_protocol
Characters Tim Gutterson, Raylan Givens, Art Mullen, Rachel Brooks
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,260
Spoilers: No spoilers
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Justified belongs to Elmore Leonard and Graham Yost.
A/N: Thanks to Norgbelulah and Thornfield_Girl for the beta!
Summary: **mod note** engage, you forgot a summary, email me one and I'll edit it in! **
Tim wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes with hot sweat rolling down his back from where he’s pressed it into the wall.
Tim wakes up with the dawn every day of his life unless he’s already alert, fingers tingling for an absent rifle to take apart and put back together, over and over until his hands are raw.
Tim has bad days sometimes, where every backfiring car down in shit-kick holler is the crack of an AK-47.
It doesn’t help that August in Kentucky is hot, stealing the breath right out of everybody’s lungs and pooling it, like the world is saving it for later. Tim runs through it anyway, sucking it back in until he can taste blood.
The humidity makes a change from the bone-dry desert, though. It’s enough to keep him where he is, even if he’s still gasping for breath.
-
“Do you miss it?” Rachel asks him once, after a long, long day, mounds of paper piling up on their desks.
“No,” Tim lies, balling up the wrapper of his burger and tossing it at the trash, aim as true with his hands as it is with a gun.
“Sure you don’t,” she says, watching the bright paper sail into the bin without touching the edges.
-
“You got a minute?” Raylan asks, hip braced up on the side of his desk like he’s been leaned there by accident and nobody came back to get him. It’s terrible timing, right at the end of the day on a Friday, but Tim’s learned never to expect better.
“I’m gonna go run until I throw up, so unless you can offer me a similar alternative? No.”
“That’s your idea of a good Friday night?” Raylan’s eyebrows rise, momentarily derailed. No, Tim thinks, but my old habits don’t want to stay dead. He keeps quiet, leaning back in his chair to get a better view of whatever show Raylan’s going to put on for him.
“You still got a uniform?”
Tim stares hard at him, debating the merits of honesty. “I’m flattered but I’m not into role-play,” he says at last, closing out his computer.
“Very funny,” Raylan mutters, pushing his hat back on his forehead before re-settling it, movements unconscious and distinctive. The air in the office has been re-circulated enough that it’s taken on the stale taste of bad coffee and old paper, dry and sticky on his tongue. He’s ready to take in as much humidity as he can hold, ready to push through that wet-towel feeling of the summer dusk until his body remembers that Kentucky isn’t sand as far as the scope can see.
“No,” Tim lies, thinking of the bag gathering dust at the back of his closet.
“I need you to come down to Harlan with me,” Raylan continues, side-stepping his own question. It’s a wonder he doesn’t get caught in his own feet more often.
“I need you to find someone else to be your military escort,” Tim tells him, getting up.
“I could make worth your while,” Raylan persists, making a point of nonchalance, as if he doesn’t care one way or another.
“I have a hot date with some ten miles of bad road,” Tim says, breezing past him.
-
Tim collapses on the grassy verge, blood pounding in his ears like mortar blasts. He lets it pass, humidity pressing him down until he’s ready to push back.
It always passes, the feeling of sand in his nose, in his eyes, grinding against his teeth. It’s just another hot night in a hot place and nobody’s chasing him except the faces he’s conjured for himself.
-
“You look like shit,” Art tells him on Monday morning, the heat wave finally invading the office with its sticky fingertips. The air conditioner strains on, wheezing out a tepid breeze in a losing battle.
Art’s got sweat-stains already, a hint of shine on his forehead and upper lip promising a long day.
Tim’s been at the range all weekend, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to his fingertips. He’s got a bruise on his shoulder under the holster of his service weapon, the grounding ache settling him every time he moves.
“It’s hot out,” he responds mildly, sipping on boiling coffee.
“Usually Raylan’s the one I want to yell at for stating the obvious,” Art mutters, tossing a file at him. “Take care of this, I am exercising my constitutional right to not give a shit until the weather breaks.”
“Ten-four,” Tim drawls, opening it up. Bail-jumper. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another scumbag with nothing much to lose. He goes to find Rachel, throwing his empty cup across the room in a wide arc as he walks, not waiting to see if it finds its target.
He knows it will.
-
“Well, this is a sticky situation,” Raylan murmurs, lying next to him with their sides flush together, sweat making them both slick and edgy. Tim rolls his eyes at the pun, catching Raylan’s smug little smirk.
“If you’d come with me a week ago we could’a avoided this,” Raylan continues, checking the mag in his Glock with professional speed. Tim forgets, sometimes, that he’s competent.
“If I’d come with you a week ago this kid would’a gone back to the Army instead of his momma’s,” Tim corrects him. “Ain’t my business either way.”
“It’s your business now that his deadbeat father’s got a gun to his head,” Raylan says mildly, rolling his hips for a better position. Down below them Rachel is talking, calm and sure. She’s doing her job, but Tim can see more through the scope than any of them can through their unfiltered eyes. There’s no peaceful way out of this one.
Sweat drips off the end of his nose, sun beating down on the back of his neck familiar and scorching.
Tim can take a man out from a mile away without his target ever knowing he’s been shot.
Tim can take a man out from a supermarket rooftop on a Wednesday in late August, hands slippery with humidity.
Tim can take a man out from an abandoned hut in the desert, the same sun burning the same patch of skin.
“I heard a superstitious man say that a heat wave turns people crazy,” Raylan murmurs. “Always thought that was bullshit, myself.”
“Stop talking,” Tim tells him, as Art’s voice clears him to take the shot.
The shower of brain matter probably looks like a cloud from where Raylan’s still pressed beside him, but through the scope it looks like exactly what it is.
People are screaming and Rachel has her knee to the back of someone’s neck, stone-faced.
“People don’t need heat to go crazy,” Tim says, taking his rifle apart.
“Ain’t that the god’s honest truth,” Raylan answers, fanning himself with his hat.
Don’t bring God in where he’s not wanted, Tim thinks, hoisting the warm metal case.
-
The heat breaks on a Saturday morning in early September.
Tim’s been up for hours, running his tongue over his teeth to remind himself that the nearest sand is hundreds of miles away, not scrubbing his skin raw in the wind.
The thunder sounds like grenades, like distant artillery fire.
The rain doesn’t sound like anything but rain; Tim puts his shoes on and runs outside, hoping to get soaked.
-END-
Prompt: It’s funny, he thinks. You can take the sniper out of the war zone, but you can’t dig the sand out of his gums
Title: Possibly, I like the thrill
Author: engage_protocol
Characters Tim Gutterson, Raylan Givens, Art Mullen, Rachel Brooks
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,260
Spoilers: No spoilers
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Justified belongs to Elmore Leonard and Graham Yost.
A/N: Thanks to Norgbelulah and Thornfield_Girl for the beta!
Summary: **mod note** engage, you forgot a summary, email me one and I'll edit it in! **
Tim wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes with hot sweat rolling down his back from where he’s pressed it into the wall.
Tim wakes up with the dawn every day of his life unless he’s already alert, fingers tingling for an absent rifle to take apart and put back together, over and over until his hands are raw.
Tim has bad days sometimes, where every backfiring car down in shit-kick holler is the crack of an AK-47.
It doesn’t help that August in Kentucky is hot, stealing the breath right out of everybody’s lungs and pooling it, like the world is saving it for later. Tim runs through it anyway, sucking it back in until he can taste blood.
The humidity makes a change from the bone-dry desert, though. It’s enough to keep him where he is, even if he’s still gasping for breath.
-
“Do you miss it?” Rachel asks him once, after a long, long day, mounds of paper piling up on their desks.
“No,” Tim lies, balling up the wrapper of his burger and tossing it at the trash, aim as true with his hands as it is with a gun.
“Sure you don’t,” she says, watching the bright paper sail into the bin without touching the edges.
-
“You got a minute?” Raylan asks, hip braced up on the side of his desk like he’s been leaned there by accident and nobody came back to get him. It’s terrible timing, right at the end of the day on a Friday, but Tim’s learned never to expect better.
“I’m gonna go run until I throw up, so unless you can offer me a similar alternative? No.”
“That’s your idea of a good Friday night?” Raylan’s eyebrows rise, momentarily derailed. No, Tim thinks, but my old habits don’t want to stay dead. He keeps quiet, leaning back in his chair to get a better view of whatever show Raylan’s going to put on for him.
“You still got a uniform?”
Tim stares hard at him, debating the merits of honesty. “I’m flattered but I’m not into role-play,” he says at last, closing out his computer.
“Very funny,” Raylan mutters, pushing his hat back on his forehead before re-settling it, movements unconscious and distinctive. The air in the office has been re-circulated enough that it’s taken on the stale taste of bad coffee and old paper, dry and sticky on his tongue. He’s ready to take in as much humidity as he can hold, ready to push through that wet-towel feeling of the summer dusk until his body remembers that Kentucky isn’t sand as far as the scope can see.
“No,” Tim lies, thinking of the bag gathering dust at the back of his closet.
“I need you to come down to Harlan with me,” Raylan continues, side-stepping his own question. It’s a wonder he doesn’t get caught in his own feet more often.
“I need you to find someone else to be your military escort,” Tim tells him, getting up.
“I could make worth your while,” Raylan persists, making a point of nonchalance, as if he doesn’t care one way or another.
“I have a hot date with some ten miles of bad road,” Tim says, breezing past him.
-
Tim collapses on the grassy verge, blood pounding in his ears like mortar blasts. He lets it pass, humidity pressing him down until he’s ready to push back.
It always passes, the feeling of sand in his nose, in his eyes, grinding against his teeth. It’s just another hot night in a hot place and nobody’s chasing him except the faces he’s conjured for himself.
-
“You look like shit,” Art tells him on Monday morning, the heat wave finally invading the office with its sticky fingertips. The air conditioner strains on, wheezing out a tepid breeze in a losing battle.
Art’s got sweat-stains already, a hint of shine on his forehead and upper lip promising a long day.
Tim’s been at the range all weekend, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to his fingertips. He’s got a bruise on his shoulder under the holster of his service weapon, the grounding ache settling him every time he moves.
“It’s hot out,” he responds mildly, sipping on boiling coffee.
“Usually Raylan’s the one I want to yell at for stating the obvious,” Art mutters, tossing a file at him. “Take care of this, I am exercising my constitutional right to not give a shit until the weather breaks.”
“Ten-four,” Tim drawls, opening it up. Bail-jumper. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another scumbag with nothing much to lose. He goes to find Rachel, throwing his empty cup across the room in a wide arc as he walks, not waiting to see if it finds its target.
He knows it will.
-
“Well, this is a sticky situation,” Raylan murmurs, lying next to him with their sides flush together, sweat making them both slick and edgy. Tim rolls his eyes at the pun, catching Raylan’s smug little smirk.
“If you’d come with me a week ago we could’a avoided this,” Raylan continues, checking the mag in his Glock with professional speed. Tim forgets, sometimes, that he’s competent.
“If I’d come with you a week ago this kid would’a gone back to the Army instead of his momma’s,” Tim corrects him. “Ain’t my business either way.”
“It’s your business now that his deadbeat father’s got a gun to his head,” Raylan says mildly, rolling his hips for a better position. Down below them Rachel is talking, calm and sure. She’s doing her job, but Tim can see more through the scope than any of them can through their unfiltered eyes. There’s no peaceful way out of this one.
Sweat drips off the end of his nose, sun beating down on the back of his neck familiar and scorching.
Tim can take a man out from a mile away without his target ever knowing he’s been shot.
Tim can take a man out from a supermarket rooftop on a Wednesday in late August, hands slippery with humidity.
Tim can take a man out from an abandoned hut in the desert, the same sun burning the same patch of skin.
“I heard a superstitious man say that a heat wave turns people crazy,” Raylan murmurs. “Always thought that was bullshit, myself.”
“Stop talking,” Tim tells him, as Art’s voice clears him to take the shot.
The shower of brain matter probably looks like a cloud from where Raylan’s still pressed beside him, but through the scope it looks like exactly what it is.
People are screaming and Rachel has her knee to the back of someone’s neck, stone-faced.
“People don’t need heat to go crazy,” Tim says, taking his rifle apart.
“Ain’t that the god’s honest truth,” Raylan answers, fanning himself with his hat.
Don’t bring God in where he’s not wanted, Tim thinks, hoisting the warm metal case.
-
The heat breaks on a Saturday morning in early September.
Tim’s been up for hours, running his tongue over his teeth to remind himself that the nearest sand is hundreds of miles away, not scrubbing his skin raw in the wind.
The thunder sounds like grenades, like distant artillery fire.
The rain doesn’t sound like anything but rain; Tim puts his shoes on and runs outside, hoping to get soaked.
-END-
Prompt: It’s funny, he thinks. You can take the sniper out of the war zone, but you can’t dig the sand out of his gums