YNLH: Tap Dance on Broken Glass for cmk418
Recipient: cmk418
Title: Tap Dance on Broken Glass
Author: xbedhead
Characters: Rachel Brooks, Pensive!Art Mullen, Raylan Givens, with brief mentions of Loretta McCready, Winona Hawkins & Tim Gutterson
Pairings: None
Rating: PG (minor language), gen, angsty
Word count: ~2600
Spoilers: up to just after the season 2 finale
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Justified belongs to Elmore Leonard and Graham Yost.
A/N: This was beta’d by the lovely dapatty. cmk418, I hope this fits your fancy - it was a lot of fun to write, but my first time using Rachel or Art so heavily. Title taken from the song Skip the Charades by Cold War Kids.
Summary: To say he’d been a bear around the office as of late would’ve been too much, but there was…definitely something off. And something that had to do with Raylan, she knew. He’d had far too many ‘close the door’ conversations with his Deputy in the last few weeks and to say that things seemed strained between them was putting it mildly. Rachel studies her boss and tries her hand at stealth mediation at the hospital.
*****
“Art?”
Rachel moved quietly down the dimly lit hall, her footfalls muffled by the non-skid sole on her flats. He was standing just outside Raylan’s room and she watched him turn quickly and tilt his head in question.
“Did you get his statement?”
Art gave her a tight smile and stuffed both hands into the pockets of his lightweight, khaki jacket. “He’s sleepin’. It can wait til mornin’.”
She stood next to him and peered through the unbreakable glass window in the door. She could hear the machines mingling with the muted noise of the hospital hallway - a steady beat in rhythm with Raylan’s heart.
“What brings you down here, Rachel - besides the obvious?” he tacked on quickly.
Rachel held up a brown paper bag with golden arches and water stains. “Besides the obvious,” she started with a smile, “I had some paperwork to pick up from the Better Business Bureau on the Herrington seizure last month. Thought I’d stop by on my way back to the office.”
“Just now? They sure are takin’ their sweet time on that thing,” he mumbled. Art crossed his arms and stared forward again, rocking on his heels a bit.
“How’s he doing?”
He faced her, eyebrows arched. “Raylan? All right, I suppose. Haven’t been in there since yesterday. Just stopped by on my way to Versailles - gotta get my wife jarred vegetables for some gift baskets she’s puttin’ together for the church bazaar.”
She thought it was odd he hadn’t been in to see him yet, but decided against saying anything. He obviously had his reasons, even if she wasn’t exactly privy to them. “You could get some at the Farmer’s Market tomorrow,” she offered. “They were having a sale last Saturday.”
“They were outta okra and she’s got a theme,” he sighed, voice dripping with annoyance. “B’sides, there’s this little place she likes by the Taco John’s. Figured I’d go there, save myself some trouble.”
She sidestepped a pair of nurses pushing a gurney down the hallway and regarded him quietly. He seemed more tired than usual. To say he’d been a bear around the office as of late would’ve been too much, but there was…definitely something off. And something that had to do with Raylan, she knew. He’d had far too many ‘close the door’ conversations with his Deputy in the last few weeks and to say that things seemed strained between them was putting it mildly.
Art had said nothing on the drive down to Harlan - just sat in the front seat, chin in hand, staring out the windshield. When they were twenty miles out, he made sure the unit knew their roles, had their positions. They went in with KSP, guns blazing, dogs barking, and everyone knew but wouldn’t say it - if Tim had fired a half-second later, they would’ve left Harlan County with another body bag.
“And you?”
Between the furrow and the frown, it was like Art’s brows and lips had been drawn together. “What do you mean?” he asked honestly.
“Well,” she started hesitantly, hoping she wasn’t crossing any personal and professional lines, “I know that with…everything that’s happened…I guess I just wanted to know how you were doing.”
His expression softened and the smile reached his eyes. “I’m okay. Thank you for asking.”
“I know he gives you trouble - I think it’s his specialty,” she tacked on with a little laugh before sobering, “but I also know that you two are friends.”
“Well…you’re right about the trouble, but…he’s a good boy,” he added, if not a little strained.
Rachel smiled shyly, her voice holding something like admiration when she said, “He’s a good shot.”
“That he is,” he said with a laugh, scratching the back of his head before smoothing his palm over his balding scalp. “That he is.”
For whatever reason, that motion brought a sense of déjà vu over her. Many times she’d turned and seen through his office window - Art would be reclined in his seat, rocking back, hand rubbing his head as he stared up at what she knew was an American flag encased in glass and oak. His oldest son had been killed on an operation in Pakistan and that’s all she’d been told. It wasn’t her place to ask more and some people needed to bear their pain privately.
“When we taught firearms at Glynco, Raylan used to start every new class with a little demonstration.”
He had her attention now - Art had a flare for storytelling - and she leaned against the doorway, ready to listen. He pulled a rubber stress ball (she’d noticed had gotten more of a workout over the last few months) from the pocket of his jacket and bounced it against the tile floor. Every time, it yo-yoed right back to his palm with a dull ‘thwack.’
“He’d whip out his Glock and fire off a clip, reload, then put another into the chart - every shot’d land inside the tens. He’d holster his weapon, take off his muffs, and, just like that, he’d tell those recruits ‘By the time you leave our facility, you will be able to fire a weapon with this level of precision’.”
She smiled, able to envision it perfectly - Raylan with his calm swagger that held enough truth buried in confidence to never be mistaken for arrogance. “Just like that?”
“Aww, hell - he was only at thirty-five feet,” Art scoffed. “Could’ve been a half a mile to those kids, though, the way they watched him with their jaws hangin’.”
He gave the ball a last bounce before jamming it into his pocket and turning to look through the door once more. She saw the corner of his mouth quirk up in a rueful smile.
“Raylan was never one to belittle and break down, just to build back up. Said it was a waste of time - and I’m inclined to agree,” he mused to the glass. “If they were cocky, they’d prove themselves wrong soon enough, smarten up, but…if they started off thinking that they could do something, well…maybe they just might.”
She waited a beat, then asked, “And were they?”
“What?”
“As good as that by the time they left?”
“Hell, no,” he laughed as he shook his head emphatically. “Not even close. But they were good enough and that’s all we could do. Rest is up to them, you know,” he added solemnly.
She shifted her purse on her shoulder and knew she didn’t have much longer to spend before she had to get back and file the Herrington report. “I wanna go in and say ‘hi,’ give him this.” She held up the paper sack. “You gonna come?”
“Nah,” Art said, taking another look inside Raylan’s room. “I’ll stop by tomorrow. He doesn’t need all the commotion.”
“He lives for commotion. C’mon, I bet he’d be glad to see you,” she coaxed.
He looked at her with narrowed eyes and it was obvious he knew that she was attuned to…whatever it was that was going on between Raylan and him. There was a moment when she was sure he would refuse, but she got a smile out of him and he pushed the door open, letting her lead him into the hospital room.
It smelled like lilacs and antiseptic and Raylan didn’t budge when each of them quietly drew up a chair. Rachel deposited the McDonald’s bag on the swiveling table and set her purse on the floor beside her feet. Raylan’s hat was perched atop the IV stand and she covered his exposed foot with the corner of his white, hospital-issued blanket.
As she did, her hand brushed the skin of his ankle and it felt cool to the touch, not warm and clammy with the fever he’d had the day before. “He looks peaceful,” she commented absently. “Like he’s not in pain.”
Art grunted in affirmation. “They got him on antibiotics. Had some kind of infection.”
Rachel felt her face draw tight with worry. “It won’t complicate things, will it?”
“They caught it early. We’ll see, I guess.”
“Ears’re burnin’.”
Art pushed himself forward in his seat. “Raylan?”
“Y’all gonna stop talkin’ ‘bout me like I’m dead?”
“You gonna stop gettin’ yourself shot?” Art fired back.
Raylan grunted out something that sounded vaguely of, “Not likely.”
“Well there’s your answer.” Art laughed through his nose and leaned back in his chair. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
“S’at what this is?” He opened his eyes a crack and the corner of his mouth quirked into a drugged smile. “Rachel.”
She laid her hand over his, avoiding the IV trail, and gave it a little squeeze. “What do you need, Raylan?”
“B’sides two quarts of bourbon?” He rolled his left shoulder and his face crumpled into a wince. “Jesus,” he panted. “Add a shot of morphine to that.”
Art leaned over him a little, observing the discoloration on his bare upper arm with a mild look of pained curiosity. “What’d you do to yourself over there - fall down a mine shaft? Doctor said you got bone bruising, maybe a hairline fracture in your shoulder.”
“Naw, just…bad blood,” Raylan finally managed to get out. He drew in several deep breaths before his eyelids shot open. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
“Loretta McCready - the girl at the Bennett house. She okay?”
“Oh, she’s fine. She’s with Child Protective Services right now,” Art explained as he made himself comfortable in the plastic chair. “They’re gettin’ her statement, prob’ly gonna have to keep her a few days, get the mess sorted out with her guardians.”
“They gonna retain custody of her?”
“I don’t really know.”
Raylan seemed to be digesting it all, then asked suddenly, “And Winona?”
“We found her,” Rachel provided gently. “She was here this morning. I saw her at the courthouse - she said she’d come by again after sorting some things out with work.”
That seemed to settle him and he relaxed back into the thin mattress and closed his eyes. “What time is it?”
Rachel’s eyes flicked up to the face clock on the wall, but Art beat her to it.
“Four o’clock.”
At that, Raylan’s eyes opened again, his brows knit together in confusion. “What’re you doin’ here then?”
“Gettin’ your statement,” Art supplied, like it was the most apparent thing in the world.
He looked at Rachel. “And you?”
She smiled sweetly. “Scribing.”
“Don’t suppose Tim’s runnin’ around, is he?” Raylan asked as he slowly maneuvered his remote control and brought the bed to the semi-raised position. “Maybe off to DQ,” he wheezed, trying to breathe through the pain of being moved, “gettin’ me a dish of vanilla ice cream?”
“Well, somebody’s gotta watch the Eastern District,” Rachel began as she reached for the bag near the foot of the bed. “So it’s not Dairy Queen, but it is vanilla.”
Raylan’s face slid slowly into a smile, teeth and all, when Rachel pulled the milkshake out of the paper sack. It was already half-melted, but she didn’t think he would mind.
“Go easy on that,” Art warned.
“I’ll be good,” Raylan promised as he took the sweating paper cup with his uninjured hand.
Art chuffed out an “I’ll believe that when I see it,” but Raylan ignored him.
Rachel unwrapped the straw and stuck it in the lid for him, sitting back as he took a long swig. He let out a sigh of satisfaction and sunk into his pillow, cup still held in the air.
“Thank you, Rachel.” He closed his eyes for a moment and didn’t put up a protest when she took the milkshake from his loose grasp. The movement seemed to rouse him, though, and he struggled to open his eyes all the way. “Well, let’s get this started,” he groaned.
“What?”
“My statement - s’reason y’all came down here, right?”
“That can wait til mornin’,” Art said with an air of finality. “Give me an excuse to come in late - you didn’t hear that, Rachel.”
She snuck a sip of Raylan’s milkshake. “Hear what?”
“Well, in that case,” Raylan started hopefully, “any chance of me gettin’ s’more pain meds? I may not be much longer for this world, the way you two been talkin’ ‘bout me -might as well enjoy my last moments.”
Art grunted as he pushed himself to his feet, “Hold on - I’ll go check. You need anything else?”
He shook his head and Rachel smiled at the soft squeeze that Art gave Raylan’s good shoulder before stepping away. He slipped out the door and both Rachel and Raylan watched it close behind him.
“He still mad at me?”
Rachel turned to face him and shook her head after a moment’s consideration. “I don’t think so. I think he’s worried himself out of anger.”
“Worried?” he asked, brows furrowed. “Doctor said the infection wasn’t - ”
“It’s not the infection, Raylan,” she interrupted, a mild annoyance flaring within her. He really puzzled her sometimes. It was like, because he had no regard for his personal wellbeing, he couldn’t figure out why anyone else would either.
He appeared to understand what she meant and she didn’t feel the need to hash things out any further. Raylan knew who he was and how he did things - it seemed like he was only now beginning to figure out how that affected those around him. He settled back into his pillow once more and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. They were quiet, but Rachel knew he wasn’t in danger of nodding off again.
“You gonna cut it out any time soon?” she chanced, wanting some sort of answer from him either way.
“Cut what out?” he asked, almost petulantly, and she reminded herself that he was tired and hurting.
“Giving him reasons to be angry. It’s a skill, Raylan, it really is. You’re a good marshal, but there’s only so much you can expect Art to take.”
For a split second, she could see the argument forming in the set of his jaw, but it fell flat as soon as he opened his mouth. She knew he realized how close things had been and she was so happy that he was alive - but this conversation was about more than keeping their boss off his tail and she wouldn’t let it turn into that, not while he was in the hospital with a hole in his side. She meant it - he was a good marshal - but in her seven years on the force, she’d seen a lot of good officers wind up at the wrong end of a bullet that hadn’t fared nearly as well as Raylan had.
“I know,” he said finally, resignation in his voice. He reached for his milkshake and she passed it to him, resisting the urge to hold it to his mouth when his face twisted up in pain again. He took a long drink and set the cup down on the mattress next to his hip, eyes trained on the ceiling once more. “Can you tell him I promise to try?” he asked quietly. “Don’t think he’ll listen, it comin’ from me. Not right now, at least.”
Something that was tight within her - something that she hadn’t even noticed before this moment - loosened, and she let herself relax. “I will.”
“And, Rachel?”
“Yeah?”
He turned his head toward her, eyes heavy-lidded, and smiled. “Just to be clear - it was sixty feet, not thirty-five.”
-END-
Prompt: Not straight out of the prompt, but a combined deviation of: Art Mullen & Raylan Givens (can be Art/Raylan) - Glynco AND Marshals - Team-building exercise. Now that I think of it, it’s…actually not really anything like those two prompts, but I took elements that would’ve been in those stories and went from there.
Title: Tap Dance on Broken Glass
Author: xbedhead
Characters: Rachel Brooks, Pensive!Art Mullen, Raylan Givens, with brief mentions of Loretta McCready, Winona Hawkins & Tim Gutterson
Pairings: None
Rating: PG (minor language), gen, angsty
Word count: ~2600
Spoilers: up to just after the season 2 finale
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Justified belongs to Elmore Leonard and Graham Yost.
A/N: This was beta’d by the lovely dapatty. cmk418, I hope this fits your fancy - it was a lot of fun to write, but my first time using Rachel or Art so heavily. Title taken from the song Skip the Charades by Cold War Kids.
Summary: To say he’d been a bear around the office as of late would’ve been too much, but there was…definitely something off. And something that had to do with Raylan, she knew. He’d had far too many ‘close the door’ conversations with his Deputy in the last few weeks and to say that things seemed strained between them was putting it mildly. Rachel studies her boss and tries her hand at stealth mediation at the hospital.
*****
“Art?”
Rachel moved quietly down the dimly lit hall, her footfalls muffled by the non-skid sole on her flats. He was standing just outside Raylan’s room and she watched him turn quickly and tilt his head in question.
“Did you get his statement?”
Art gave her a tight smile and stuffed both hands into the pockets of his lightweight, khaki jacket. “He’s sleepin’. It can wait til mornin’.”
She stood next to him and peered through the unbreakable glass window in the door. She could hear the machines mingling with the muted noise of the hospital hallway - a steady beat in rhythm with Raylan’s heart.
“What brings you down here, Rachel - besides the obvious?” he tacked on quickly.
Rachel held up a brown paper bag with golden arches and water stains. “Besides the obvious,” she started with a smile, “I had some paperwork to pick up from the Better Business Bureau on the Herrington seizure last month. Thought I’d stop by on my way back to the office.”
“Just now? They sure are takin’ their sweet time on that thing,” he mumbled. Art crossed his arms and stared forward again, rocking on his heels a bit.
“How’s he doing?”
He faced her, eyebrows arched. “Raylan? All right, I suppose. Haven’t been in there since yesterday. Just stopped by on my way to Versailles - gotta get my wife jarred vegetables for some gift baskets she’s puttin’ together for the church bazaar.”
She thought it was odd he hadn’t been in to see him yet, but decided against saying anything. He obviously had his reasons, even if she wasn’t exactly privy to them. “You could get some at the Farmer’s Market tomorrow,” she offered. “They were having a sale last Saturday.”
“They were outta okra and she’s got a theme,” he sighed, voice dripping with annoyance. “B’sides, there’s this little place she likes by the Taco John’s. Figured I’d go there, save myself some trouble.”
She sidestepped a pair of nurses pushing a gurney down the hallway and regarded him quietly. He seemed more tired than usual. To say he’d been a bear around the office as of late would’ve been too much, but there was…definitely something off. And something that had to do with Raylan, she knew. He’d had far too many ‘close the door’ conversations with his Deputy in the last few weeks and to say that things seemed strained between them was putting it mildly.
Art had said nothing on the drive down to Harlan - just sat in the front seat, chin in hand, staring out the windshield. When they were twenty miles out, he made sure the unit knew their roles, had their positions. They went in with KSP, guns blazing, dogs barking, and everyone knew but wouldn’t say it - if Tim had fired a half-second later, they would’ve left Harlan County with another body bag.
“And you?”
Between the furrow and the frown, it was like Art’s brows and lips had been drawn together. “What do you mean?” he asked honestly.
“Well,” she started hesitantly, hoping she wasn’t crossing any personal and professional lines, “I know that with…everything that’s happened…I guess I just wanted to know how you were doing.”
His expression softened and the smile reached his eyes. “I’m okay. Thank you for asking.”
“I know he gives you trouble - I think it’s his specialty,” she tacked on with a little laugh before sobering, “but I also know that you two are friends.”
“Well…you’re right about the trouble, but…he’s a good boy,” he added, if not a little strained.
Rachel smiled shyly, her voice holding something like admiration when she said, “He’s a good shot.”
“That he is,” he said with a laugh, scratching the back of his head before smoothing his palm over his balding scalp. “That he is.”
For whatever reason, that motion brought a sense of déjà vu over her. Many times she’d turned and seen through his office window - Art would be reclined in his seat, rocking back, hand rubbing his head as he stared up at what she knew was an American flag encased in glass and oak. His oldest son had been killed on an operation in Pakistan and that’s all she’d been told. It wasn’t her place to ask more and some people needed to bear their pain privately.
“When we taught firearms at Glynco, Raylan used to start every new class with a little demonstration.”
He had her attention now - Art had a flare for storytelling - and she leaned against the doorway, ready to listen. He pulled a rubber stress ball (she’d noticed had gotten more of a workout over the last few months) from the pocket of his jacket and bounced it against the tile floor. Every time, it yo-yoed right back to his palm with a dull ‘thwack.’
“He’d whip out his Glock and fire off a clip, reload, then put another into the chart - every shot’d land inside the tens. He’d holster his weapon, take off his muffs, and, just like that, he’d tell those recruits ‘By the time you leave our facility, you will be able to fire a weapon with this level of precision’.”
She smiled, able to envision it perfectly - Raylan with his calm swagger that held enough truth buried in confidence to never be mistaken for arrogance. “Just like that?”
“Aww, hell - he was only at thirty-five feet,” Art scoffed. “Could’ve been a half a mile to those kids, though, the way they watched him with their jaws hangin’.”
He gave the ball a last bounce before jamming it into his pocket and turning to look through the door once more. She saw the corner of his mouth quirk up in a rueful smile.
“Raylan was never one to belittle and break down, just to build back up. Said it was a waste of time - and I’m inclined to agree,” he mused to the glass. “If they were cocky, they’d prove themselves wrong soon enough, smarten up, but…if they started off thinking that they could do something, well…maybe they just might.”
She waited a beat, then asked, “And were they?”
“What?”
“As good as that by the time they left?”
“Hell, no,” he laughed as he shook his head emphatically. “Not even close. But they were good enough and that’s all we could do. Rest is up to them, you know,” he added solemnly.
She shifted her purse on her shoulder and knew she didn’t have much longer to spend before she had to get back and file the Herrington report. “I wanna go in and say ‘hi,’ give him this.” She held up the paper sack. “You gonna come?”
“Nah,” Art said, taking another look inside Raylan’s room. “I’ll stop by tomorrow. He doesn’t need all the commotion.”
“He lives for commotion. C’mon, I bet he’d be glad to see you,” she coaxed.
He looked at her with narrowed eyes and it was obvious he knew that she was attuned to…whatever it was that was going on between Raylan and him. There was a moment when she was sure he would refuse, but she got a smile out of him and he pushed the door open, letting her lead him into the hospital room.
It smelled like lilacs and antiseptic and Raylan didn’t budge when each of them quietly drew up a chair. Rachel deposited the McDonald’s bag on the swiveling table and set her purse on the floor beside her feet. Raylan’s hat was perched atop the IV stand and she covered his exposed foot with the corner of his white, hospital-issued blanket.
As she did, her hand brushed the skin of his ankle and it felt cool to the touch, not warm and clammy with the fever he’d had the day before. “He looks peaceful,” she commented absently. “Like he’s not in pain.”
Art grunted in affirmation. “They got him on antibiotics. Had some kind of infection.”
Rachel felt her face draw tight with worry. “It won’t complicate things, will it?”
“They caught it early. We’ll see, I guess.”
“Ears’re burnin’.”
Art pushed himself forward in his seat. “Raylan?”
“Y’all gonna stop talkin’ ‘bout me like I’m dead?”
“You gonna stop gettin’ yourself shot?” Art fired back.
Raylan grunted out something that sounded vaguely of, “Not likely.”
“Well there’s your answer.” Art laughed through his nose and leaned back in his chair. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”
“S’at what this is?” He opened his eyes a crack and the corner of his mouth quirked into a drugged smile. “Rachel.”
She laid her hand over his, avoiding the IV trail, and gave it a little squeeze. “What do you need, Raylan?”
“B’sides two quarts of bourbon?” He rolled his left shoulder and his face crumpled into a wince. “Jesus,” he panted. “Add a shot of morphine to that.”
Art leaned over him a little, observing the discoloration on his bare upper arm with a mild look of pained curiosity. “What’d you do to yourself over there - fall down a mine shaft? Doctor said you got bone bruising, maybe a hairline fracture in your shoulder.”
“Naw, just…bad blood,” Raylan finally managed to get out. He drew in several deep breaths before his eyelids shot open. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
“Loretta McCready - the girl at the Bennett house. She okay?”
“Oh, she’s fine. She’s with Child Protective Services right now,” Art explained as he made himself comfortable in the plastic chair. “They’re gettin’ her statement, prob’ly gonna have to keep her a few days, get the mess sorted out with her guardians.”
“They gonna retain custody of her?”
“I don’t really know.”
Raylan seemed to be digesting it all, then asked suddenly, “And Winona?”
“We found her,” Rachel provided gently. “She was here this morning. I saw her at the courthouse - she said she’d come by again after sorting some things out with work.”
That seemed to settle him and he relaxed back into the thin mattress and closed his eyes. “What time is it?”
Rachel’s eyes flicked up to the face clock on the wall, but Art beat her to it.
“Four o’clock.”
At that, Raylan’s eyes opened again, his brows knit together in confusion. “What’re you doin’ here then?”
“Gettin’ your statement,” Art supplied, like it was the most apparent thing in the world.
He looked at Rachel. “And you?”
She smiled sweetly. “Scribing.”
“Don’t suppose Tim’s runnin’ around, is he?” Raylan asked as he slowly maneuvered his remote control and brought the bed to the semi-raised position. “Maybe off to DQ,” he wheezed, trying to breathe through the pain of being moved, “gettin’ me a dish of vanilla ice cream?”
“Well, somebody’s gotta watch the Eastern District,” Rachel began as she reached for the bag near the foot of the bed. “So it’s not Dairy Queen, but it is vanilla.”
Raylan’s face slid slowly into a smile, teeth and all, when Rachel pulled the milkshake out of the paper sack. It was already half-melted, but she didn’t think he would mind.
“Go easy on that,” Art warned.
“I’ll be good,” Raylan promised as he took the sweating paper cup with his uninjured hand.
Art chuffed out an “I’ll believe that when I see it,” but Raylan ignored him.
Rachel unwrapped the straw and stuck it in the lid for him, sitting back as he took a long swig. He let out a sigh of satisfaction and sunk into his pillow, cup still held in the air.
“Thank you, Rachel.” He closed his eyes for a moment and didn’t put up a protest when she took the milkshake from his loose grasp. The movement seemed to rouse him, though, and he struggled to open his eyes all the way. “Well, let’s get this started,” he groaned.
“What?”
“My statement - s’reason y’all came down here, right?”
“That can wait til mornin’,” Art said with an air of finality. “Give me an excuse to come in late - you didn’t hear that, Rachel.”
She snuck a sip of Raylan’s milkshake. “Hear what?”
“Well, in that case,” Raylan started hopefully, “any chance of me gettin’ s’more pain meds? I may not be much longer for this world, the way you two been talkin’ ‘bout me -might as well enjoy my last moments.”
Art grunted as he pushed himself to his feet, “Hold on - I’ll go check. You need anything else?”
He shook his head and Rachel smiled at the soft squeeze that Art gave Raylan’s good shoulder before stepping away. He slipped out the door and both Rachel and Raylan watched it close behind him.
“He still mad at me?”
Rachel turned to face him and shook her head after a moment’s consideration. “I don’t think so. I think he’s worried himself out of anger.”
“Worried?” he asked, brows furrowed. “Doctor said the infection wasn’t - ”
“It’s not the infection, Raylan,” she interrupted, a mild annoyance flaring within her. He really puzzled her sometimes. It was like, because he had no regard for his personal wellbeing, he couldn’t figure out why anyone else would either.
He appeared to understand what she meant and she didn’t feel the need to hash things out any further. Raylan knew who he was and how he did things - it seemed like he was only now beginning to figure out how that affected those around him. He settled back into his pillow once more and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. They were quiet, but Rachel knew he wasn’t in danger of nodding off again.
“You gonna cut it out any time soon?” she chanced, wanting some sort of answer from him either way.
“Cut what out?” he asked, almost petulantly, and she reminded herself that he was tired and hurting.
“Giving him reasons to be angry. It’s a skill, Raylan, it really is. You’re a good marshal, but there’s only so much you can expect Art to take.”
For a split second, she could see the argument forming in the set of his jaw, but it fell flat as soon as he opened his mouth. She knew he realized how close things had been and she was so happy that he was alive - but this conversation was about more than keeping their boss off his tail and she wouldn’t let it turn into that, not while he was in the hospital with a hole in his side. She meant it - he was a good marshal - but in her seven years on the force, she’d seen a lot of good officers wind up at the wrong end of a bullet that hadn’t fared nearly as well as Raylan had.
“I know,” he said finally, resignation in his voice. He reached for his milkshake and she passed it to him, resisting the urge to hold it to his mouth when his face twisted up in pain again. He took a long drink and set the cup down on the mattress next to his hip, eyes trained on the ceiling once more. “Can you tell him I promise to try?” he asked quietly. “Don’t think he’ll listen, it comin’ from me. Not right now, at least.”
Something that was tight within her - something that she hadn’t even noticed before this moment - loosened, and she let herself relax. “I will.”
“And, Rachel?”
“Yeah?”
He turned his head toward her, eyes heavy-lidded, and smiled. “Just to be clear - it was sixty feet, not thirty-five.”
-END-
Prompt: Not straight out of the prompt, but a combined deviation of: Art Mullen & Raylan Givens (can be Art/Raylan) - Glynco AND Marshals - Team-building exercise. Now that I think of it, it’s…actually not really anything like those two prompts, but I took elements that would’ve been in those stories and went from there.