singillatim | Summer of where the hell are we

Entry tags:

Summer of where the hell are we

Who: Raylan and you!
What: Feasting, MemLoss, around town SoL
When: Month of August
Where: Around Milton, Community hall

[Methusalah's Feast]

Raylan always made sure to come to these when he was able to without betraying himself in one way or another. He also made sure to come with plenty of firewood and dried fish over his shoulder and in his hand respectively, to offer new 'settlers'. Free supplies made things a lot easier when you were just learning how to survive like this and he remembers all too well how harrowing it was to just show up here in Milton out of regular life. It didn't hurt that he liked to see who came in, as well as take an opportunity to check up on the message board. It could be it's own form of entertainment sometimes.

At his side moved a wolf, tall at nearly hip level, with the standard kind of grey and white most people would think of when thinking 'wolf', but seemingly perfectly well behaved as his eyes stay on the rest of the room. Quiet but ready. All up until he got distracted by a smell and starts to nose into someone's meal.

"Goose! No, goddamnit, that's rude," he tuts as a long stride carries him over to push the wolf away. Goose didn't even look sorry, in the way he licked his chops, still eyeing the plate. Raylan sighs and offers an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. Normally, he's got better manners then that."

[In the Woods somewhere]

It was cold. It was the first thing he'd noticed when he woke up and while a deluge of other wildly concerning circumstances were upon him, the cold dug at him more sharply than anything else. He felt sure that he must know who he was, if he could only warm up enough to think about it. What did it matter who he was if who he was didn't have any goddamn fingers? The flash of irritation warmed him only slightly, and he pulls the coat he's lucky enough to be wearing closer around his ears as step by step, he makes his way through the forest.

It was quiet and the kind of quiet that left live nerves under his skin. The kind of quiet that make his ears try and stretch somehow, to hear more clearly anything that might be moving in the roving mists. He couldn't decide if it had worked but after a little while, the crunch of something else stepping in the snow sent his ears right back to their proverbial stretching. Unnerved enough by not knowing who he was, the man without a hat hurries his stride a little bit, in the hope that what was making that noise was human.

"Hey! Hello, yes-" All it would take is eye contact for him to start moving closer. "Can't tell you how good it is to see someone else out here. Is there a- a town or something nearby? I seem to've gotten lost.."

[Around Milton - Wildcard]

Raylan hated this month. There was at least one shiny good part about it, but that withstanding, he wasn't sure how anyone here was sane anymore. The day in and day out that was only broken by terrible things upon terrible things, the gnawing hopelessness that felt harder and harder to fight each time they got knocked down was starting to fray his edges. So Raylan did what he always did when he felt like this (since there wasn't enough whiskey to drown it all out); he stayed busy.

Wood chopping was always needed. The library? Well there were some books he thought Tim might like. The clothing store? Just checking in, to see if anything new has come in. A few t-shirts end up over his shoulder after a quick hold up against his chest sizes it out. Hell, he even stops by the church, just to see the place again. He was happy to do anything that wasn't sit still and think. What he needed was a proper bath in the hot springs but honestly, he would need company lest his head get too far away from itself.

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Raylan's been keeping himself busy.

To be fair, Tim has too. He's had to after the memory, with the flashback and the nightmares and the paranoia. It all hung around longer than it would've at home, where there was lots of liquor and plenty of fugitives to chase down. Fishing leaves his mind too idle. Wood chopping is fine, but there's only so much of it he can do before his body is screaming at him to stop. Hunting works okay so long as he's tracking and not waiting.

The first few weeks after the memory, he slept in his own bed. The nightmares were too bad, the paranoia too high. It wasn't a matter of Raylan not seeing him at his worst, but a matter of how dangerous it could get. When his body wakes up but his mind doesn't, and there's the chance that when it does catch up with reality, he has his hands around his partner's throat or a gun to his head.

He can't risk it, so he sleeps alone until the worst of the aftermath has worked its way out of his system, and then one night he simply follows Raylan into his room and crawls into bed with him.

They've settled into an odd sort of domestic bliss, a tiny sliver of reprieve amidst the shittiness of existing here. Tim's home, and he's found lately that cooking is something that occupies his hands and his mind. He never gave a fuck about cooking at home, perfectly content to live off of frozen dinners and MREs and probably die an early death from it. Now he's-- making venison chili. Or attempting to, with vegetables from the greenhouse and what little recollection he has of his mother making it growing up. It smells good, at least.

When Raylan comes in, Tim is crouched in front of the fire, stirring the pot of food. He speaks without looking back.

"If this sucks, you have to tell me the truth."

It's almost funny to see Tim so deeply focused on cooking. Raylan never thought Tim was one for it and besides that, it was something that Raylan took his own comfort in and one that he was happy to give up when this was the reward. Who could say no to a hot meal they didn't have to make themselves? He smiles as he strips off his jacket and gloves so he can pick back up the tote of firewood and head Tim's way.

"Can't suck if it makes the house smell like this," he remarks, walking by with a run of his hand across Tim's shoulders before he starts unloading wood. He'd gotten a lot more comfortable with just touching Tim in the soft, affectionate ways he wanted to. It wasn't every time, but there wasn't nearly as much restraint as before.

He hadn't asked about anything when Tim slept alone after those nightmares. He could tell Tim needed the time and the space to breathe or ignore it all or however he actually managed it all - they weren't in a place where Raylan felt right asking. That was more personal then sex. He also didn't ask anything when Tim followed him into bed, but didn't hesitate in the slightest to wrap Tim into his arms or to drop chaste little kisses on the sniper's shoulder.

Tim was always welcome in his bed. Obviously, they couldn't deny what this was on its face. He wouldn't try. That didn't mean he had to go stirring the waters, putting his foot in his mouth and ruining things. Even if he wanted something more, they had all the time in the world. Until they didn't. Raylan chooses to not think about that.

"What's in it?"

That seems reasonable, he thinks, though he knows it's missing a few key ingredients to be made proper. Raylan's hand trails over his shoulders, light and casual in a way that sends a slight chill down his spine. He looks up, assessing his partner quietly for a moment like he typically does when they've both come home for the night, needing to see for himself that Raylan has returned to him in one piece.

He's fucked. If they return home and remember all this, he's doubly fucked. These feelings were easy to maintain when they had roles to fall into and rules to follow. The simple lust and infatuation stayed neatly compartmentalized, only taken out of their boxes when he was horny and alone.

It's something else now, something warm and scary and brand new. He's not sure when it happened -- after the nightmare, the night of the moose hunt, the morning he woke up with the betraying aura, the day of the earthquake -- and he can't tell how much of it has to do with Raylan being his only source of safety and familiarity.

Just that at some point down the line, unbeknownst to them both, he tethered his heart to Raylan's and is helpless to cut the line. He doesn't know if he wants to. He also doesn't know what Raylan wants, and true to form, neither of them have brought it up. They danced around this for so long before Raylan had the nerve to break the pace, and now they're dancing again, just to a different beat.

He's kind of tired of dancing. Tim pushes against his knees to stand upright, leaving the pot to simmer.

"It's meant to be venison chili, but the greenhouse didn't have onions or peppers, so who the fuck knows what it is now. Did find a can of beans to throw in it, so I hope you're not a beanless chili kinda guy."

His gaze cuts to Raylan and he offers a hint of a smile. "Else I might have to sleep in my own bed tonight."

Chili without beans is just meat sauce and this is a hill he will die on.

Huffing a half breathed scoff of a laugh at 'who the fuck knows what it is now' and tosses the tote bag into a milk crate nearby before dusting off his hands. Those hands were promptly propped on his thighs, one leg cocked as it was in his slanted stance, and just in time to see Tim's look over and that hint of a smile.

"Then I guess I'm not a beanless chili kind of guy," he replies with a laugh, ambling over to stand next to him with a crooked, warm smile of his own. "Or I'm followin' you into yours."

He'd grown accustomed to feeling Tim next to him when they slept and missed him more than Raylan would like to admit out loud when the sniper decided to sleep somewhere else. Tim next to him made his own nightmares lesser when he woke up with a shallow gasp and a sheen of sweat. Gave him a bit of reality to hold onto before he decides that he can't sleep anymore.

No. He'd take beans if that's what Tim wanted.

"Now noodles is too far. We might fight over that one, dependin' on where you fall."

There's an odd sort of warmth that washes through him when Raylan says that. Then I guess I'm not a beanless chili kind of guy. Like the idea of sharing a bed with Tim is so appealing that he may or may not be setting aside his own personal preferences to do it. However big or small those preferences are, something about it making him feel strangely wanted.

Raylan comes nearer and Tim moves a bit closer, too. It's hard not to when his partner has this gravity about him. A gentle pull that always makes Tim want to be in his orbit, holding his attention, which is an especially odd feeling when he typically prefers to blend into the background.

"Yours is comfier," he reasons, and as he does he leans in to slide a hand over the back of Raylan's neck, tipping his head so he doesn't knock the hat loose when he steals an unhurried kiss. A proper welcome home, casual and lazy in nature.

He might not know what Raylan wants, or if it aligns with what he wants, but he can savor these moments for as long as they can last. He draws back, thumb against the corner of Raylan's jaw.

"Ain't that just goulash at that point?" It's definitely not, but it doesn't matter. He's moving away, trailing fingers over Raylan's shoulder as he moves to drop himself onto the couch, leaving the spot next to him wide open for whenever his partner decides he wants to settle.

"There's a bowl of water in the kitchen, should still be warm if you wanna wash up. The venison-whatever still has some time left on it."

It was nice, the natural way his body responds to Tim's touch, an arm slipping around Tim's waist to pull him closer as Tim's hand slides along his neck. He had wondered how Tim would take a kiss of greeting and the answer of Tim initiating it was thrilling. Thrilling and reassuring. Something he had realized was that he kept waiting for Tim to draw a line - to tell him something was enough, or that he was being too much of himself - and found it a surprise every time Tim didn't.

Raylan hums into the kiss, leaning into it as his free hand comes up to take his hat off and out of the way. Even when the kiss was broken, his face follows it for a second, eyes half-lidded and squinty with his pleasure about it all. Maybe it didn't matter that they hadn't put words to it if it just worked. And Tim thinking his bed was comfier definitely counted as it working. It was only comfier when Tim was in it, but that felt a little too cheesy to say.

Begrudgingly he lets Tim pull away without a fuss, grinning crookedly.

"Tryin' to say I smell funny?" Still, he could probably due with a wash to get the bits of wood and sap off his hands and out from under his fingernails. He heads that way, asking his question over his shoulder as he goes.

"How was your day? Get up to anythin' fun?"

Edited 2025-08-23 23:37 (UTC)

"No, I just don't want you leavin' me with sap and splinters when you're touchin' me tonight."

His voice is light and casual, and he's wearing the faintest of smiles as he watches Raylan walk himself into the kitchen. Those hips-- they need to come with a warning sign. A label declaring them a weapon of mass destruction, because Tim's attention span gets absolutely slaughtered every time he gets the opportunity to watch that swagger in action.

That's why it takes him a few moments to answer, somehow willing his gaze to slide back up and focus on what he's been asked.

"Not particularly. Too much meat in storage right now to do any real huntin'." There's a short pause. "I did track a bear back to its den. Guess we can go find it again if we ever get real bored."

But that's not particularly interesting as far as he's concerned, and he doesn't really want to dwell on it long enough for Raylan to get annoyed that Tim was out doing semi stupid shit without him. So he presses a little, pries a bit. Tim can't be the only one opening up between the two of them.

"Seems you've been keepin' yourself busy lately."

Raylan smirks to himself at the first answer, hat finding it's place on the small dining table on its way by and leaving his hands free to handle the whole hand washing situation after rolling up his sleeves. He gets to touch Tim tonight. He got to touch Tim most nights but that didn't diminish even a fraction of joy at the honor of it. So yes, he'd make sure he was sap and splinter clean.

"I don't feel much of a need to harass the wildlife more than we have to but I get trackin' them around," he admits as he comes back by with two cups, set down on the small slab of wood that had been crafted into a little side table before heading into the bedroom to get a bottle of whiskey. They were gonna need it - he was gonna need it - and they'd been good and responsible enough to have something a little real to go with what was probably going to end up being a very real conversations. That aside, he couldn't begrudge Tim's need to get out and just do something. Men like them never got up to good or healthy things, stuck too long indoors.

"I have," he starts, pouring them both a few fingers, trading the bottle for the cups and handing one to Tim before sitting down close in that space Tim had made for him. One arm goes over the back of the couch for now. He knew he'd just come back one day a little fucking weird and had just.. gotten to work.

"I shoulda asked if you had the same thing happen to you but.." He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to be seen like that. He hated the way memory loss made him feel. It was so peaceful until the whole of Raylan Givens flooded back in, with all his flaws and questionable decisions. With all the men and women's last moments that he had seen. That he had caused. That he would cause.

"You didn't.. like wake up in the middle of any burnt out forests, did you?"

Edited 2025-08-26 02:44 (UTC)

Oh, hell. Raylan's breaking out the glasses, and Tim knows exactly what he's going for when he disappears into his bedroom, so there's no surprise on his face when his partner comes back with the liquor. They only get into it when something really cool or something really fucked up has happened, and he doubts Raylan would be working himself to death if it was the former.

So this is gonna kind of suck. But Raylan was by his side when Tim couldn't even begin pulling himself together, when he didn't even know he wanted Raylan there. So Tim will be here too, albeit with far less experience in this department than his partner has, in whatever way he needs to be.

He watches quietly without pushing or prompting as Raylan pours their glasses, and it's probably a small miracle that the first sip Tim takes is as measured as it is. It's been entirely too long since he's had a stiff drink, fighting through flashbacks and nightmares without it--

Another reason he slept in his own room, though maybe more of a subconscious one than anything. There was no way he was going to be able to stop himself from consuming entirely too much of their supply if he was waking up in that room in the state he was in.

Maybe Art's right. Maybe he is an alcoholic, but at least if he is, he's a functioning one. Mostly.

Raylan sits, extends his arm over the back of the couch, and Tim shifts so his body is turned more towards Raylan's, feeling that hand right behind his head. And then his partner asks him a question that easily ranks in the top five weirest questions he's ever been asked, all of which have happened in the last five months he's been here.

"No." His voice is even, but as he takes another sip, he shifts so that his knee is touching Raylan's. Not pressing, just there. Like Tim is. "But I take it by that very specific and unsettlin' question that you did."

Humming a note, Raylan takes his first sip of his whiskey, teeth baring softly in passing as he swallows down the relief of warm burn. It's amazing that the whiskey has lasted as long as it has, but Raylan has been pretty strict about not getting actually drunk which as also amazing. Considering what they had to survive here. Considering how long he'd done it without Tim's or anyone else's company.

Except now, Tim was asking and Raylan hadn't swerved, so he had to answer. His eyes stay in the well of his cup, knee relaxing a little rest against Tim's, turning that just there into the soft press of sure contact. He still didn't want to talk about it, not really.

"Yeah. With no memory of anything. Who I was, where I was.. Nothin'. Except for that I knew it was the end of all things.." It had felt like standing at the end of the world, wondering why he hadn't died along with everyone else. Wondering why (and how) he'd been spared. Wondering if it was a blessing or a curse. Wasn't there always more suffering around the corner?

"At least I know it's Enola's doin'.. Her disembodied voice made several appearances."

And obviously, he got out of it without any physical damage - that was generally his personal threshold for if something was worth complaining about or not. Was it healthy? No, not at all, but Raylan was just as unaccustomed to talking about shit like this as Tim was. It was hard.

More memory shit. It seems to be the theme lately. Tim getting caught by the green fog to have one of his very worst memories played out like a movie for passersby to see, and Raylan apparently waking up in the middle of a burnt out forest with no memory at all. Hard to say who got the shorter end of the stick with this one.

It's bullshit. This entire place is, and the worst part of it is that Tim was here and Raylan still went through it alone. There's a brief swell of anger -- his jaw goes tight and his knuckles whiten against the glass, and he takes a healthy drink to mask it all -- not so much at Raylan as the situation itself, though Tim thinks he's kind of an idiot for just sitting on it for so long.

And at the same time, the chances of Tim ever talking about it if Raylan hadn't come into his room that morning were slim to none. They're both kind of idiots when it comes to this kind of thing.

"Guess I can't fault you for workin' yourself to death every day since." He's been doing the same exact thing, after all. It's only just started leveling out in the last week or two.

His tongue presses to the back of his teeth for a moment, looking down into his glass as he considers something. It's delicate, this whole thing between them. As wild as the entire marshals office has learned that Raylan's love life is, Tim's never known him to treat any of them frivolously. Of course, he isn't an exceptionally pretty girl, and maybe Raylan isn't interested in much more than sex with guys, but--

Whatever. The decision is made with another sip -- even with the way he's actually pacing himself, he's working his way through his drink much faster than Raylan's working through his. Liquid courage is liquid courage, no matter how little of it he's actually had.

"You didn't have to keep it to yourself for so long. This--" He gestures between them with his glass, the way they're sitting semi-vulnerable with each other. "-- doesn't have to be one-sided."

The passing tenseness of Tim's jaw and the way he gripped his glass told Raylan a lot - primarily that Tim hated the way they were fucked with as much enthusiasm as he did. They could agree on that, if anything, and Raylan was glad to know so well that Tim understands the need to keep oneself busy sometimes. It was the only way Raylan felt like he could make sure he didn't slip and fall off his rocker again. It was the only way to feel like he had even a modicum of control over anything at all.

He hadn't felt 'normal' in only god knew how long. Work at least let him pretend for a little while that he was still that. Just normal.

Tim continues and Raylan can't help the flickering, passing furrow of his brow at 'This doesn't have to be one-sided.' Having been married before afforded Raylan quite a bit of experience in conversations like this, though that did nothing for his actual skill in navigating them, and his brain happily supplied a handful of different suggestions about what Tim was trying to say and how Raylan should respond. It wasn't fair to Tim, to have to handle Raylan's personal baggage, to have to navigate all the scars that Winona had left on him.

A bit of grace for them both, then. He was sure that Tim wasn't trying to dig at him. Tim wasn't trying to start a fight. He had to hope that Tim wasn't suggesting that Raylan speaking up now meant that it was one-sided. Tim had asked, Raylan had answered; there had been no hiding, no deception. There was a carousel of comments replaying in the back of his head, from every lover, every relationship where it was deemed that Raylan wasn't giving enough of himself or opening himself up enough to have ribbons cut off and used against him. How long until Tim counted himself among those numbers?

"It's hard," he starts, less sure than he would like to be, "-to find a good time to ruin a perfectly good evenin'. Especially not when I'm sure this place is going to add to the pile, individually or together, radically soon after the last." He takes a drink from his cup and shifts in kind to turn his body to face Tim's more, so he can look him in the eye properly.

"But I promise it ain't from any effort to keep you out or away. Just.. there's plenty of things to worry about already and my feelin's gettin' hurt ain't one of them."

It's not exactly what he means -- he's not mad and he's not trying to be an asshole about this. It would probably be easier if he could just say what he means, but he'd have to know what that is first. He knows what he wants, he's just uncertain of how to put it into words.

This is entirely uncharted territory for him, and maybe he should feel some kind of way about it -- embarrassment or something -- but Jesus, he spent most of his adult life fighting it out overseas. So Raylan's just going to have to deal with him stumbling his way through this.

It's not like Tim didn't ruin a perfectly good two weeks by isolating himself and hardly opening up beyond that first nightmare. Raylan's support never wavered, even when Tim didn't feel like talking, even when all he wanted was the kind of physical touch that would take him out of his head and allow him to forget. It's hard to say whose baggage is heavier, who copes with it worse, but they're not exactly carrying it alone anymore. Whether they like it or not.

"I didn't think that." He knows better than anyone how difficult it is to open up, to be vulnerable. He's not interested in prying because he's not interested in Raylan prying past what he's offered in that sense. He's only interested in being here however his partner needs.

"Raylan--" He resists the urge to knock back the rest of his drink in one go, bringing the glass down to rest on his knee. The words taste foreign on the back of his teeth, and when his heart jumps hard against his chest, he lets out a short, quiet laugh of surprise.

At least he doesn't have the fucking aura anymore. He wonders what color nervous is.

"I worry about you all the time," he says finally, and miraculously, he keeps his gaze steady on Raylan. "Just-- differently than I've worried about anybody else."

He's protective, is what it is. Beyond what they had at home, because now he's maybe a little possessive, too. He doesn't exactly know what to do with all of it, but he does know it will fucking suck if Raylan wants to see other people.

It was strange, in a strangely good way, to be wrong in his assumptions. Impressive even more because Raylan thought himself clever enough to consider all the options. Except that none of his paths included Tim not thinking some version of the worst of him. It gave him a small kind of hope that he hadn't had in a very, very long time.

He can't help but smile a soft crooked smile at Tim's admittance. He couldn't help but take some modicum of pleasure in the fact that Tim cared enough to worry in any capacity.

"I imagine it's likely the same way I worry about you." His arm shifts from it's place along the back of the couch to lay against Tim's shoulder, fingers drooping to settle on the flat of his back lazily. "I like this thing we're doin'. I want you here. All the better to keep an eye on you, my dear."

It was teasing, but that didn't make it any less true. His eyes drift from feature to feature across Tim's face.

"I told Zoey about us today, by the way.. I hope that's alright - I needed to.. I needed her to know." What he had needed to do, and what he did, was manage expectations. No, he didn't want to see anyone else. He was Tim's. Tim was his. It would take a hellva argument to convince him otherwise, at this point.

Raylan's hand settles against his back, a tingling warmth spreading from the simple touch, making his heart thump a little bit harder in his chest. He's fucked -- but it's okay, because it kind of sounds like Raylan's fucked, too. Except due to the fact that Raylan's at least a little more normal than he is, he probably doesn't view it as being fucked.

Still. It's an assurance that starts to soothe his frayed nerves. Honestly, he didn't even think he was capable of feeling nervous anymore, and it's wild to discover the hidden emotional range Raylan has managed to unlock. When Tim smiles, he brings his glass to his lips to try and hide it.

He kind of hates that any one person can make him feel this way, but he'd hate it a hell of a lot more if it didn't seem like the feelings were being reciprocated. And, well-- this is almost a situation of not thinking he'd make it this far, because he's not sure what to do with it now that he has it.

"That's fine," Tim assures, and it's true -- he's never had a problem with anyone knowing that he's gay, at least not since getting out of the military. Why should he when he can kick the ass of literally anyone who decides to turn it into a problem?

Here, outside the boundaries placed upon them by their shared workplace, he doesn't see much point in keeping it a secret. He only has been because outing Raylan before he's ready would be a supremely shitty thing to do, and while Tim might be an asshole, he's not that kind of asshole.

"What... exactly did you tell her?" He knows that Zoey has a crush on Raylan, and he's pretty sure after their trip to Silverpoint with their betraying auras, Raylan's gotta know too, if he didn't already. She wasn't flickering pink because of Tim, anyway. There's history there between the two of them, something Tim will never be able to touch because he wasn't here for those particular horrors.

No, he didn't view it as being fucked. He viewed it as something ultimately dangerous to the status quo of their lives. His life. A life that was a million miles away. A life he didn't have to worry about right now and when the time came that he would have to worry about it, they would figure it out together. He hopes, anyway.

Tim smiles and Raylan can't help his own in return. This was going well, so far.

"Well," he starts, pulling away only so he could reach the bottle and pour them another few fingers, arm returning to its place over Tim's shoulder once the bottle found it's home back on the table.

"I told her that we were.. somethin' that I'd like to find out about. I didn't wanna apply any labels without havin' a conversation with you about it." He smiles a little behind his own sip of whiskey, eyes squinty and warm. "Might be that you don't want to name this. Might be that you do."

Despite the confidence of his words, his heart was crawling up into his throat, tight and burning from the whiskey that didn't help as much as it should. Part of the reason he had been dancing around it was that he didn't want the conversation to end whatever this thing they were doing was. But here it was and there was no point in delaying the agony of maybe's any further.

"Might be my gettin' ahead of myself, thinkin' that we're datin'.." His gaze stays on Tim's face, gauging the reaction.

This is going absurdly well given that Tim feels like he's flying by the seat of his pants. He knows what he wants, it's right there within his reach, and he's-- what? Scared? He walked into a war at eighteen not fully knowing what to expect, and he managed to do that with far less anxiety than he's doing this.

He'd held a gun before he enlisted. He'd survived his father before he survived the desert. He's never really put his heart on the line before. Really, he didn't think he'd make it this far.

His expression has remained carefully schooled, something he mastered without having to expend too much focus. Does he want to name this? That feels dangerous, but maybe it only is in the context of home. Things are different here, where every day is a fight for basic survival, and they really only have each other to lean on. There isn't any harm in naming it if it doesn't really change anything.

The word 'dating' comes into the mix and that does get a reaction out of Tim, his brow creasing with a slight frown.

"I don't--"

He stops. He doesn't date. Not since coming back stateside and realizing he's a hell of a lot less whole than he was when he left. The baggage is heavy, too heavy to ask someone else to carry, but-- he didn't ask Raylan. He just did it, and even when Tim was difficult about it, he made it clear he wanted to be there.

Fuck. They're already dating, aren't they? That's exactly what they're doing, they've both just been hesitant to name it. Truthfully, Tim still is a little hesitant. But not as much as he's tired of the uncertainty. He takes a long drink from his glass that doesn't do nearly enough to loosen the tightness in his throat.

"Raylan, I'm gonna be real honest with you -- I haven't dated anyone since high school." And what even is dating in high school other than trying to find the next semi-private place to hook up with the same person for a year and a half until it all implodes?

His track record isn't great. He doesn't know how to be in a relationship, but he pulls in a breath and looks Raylan in the eye when he speaks again.

"But that doesn't mean I don't want to."

Some of the easy going, laissez faire mirth slipped away at Tim's slight frown and flinch of his brow, and Raylan doesn't rush to fill the silence as Tim figures out how he wants to answer. If Raylan had to guess, and he wasn't inclined to, he would guess that Tim was about to say that he doesn't want to put a label on things, that he doesn't want them to be 'dating' so specifically. The concern that Tim would want to see someone else on the side suddenly grips him uncomfortably until Tim finishes, with a wash of soft relief.

"I don't mind bein' the first if you don't, darlin'." He gives Tim a soft smile. "I'm not lookin' for references."

There was also the fact that Raylan had probably started and ruined enough relationships to cover the both of them, but that felt in bad taste to say out loud, true or not.

"This doesn't have to be anythin' you don't want. I know you and I aren't exactly practiced at talkin'-" Considering how long it's taken for them to have this particular conversation. "-But we can figure that out. Even if that means we go on as we have been."

He had full confidence in that statement. Neither of them were stupid, just scared. Tim enjoyed being with him, he was sure of it but he wasn't going to push for something that Tim didn't want.

No, Raylan's certainly right about that. Neither of them are very good at talking. Not only is it a small miracle that this conversation is even happening, it's a smaller miracle that it's going so damn well. It'd be different if they were back home, he thinks. He would've spooked by now. Shut it down long, long before this, went back to the safety of one night stands and nameless faces.

Things are irrevocably different here. Here, where forces both natural and supernatural are trying to kill them at every turn. Their jobs aren't here to complicate things, and without that, Tim doesn't really have much to lose. Not even Raylan, truthfully. Even if this doesn't work out for some reason, he doesn't think it's possible for it to cause enough of a rift for them to not have each other's backs as long as they're both here.

It seems like a lot of security to have in something that doesn't even exist at home. Who knows if it ever could, but they've been dealt a new hand, and this is just making the best of it.

Tim sighs, shrugging his shoulders in a very nonchalant way, because, well-- it's how they've been having this whole conversation, as scary as it is. Making it easy even when it's not. It's like Raylan said -- they'll figure it out.

"Well," he says, and there's a faint smirk pulling at his lips as he tips his head. "Are we supposed to kiss on it or somethin'?"

Some part of him felt like Tim deserved something more extravagant for a declaration. Something more romantic then them just sitting in front of a fire, something more elaborate and sure then Raylan's soft considerations that gave Tim plenty of room to run if he wanted to. He wanted to blow Tim away in the same way the realization of depth of feeling had hit him. Something that actually took the man's breath away.

He'd have to think on that.

For now, he just flashes a grin at his capital P partner.

"There aren't any rules 'sides the ones we make darlin'. But if you're offerin'-" The grin spread. "Does this mean I get to introduce you as my boyfriend?"

He didn't think that Tim would have a problem with that, but he couldn't help but think of Bigby and his objections to anything close to that label.

"Jesus," Tim says, but it's with a quiet laugh. That's what they are -- boyfriends. Capital P Partners. It's weird, because they've been sleeping together with increasing regularity for months, sharing these vulnerably tender moments in between, but it's the labels that make Tim feel like they're officially crossing some sort of line.

It's their ballpark, though. Outside the confines of their lives back home, the shared profession that makes it all complicated and messy. There aren't any rules, just like Raylan says, and maybe they should eventually talk about what does happen if or when they ever make it home and there are rules again--

But not right now. Not anytime soon. One miraculously had conversation at a time.

"Yeah," he says, mouth twisting a bit as he attempts to smother a smile before giving up and letting it happen, because he's starting to feel warm from the whiskey and at some point, his free hand found it's way to resting on Raylan's bicep across the back of the couch. "I think I'd like those braggin' rights."

It feels like a coveted spot, being Raylan's Partner. Being with someone so obnoxiously charming and stunningly handsome. Loyal and protective and fierce. Tim spent a couple of years watching a string of pretty blonde women worm their way into the position he's now occupying, and now that he's here-- it almost doesn't feel real.

"You know I don't care who knows," Tim says. "So however you wanna handle tellin' other people, I'll follow your lead."

It was a decidedly good look on Tim, that softness that was settling into Tim's eyes to match some of the ease doing the same. Raylan shifts his arm fully down onto Tim's shoulders, easy himself now that it was all in the clear. Those blurred lines served them and would probably continue to do so but he was sure they could handle it.

Even if they had to argue a little, something he knew was going to be a rough time for both of them - right now everything felt shiny bright. His proud grin felt too wide for his face, probably bordering on stupid. This wasn't home. They weren't going to have to go fifty miles out of the way of anywhere to go on a date, or worry about someone coming down on them for being out of the textbook ordinary.

"I don't know that anyone wouldn't figure it out, just to look at us. If they figure it out, they figure it out. I don't want us to hide. We don't deserve shoulderin' anymore of that then we already have."

His free hand, glass set somewhere smoothly out of the way, comes up to catch Tim's chin as he leans in.

"Only matters what you think, anyway," he husks before kissing Tim soundly.

That arm settles over his shoulders, warm and secure, solidifying everything along with it. It feels right. Like this is where they were supposed to end up. Not on this particular couch in fucking Canada, but together. As if maybe they would've eventually ended up here if they were still at home.

It's impossible to say, and it doesn't matter anyway. This is where they are, and here, Raylan has decided he doesn't care who knows. Tim would've been fine keeping it under wraps -- he understands the intricacies of masculinity and sexuality, navigating judgement and ridicule. Tim was in the military while Don't Ask Don't Tell was alive and well -- once he was no longer serving, he decided he didn't give a shit who knew. If somebody wanted to have a problem with it, they could get their ass kicked by a gay guy. And that's exactly what's happened on more than one occasion.

He doesn't get the feeling it's going to happen here. Interlopers have a lot more important shit to worry about than who either of them are fucking or dating. He could've kept the secret, but he's glad he doesn't have to. That he doesn't have to stop himself from standing too close or touching too long. They don't have to hide the sliver of happiness they've found in this hell hole.

Tim's smiling faintly, leaning in as soon as Raylan's fingers are on his chin, their lips brushing almost before the final words can leave his partner's mouth. Reaching blindly, he sets his glass behind him on the side table, leaving his hand free to slide into Raylan's hair as they kiss. He can taste the whiskey, feel the sparks of desire, a bit pushy in the way he tips his head to deepen the kiss.

This is his now. He wants as much of it as he can get.

One thing is for sure - if Raylan had known how Tim felt at home, their stake outs and late nights might have been much different. Thankfully, he wasn't the kind of man to focus on those kinds of what ifs. The only time they had now was here. If they made it home, then they could maybe steal more. He hoped they could, and damn what Winona would think. God, even worse, what her mother would think. Raylan firmly pushes those thoughts away - they'd stolen plenty of his joy already.

There was always going to be a deep, jaded part of him that will expect trouble for this choice. It felt like the way of life, here or there, and under the wild nerves about how people would take the news, he was equally excited. Tim had spent his adult life proud about it, if not loud for socially understandable reasons, but Raylan hadn't gotten a chance to feel that. Save for once or twice, and twenty years prior stops counting after a while.

And now that didn't matter either, because Tim had his fingers in his hair and was inviting him to more - an invitation he was more than happy to accept as his hand leaves Tim's chin and slides around his waist, fingers lightly pressing in suggestion that Tim shift just a little so Raylan could pull him into his lap. He had less than zero arguments about cementing this all for them by wrapping around Tim and making him breathless and eager. By proving all over again that he wanted Tim, exactly how he was, however he was.

There's still a lot of questions, a lot of What Ifs, a lot of uncertainty -- but none of it matters in this very moment. With Raylan's hand moving to his waist, the taste of whiskey on his partner's -- his boyfriend's -- tongue when lips part beneath his own, it's becoming increasingly difficult to care about anything else.

Including the food simmering away over the fire, which he'll have to attend to at some point. But not right now. Tim shifts his weight, allowing Raylan to tug him into his lap. It's a joint effort, Tim swinging his leg over to straddle Raylan's lap comfortably. Not the first time they've been in this position at this point, but now Tim feels wholly like he belongs here, officially, and God does that feel good.

Absolutely nothing is going to ruin at least the next few hours for him, but if he gets his way, they won't be getting much sleep tonight. The hand in Raylan's hair stays, fingers lacing through the strands as they kiss for a few moments longer. When Tim draws back, he can't help the grin that slips easily onto his face.

"When's the last time we pulled an all-nighter together?"

Summer of where the hell are we

wildcard; at home

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Shall we let this one fade off to make room for new?

yesssss the ye old fade to black