Chapter Text
What are you gonna do when you get out?
That's so optimistic of you, Staff Sergeant.
Fuck you, Gutterson, I'm a ray of sunshine.
Oh yeah. The brightest.
So what are you gonna do when you get out?
Maybe I won't, maybe I'll be career.
Kid, 'career' is just brass speak for fucking desk duty. That doesn't sound much like you, does it?
No.
Think you might start a family, get a nice job, a 401K, buy a house, coach Little League?
Any of those sound more like me?
Not at all. But you gotta start thinking about these things, Gutterson. It's gonna come up on you faster than you think, and you'll be on your own. These guys and these rules don't help you when you're out. Army don't stay with you forever.
You sure about that?
Not at all, kid. Not at all.
***
"You're all here with two minutes to spare. I'm both pleased and suspicious," Art breezed through the door to the conference room, eyeing his three on-duty deputies closely.
Raylan leaned back lazily in his chair. “Anybody else think that was directed mostly at me?”
“Yep,” Tim and Rachel answered together, neither of them looking up from the files they were reading.
Art prefered just a look- his best ‘are you stupid?’ just for Raylan, only ever for Raylan- and then got down to business. “Today’s contestant is Daniel Foster. Forty-two, born and raised in what I’m sure was a lovely little town in Vermont, but who gives a shit. He’s spent better part of the last eighteen years doing hired wetwork, completely undetected. Wasn't until last week that anyone even got an ID on him- his most recent hit was local, and had a witness, who’s been placed under our WITSEC care until he can be found and put away.”
“Eighteen years?” Rachel echoed.
“Right after Desert Storm.” Art very pointedly didn’t look at Tim. “He’s also known as Sergeant First Class Daniel Foster. Regular Army. He’s still in the reserves, according to his records.”
Rachel didn’t look at Tim either. Raylan, of course, did. “Know him?”
Tim’s expression didn’t change. “Of course. We go to the same I Shoot People club. We’ve missed you at the meetings.”
“See, you had me till you said you missed me,” Raylan drawled right back, content with doing the talking he knew Art and Rachel were too tactful to try for.
Funny thing was- they all knew he was doing it. Even Tim. This was how their team operated, and Raylan really wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He’d gone and made himself a part of a well-oiled machine. They knew what they were doing. They knew what they were doing together. When had that even happened?
Art, meanwhile, didn’t seem too appeased by the lack of bite in Tim’s lazy reply. “The man hasn’t seen real action since the Gulf War, but he’s still in reserves. Shows up for the checkups, recertification, all that,” he said it slowly, like preparing Tim for some sort of diagnosis.
Tim just raised an eyebrow. “Guess those check-ups don’t have the ‘Sign here if you occasionally like to murder people’ box on ’em anymore? Shame.”
Raylan smirked; gotta admire the moxie of a guy who will remain so unconcerned in the face of Art’s real concern. Raylan wasn’t even sure it was warranted, though. Despite Rachel’s casual remarks that it had taken Tim some time to bounce back from shooting Boyd’s man- and Tim’s own friend getting killed just before- by the time Raylan got back from his suspension Tim’d seemed just fine to him. Not Normal-normal, sure, but Tim-normal? Definitely.
“Are you gonna make me ask outright if this case is gonna bother you?” Art went fully sincere, quiet.
Okay. Or maybe Rachel’s casual remarks did have some truth to them.
“You gonna make me answer outright?” Tim asked right back. It was quickly followed by a shrug. “He’s a bad guy, we catch bad guys, the end. If you’re gonna try checking on me every time we meet a vet on the wrong side of things, we won’t have time left to arrest anyone.”
True. Even though Raylan wasn’t a part of the conversation, he gave the point to Tim. Art looked like he was actually going to try another approach, so Raylan beat him to it. “We actually think Foster’s gonna go after the witness?”
If anything else, Rachel shot him a grateful look, so Raylan considered that his good deed of the day. With the meeting focused back on Foster, Raylan was able to relax again. Art being sincere made him twitchy. Because, thing was, it was Tim. There was no reason to worry. By the book, closed off, too much of a smartass for his own good- all Tim. Nothing to worry about.
“CID gonna get involved?” the guy in question asked.
“CID?” Raylan echoed. His own interactions with that group had been brief but unpleasant. (Though, a voice in his head pointed out, most of his interactions with any group tended to go that way. The voice sounded like Rachel and smirked like Tim. Raylan sometimes hated this well-oiled machine of theirs for invading his brain.)
“Guy’s still in reserves, gotta assume Army wants to cover their own asses. ’Specially since he's been showing up for recertification while doing this. And his weapon of choice is military grade,” Tim rattled off for the benefit of the room.
Art nodded. “They’re due here any minute. Foster’s former NCO too, he’s been pulled in to consult on this thing.”
“And by consult, you mean these two are gonna muck up things and roadblock every move we make?” Raylan reinterpreted. Tim and Rachel both hid smirks, more so when Art sighed. The sigh was agreeing and reprimanding in the same breath.
“Play nice,” he snapped with only a little heat, his attention on the door to the main office. Raylan followed his gaze as two men walked in. They might’ve been wearing civilian suits, but they were military through and through. It was the set of the shoulders, the awareness walking into a new situation, cataloguing every sight and sound. Raylan recognized it from Tim.
He turned to Tim to make some crack along those lines, but stopped at the look on his face. It was… shock, maybe? “What’s wrong with you?” Raylan asked, getting Rachel’s attention on him too.
Tim shook his head. “Holy shit,” he mumbled, standing up and following Art, who was already greeting the newcomers. Raylan and Rachel exchanged a look of confusion and trailed after him.
“Holy shit!” one of the men- older, burly and commanding, the kind of guy who did one-armed pushups for fun- echoed Tim, though his tone was louder and delighted, getting nearly the whole office’s attention. He grabbed at Tim, grinning wide. “Shit, kid, what are you doing in Kentucky?”
Tim, to everyone else’s surprise, allowed himself to be pulled in, even returned the hug. Tim. Hugged someone. On purpose. “Well, I work for a living,” he said, desert dry as always, but a hint of real… damn, was that actual friendliness in his tone? And familiarity, like it was a line he’d said to this guy before.
As if to prove that point, the man laughed, clapping Tim hard on the shoulder. “How’s your leg? Haven’t seen you since they carted you off in that helo, wasn’t sure if-”
“Through and through, it was fine,” Tim interrupted, realized he’d interrupted, and added a quick, “Staff Sergeant,” at the end to make up for it. Looking embarrassed by the whole thing.
Raylan had never been happier in this office.
“You’re a marshal now, huh?” The man was grinning wide. “That fits. That certainly fits.”
Art watched them both, an unreadable expression on his face. “Why don’t we take this into the conference room, or else I think some of my people’s heads might explode at the sight of Tim smiling.”
Tim still had the wherewithal to looking grumpy at that, but the lightness in his eyes stayed right there as the entire group settled back around the conference table.
Rachel bumped Tim’s elbow as they sat. “You’ve just reignited the gossip mill for at least the rest of the month, I hope you know,” she teased. He answered with his usual eye roll, then looked back and forth between Art and whoever his friend was, waiting for one of them to start. He didn’t seem to know which one to focus on.
Art sighed again. It was, funny enough, the same sigh he’d directed at Raylan before. “Command Sergeant Major Covey of CID and Staff Sergeant Declan of the U.S. Army are here to help us catch Daniel Foster. Gentlemen, these are Deputies Rachel Brooks, Raylan Givens, and Tim Gutterson. And are y’all gonna leave us guessing on this reunion, or...?”
The large man- Declan- was grinning again. “Gutterson was under my command in Afghanistan for a tour, maybe, huh, five or six years ago, kid?”
“Yessir.” Tim didn’t even balk at being called a kid. Raylan was so happy.
“You’re a combat vet?” Covey, the CID man, eyed Tim skeptically. Most people did when that fact came up, Tim never seemed bothered by it.
“One of the best snipers I ever had,” Declan was quick to defend, though. “Wasn’t for that injury, we wouldn’t have needed SEAL Team Six, is all I’m saying. Rangers would’ve gotten it done.”
Tim fixed Declan with a look eerily similar to the one he usually reserved for when Art told him he’d done a good job, but also managed to look pleased by it- maybe proud. This was becoming the best day of Raylan’s career. Another glance at Rachel told him she was just as giddy.
“Foster was also under your command at some point, correct?” Art brought everyone’s attention back to the meeting.
Declan nodded. “For all of ’91- the full Storm- and the few months training before that. Ran into each other on and off after that. Last contact I had with him was sixteen months ago at a rifle recertification. Much as it pains me to admit, I taught him everything he knows. If anyone’s going to know how he thinks, it’s me.”
“And you think he’ll go after the witness?” Raylan asked him and the room. Again. If it was him, he’d pack up and leave the state.
“A sniper leaves no trace behind,” he recited, sending a quick nod in Tim’s direction. “I figure one committing murder would be even more careful about that. No loose ends, that sort of thing.”
“We’re assuming someone hired him for the hit, that it wasn’t personal to him,” Rachel picked up another file, looking it over. “Does he have any connection to the victim?”
Art did that thing where he sighed without sighing- by look alone. “None that the assigned detectives could... detect.”
"If it was contract, there'd be no connection anyway," Raylan mused. "Victim piss anybody off lately?"
"More than a few," Art opened up another file. "Owed half a million dollars to half a dozen private businessmen."
"Two of them local," Rachel added, leaning to read over Art's shoulder. "Neither of them Dixie Mafia," she said for Raylan's benefit.
"The hell is Dixie Mafia?" Declan asked, warring between confusion and wanting to mock the name. Raylan decided he might really come to like this man.
"We sure he's working alone?" Tim asked casually, almost absentmindedly.
But Tim was never absentminded. Art focused on him sharply. "Meaning?"
Tim shrugged, aware of the eyes on him. "Partner. Spotter. Something. He's been making some fairly complicated shots, evaded being identified for eighteen years. Hard to do on your own."
"You could," Declan was grinning again.
Tim's eyes flicked over to him, almost smirking back. "Well I'm superior to most."
"There's never been any indication of a second man," Art cut back in.
Another shrug. "There's barely been an indication of the first."
Art considered it. "Foster play well with others?" he asked Declan.
Declan hesitated, thinking it over. "He was never exactly Sally Sunshine, but yeah. Got along with most, good in groups."
"He's superior to you there," Raylan muttered to Tim.
"He doesn't have to work with you," Tim fired right back.
Art waved them both quiet instinctively, and they both just as instinctively turned back to the case. "Can you make a list for us, possible buddies from back in the day who might still be his buddy now?" Art barely waited for Declan and the CID man to nod before checking his watch and pointing to Rachel and Tim. "Get the witness secured, and go over her statement again. Maybe she saw a partner without realizing. I won't rule it out yet."
They nodded, Tim standing to let Rachel exit first. He looked to Declan, who smiled again. We'll talk later, the look said. Tim seemed a little relieved at that as he followed Rachel out. Raylan couldn't help but marvel at it, at a new side to Tim. One with actual, maybe even normal, emotions.
It was hilarious. And very weird.
The CID man- Raylan didn't bother remembering his name- excused himself soon after, and Raylan invited himself along when Art led Declan into his office. Where the bourbon was. After drinks were poured and chairs settled into, he turned to Declan. "How worried should we be about Foster?"
Declan took the question seriously. "Very. He's good. Always has been. Smart. Adaptable. Eagle eye." Then his smile was back. "Not quite the eye of Gutterson, but still. Good."
"Tim's really that good?" Raylan asked. He wasn't skeptical, and knew better than to insult an Army Officer and whatnot, but he was curious. And wanted to see how much the man would elaborate. Couldn't be blamed for that, right?
"He is," Declan was firm. "Or was when I knew him, at least. I suspect he's maybe even better now. 'Tim' and 'rusty' just don't go together."
Raylan and Art tipped their glasses in agreement. "You got to know him pretty well over there?"
"Over here first," Declan corrected. "Ft. Benning for a round of training. Then eleven months in Kandahar, Sangin... wherever they needed us."
"And he was the same grumpy son of a bitch with you that he is with us?" Raylan asked when Art didn't.
Declan laughed, hearty and fond. "Of course. It's not a new story with guys like us. Rangers, snipers, what have you. You have to be the right kind of crazy for it. Most of my boys are- were," he corrected himself this time. "Off. Shitty childhoods, adrenaline junkies, sob stories back home, all that."
"You know Tim's sob stories?" Art asked, somewhat quiet, somewhat casual. Raylan felt himself frown a little at the tone, confused. Art ignored the look Raylan sent his way.
Declan didn't seem to notice. "I know more than a little. As much as I need to." He shook his head. "It's a real shame, that kid's family."
Raylan looked back and forth between them now. "Do I even want to kno-"
"No," Art looked at him then, stern. "Because Tim wouldn't want you to."
Fair enough. Raylan nodded, drained his glass. He wagged it in front of Art, asking for another. Art scowled but complied, refilling all their drinks.
Declan inclined his head in thanks. "I wish I'd kept more in touch with Tim, with all those boys. Once you’re out, there’s no unit to back you up, not enough benefits to help you keep afloat... Not everyone fairs as well as Tim has."
"We know," Art frowned into his drink.
Declan studied him for a moment before realization hit. "Shit, that's right. Teilman died just a few weeks ago, didn't he?"
It took Raylan a second to connect the last name to Mark- Tim's shot up buddy. "You led him too?"
"Yeah. Shit. I should've said something to Tim. They ever caught the guy who did it?"
Art seemed to hesitate before admitting, "Tim did."
"And he's dead?" Declan guessed. At Raylan's nod, he chuckled. "No surprise there. He always gets shit done when it counts."
Art glanced at Raylan quickly before speaking. "It tore Tim up a bit- he knew the other guy. Another vet. We've been trying not to let him think too much on it, or think too much like a soldier. And we try not to treat him as such."
Declan just chuckled again, waved a hand as if to brush Art's concern away. "He's still the trigger finger around these parts, isn't he? So not too much in his head could've changed."
"Actually-"
"And besides," Declan talked over Art, "that's a good thing for you, especially on this case. Gutterson is the one you want behind the scope. Kid can turn off that soul thing so fast when he needs to."
"Soul thing?" Art repeated, jaw clenching a little. Raylan sank back in his seat a little, out of proverbial line of fire, watching.
"It's a valuable skill- when you don't have time to prepare yourself for the enemy being any..." another hand wave, "shape or size. Tim was one of those guys who never hesitated, always pulled. Never missed." Another grin, this one remembering something Art and Raylan would never be able to see or understand. "Damn fine trigger finger."
Raylan wondered what it said about the conversation that even he was uncomfortable with that assessment. Tim was a grumpy son of a bitch, but he wasn't soulless.
And then Raylan remembered his thoughts from earlier, how funny and alien it was to see Tim showing real emotion.
Geat. Now he got to feel like shit on top of feeling uncomfortable.
***
“So.”
Tim kept his eyes on the road, his hand casual on the wheel. His eyebrow twitched. Maybe. Rachel couldn’t really tell- he was wearing sunglasses. But joke was on him, Rachel knew he only wore sunglasses when he wanted to hide from her.
“I’ve never seen you hug someone before,” she started with harmless teasing, laying some groundwork. Foundation. An apt metaphor- it was work connecting to Tim, building something that went higher than the walls he built himself.
“I hugged your ma last week,” he argued, voice just as light. Reminding her that they had a connection beyond work to tug at her loyalty. Volleying right back.
“No, she hugged you. You were just trying to fend her off, don’t front with me.” Her volley back- acknowledging that she knew him better than most, but reminding him nothing got past her. She was the smarter of the two of them. See? Work.
He conceded her joke and her point behind it with a barely-there smile. “Ask what you want to ask.” Readying his walls for a direct assault. Rachel just needed to build to the higher vantage point.
“He’s one of the good guys, right? Declan?” she asked.
Tim swallowed, nodded. “Always did right by me.”
That was a pretty big vouch from a guy like Tim. “He was your Art before Art?”
“No,” the answer was immediate, surprising her. “Those two are… not alike.”
“For better or for worse?”
“For neither,” Tim gave a quick little headshake, tried to explain. “Art’s a good boss. Good leader. But you can’t lead like him over there. ‘S too different.” He spared her a glance around his sunglasses. “Don’t you dare tell him I said he was a good boss.”
She smiled down at her lap so he wouldn’t see. Or maybe so he would. “Like he’d believe you said it.”
Another smile from him. “Sta- Declan. He got us through a lot of shit. Made sure he went through it with us. He was there to kick our asses, keep us sharp.” He tilted his head, listened to what she wasn’t saying, and explained. “There wasn’t always time for handholding and bourbon in the boss’s tent after a bad day. You don’t keep your head in the game, you or the guy next to you dies.”
Rachel twisted the ring on her finger- not her wedding ring (she gave it back to Joe), just a little band Nick had given her for Christmas- and said nothing. She hated that she could just never really picture what that life had been like for Tim. It was that one wall she’d never be able to climb. “You got hurt over there?” she asked instead. He had little scars on his back and chest- it was a small locker room- but nothing that seemed…
“My leg. Grenade hit nearby, took shrapnel to it,” he tapped his right thigh. Seemed pretty close to an artery, but Rachel didn’t ask. “It was fine. Little surgery in Germany, rehab stateside, then back over there.”
So it wasn’t the reason he left the Army. Rachel didn’t ask about that either. “You know any guys like Foster? Former military going… that route?” Weirdly enough, it felt like a safer subject to talk about.
“Yeah,” he answered simply, honestly. “Some guys can’t get it out of their heads when they’re back here.” Another smile, maybe going for reassuring. “None of the guys I know are smart enough or dumb enough to make it this far. Most do private security, protection, muscle work.” A shrug. “Maybe breaking fingers for bookies, but no triggers.”
“If they did, though. If we came across a Foster that you knew,” she hesitated. “Would you be able to put him down?”
He grinned slow and lazy. For show, she thought. “I’d like to think we’d be able to arrest him before that. I have faith in you, Rachel.”
“Shut up,” she smiled back, smacking his shoulder. And waited.
He didn’t disappoint. “I think I could.”
She moved her eyes away, giving him space. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She heard him swallow. “Better me do it than someone else. And at least… at least I’d trust myself to make it quick and perfect.”
Perfect? she didn’t echo it out loud. Didn’t want to, didn’t want to know what perfect meant to him. Mentally stepping back, “Did I tell you they want Nick on the school’s debate team?”
If she positioned herself just right, she could see his reflection in her window. She watched his smile get less lazy, more real. “No shit.”
“Apparently. It’ll be good for him, right? Extracurriculars?”
“Man, think about all the practice he can get, listening to his aunt and grandma argue at dinner.”
“Shut up,” she turned to smack him again. She was gaining on those walls, she knew it. It’d just take work.