Chapter Text
It was about the tenth play through of the song when the old lady upstairs started hammering the floor of her apartment with her stick. Perhaps she had just put her hearing aid in.
“Because you sure as shit have your TV loud enough” Tim shouted as the music blared out again.
He stood in the middle of his living room, shirt pulled out of his jeans, boots kicked anywheres, clutching a bottle of Old Charter because that is a really good look for 4 o'clock on a Friday afternoon. Rachel had bundled him home out of the office early, made up some excuse for Art.
“You might as well go home and do nothing than do nothing here.” She hadn’t said it gently.
The track came to an end. He picked up the remote. Fuck it. Pause. Back one track. Press play. Drink another slug from the bottle. Ignore the hammering on the door because perhaps the old deaf lady had called the cops. Pick up his cell phone because maybe, just maybe, Rachel had taken pity on him and would take him out to bar and the flashing screen was her texting because sure as shit no one else was going to be doing that.
[Let me in dick brain. I'm outside.]
Tim killed the music, then regretted it. Way to let someone know they had your attention. So now here was standing in his own living room feeling out of place and staring at the inside of his front door. Holding his breath and swaying because half a bottle of bourbon was inside him. In his socks. This was not a cool look. If only he had supra sider skills to see through the door. Shit, even the voice in the head was drunk.
“Super. Spidey. Skills.” Say it out loud. That’s not at all ridiculous. Who had the X-ray vision thing anyway? Superman! Idiot. Tim put his arms out wide. Imaginary flying with a cape - yeah.
“Gutterson. Open up.” And then to someone else in an altogether wholesome tone “That’s right ma’am they’ve sent a non-uniform to deal with it. We take disturbing the neighbors very seriously.”
There was a rap on the door. Not a tentative tap. A Marshal’s Knock. A marshal who meant business. A marshal who was mos’ defn’ley wearing a hat. Tim decided to go for goofy. Hey, it worked for Dewey Crowe. Raylan hadn’t shot him. Yet.
He swung the door open wide, “Can I help you Deputy?”
And then Raylan is in the living room. All of him. Much taller than Tim remembers. Perhaps because he is now sitting down. Can’t remember how he got there. Great things couches. He gives it a pat to say thank you.
“Jesus. How much have you had to drink? You smell like you actually bathe in bourbon.” Raylan doesn’t wait for an answer. Just snatches the bottle out of Tim’s hand. Tim makes a grab for it and ends up on the floor. Thinks he’ll just stay there for a while.
“Nice boots man.”
The boots took themselves out of his field of vision. Sounds drift in from the kitchen as water is run, cupboards are pulled open and banged shut.
The boots are back. “When did you last eat anything that didn’t come out of bottle or a cereal box?”
“Snuffin’ wrong wi’ frosted mini wheats.”
“Up. Now. Tim.” He felt a firm grip on his upper arm and then came the swearing as Tim’s muscles decided that Tim was not going to put any effort into Operation Get Tim off the floor.
“Ow.” Tim tried to co-ordinate rubbing the back of his head where it smacked hard into the coffee table on the way up, and trying to wriggle away before he was dumped back on the sofa. “Supposed to say sorry if you hurt someone,” he said.
“Fuck you. And drink that.” Raylan slammed the glass of water down so hard on the table a good bit of it splashed out.
“Spilt some.” Tim frowned at the wet patch on the wood and carefully pulled the end of his shirt sleeve over his hand to wipe it. “Don’t worry. I fixed it.” The frown deepened as he thought of a very important point. “Anyways they got multi-vitamins. I read the packet, says so."
“What?” The boots were back again. “Who delivers round here?”
“Mini-wheats?” Raylan was a dumb ass sometimes. Who delivered breakfast cereal?
“No asshole. Pizza, Chinese, Indian? Pizza. You’re too drunk to be trusted with a knife and fork.”
“Whatever man.” Tim decided to lie down. Everything was easier viewed from the bottom up he decided. It gave him a view up Raylan’s long long legs, and his fingers working his phone.
“Anyone ever tell you that you have real nice fingers Givens?”
“Hmm.” Raylan squinted down at him. “Gutterson, do us both a favor, go to sleep until the food gets here.”
Tha’ was mighty considerate of Raylan. Might consider adding him to the potential acquaintances list after all. He curled up on his side and then decided to shut his eyes. He bounced slightly with the weight of Raylan sitting down on the other end of the couch. Not sleepin' just restin', for jus’ a littl’ bit.