It's not an uncommon issue. Hell, everyone at work more-or-less speculates he has PTSD, and it's probably not going away any time soon. But it's not always an issue for Tim. He's good at compartmentalizing (not recommended), after all, and work helps. Even paperwork is good at distracting him, giving him something else to focus on and put his energy into and he doesn't think much else of other things.
It's after work hours that it creeps up on him, like it does with so many others.
Sometimes, it's something that happened during the day. It's not even the shooting or the guns. Sometimes it's something as simple as one of the hills reminds him of a hill he'd hunkered down on, or something on the news brings him back to a memory he'd forgotten he has. Usually that's when the drinking comes into play (also not recommended). The way Tim sees it, he can drink himself to a point of numbness without hitting total drunkenness and maybe if he's lucky he can fall asleep without seeing anything behind his closed eyes. Generally he copes just fine.
Generally.
On the rare occasion, the rising anxiety won't dissipate. He's called Rachel before but he hates to bother her. He hates to bother anyone about it, if he's being honest, and he knows if he keeps going to her that she's going to say something to Art. It'd be well-intentioned, sure, but he'd still be in for a psych evaluation and paid time off.
Tonight when it hits him hard, Tim tries to just soldier through it. Tries, except that before he really realizes it, he's half a bottle in and Raylan's number is punched into his phone and it's ringing before he thinks to hang up. Stupid, of course. As if Raylan's not going to call back. As if Raylan's not going to come running if he doesn't answer when he calls back. Letting out a huff of a breath, Tim calls Raylan again, intending to play it off as an accidental call.
Raylan's phone rung and, despite it being in the later hours and himself 3 beers and a few long sips into his own various bottles, he was still up and sitting on his shitty little porch looking into his shitty little parking lot thinking over shitty criminals they were chasing. So he looked at the caller ID and frowned when the screen went dark before the third ring.
It was better that Tim called him back because he was already in the middle of dialing the number, brow knitted in concern. Tim didn't call unless he was in trouble - neither of them were really the 'shoot the shit' kinda guys when work was all said and behind them for a day, so he took this kind of stuff seriously. None of them really knew what Tim got up to outside of work anyway, and who was to say he wasn't out chasing assholes in a not so dissimilar way to how Raylan spends some of his nights.
"Tim," he greets, that thread of concern woven into his tone. "Odd hour for you to be callin' - everythin' alright?"
He expected a call to action or something. People didn't call him this late unless there was trouble.
Tim pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out the best way to effectively bullshit Raylan while he feels like he's on the edge of a full-blown panic attack or something like it.
"Yeah. You know how it is, tryin' to fix up a late night snack and looking at something on your phone, not enough hands and something drops." He exhales, breath shaking a little despite himself. "Anyway, you're my last outgoin' call and I pressed your name when I fumbled it. Figured I'd give you call back to explain, save you havin' to put on your hat."
The thing about working with a man as long as Tim and Raylan had been working together was that Raylan could still hear Something. Something that made his flags raise. Normally, that means a man with a gun or a threat, but if there was one person capable of taking care of themselves in such way, it was Tim Gutterson. What he was hearing wasn't the speech of someone being held at gunpoint, he was still hearing Something.
"That excuse work on anyone?" he asks with a hint of levity in his tone as he pushes to his feet.
They all knew that Tim had.. struggles. Specific Service Related struggles, but Tim showed up, kept his cool, and was all in all a reliable man to have at your side. No one dug; it felt unkind. But Raylan knew Tim called Rachel now and then when he was feeling.. Overwhelmed, was the word Rachel had used and Raylan hadn't prodded.
"You know I can smell bullshit over the phone, right?" He let a beat pass. "What's up Tim?"
"Guess I was hoping you'd think my bullshit was a little more believable, all things considered."
It had been a long shot. Tim would've been surprised if it had worked, honestly. And now ... What? He shifts his weight, one foot to the other as he stands in his apartment kitchen.
"Look, I really do mean it when I say I didn't mean to call you. Guess I did it before I realized what I was even doin'."
"Mm, can't be helped that I'm a professional." It was only half a joke - he'd listened to a lotta bullshit over the phone. They all had.
"Sounds to me then, like you got somethin' on your mind you're lookin to kick around a little." He was emotionally intelligent enough to leave the door open for a guy like Tim, not assume anything, and not near dumb enough to ignore the brain moving on automatic.
Tim glances around his place, doing his best to keep his breathing even and slow.
"You're not running around Harlan shootin' people up, are you? Cause I got a bottle of some of the good stuff I probably shouldn't be finishin' by myself right now. If you're free."
"Just so happens that I took the night off from Harlan. Otherwise I'm never gonna get that dust outta my hair." And Raylan put too much product into his hair in the morning for anyone to think he was a little vain about it.
"You got a couch that'll hold a body without killin me? Finishin' a bottle means I probably shouldn't drive back."
He was already slipping into his room and tugging on his jacket and slipping on his hat. Of course he'd come over and sit with Tim. He liked Tim. He sympathized with the shit men came home with from war; he'd seen plenty of veterans, was raised by one. And not everyone was Arlo and Tim deserved the kind of backup that Raylan knew the sniper provided at the local VA club.
"Hasn't killed me yet. Might have to dangle your legs over the side to fit, though."
Through the embarrassment that comes with asking for Raylan to come sit with him, Tim's a little relieved. Not that he's afraid he's gonna go do something stupid, he has better faith in himself than that, he just doesn't care much for going through the misery when he's left alone like this. Worst case, Raylan's gonna be asking him how he's doing a little more often. Tim thinks he can handle that.
"Hey, look. When you get here, don't ... Don't use the intercom, all right? Just text me to let me know you're here and I'll dial you in. The buzzer's probably gonna set me off a bit."
Sliding into his car, the familiar ding ding ding coming in faintly over the line, Raylan turns the engine over.
"I've squeezed into tighter places. It'll be more than serviceable. But I'll send you a message when I get there. Maybe.. fifteen or so minutes."
They ended the call and Raylan pulls out of the lot. He knew where Tim lived, had looked it up before on a long stretching day where the sniper was less than idly playing through his mind, though he'd never admit such a thing. He knew Lexington well enough to know how to get around. Tim's place wasn't hard to find.
Tim's phone lights up about nine minutes later. Knock knock, Avon Calling.
Tim presses the button on his intercom to let Raylan into the building, which is a newer building all things considered but not all that fancy. He's still too early in his marshal career to have much of a fancy salary, and, besides, he's not exactly the sort to go in for luxury. So long as he has a bedroom and a roof over his head and plumbing and an air conditioner, he's just fine.
He's waiting in his doorway, leaning against the doorframe when the elevator opens to let Raylan on to his floor. He'd look like his usual nonchalant self if it wasn't for the way his foot was tapping a little too quickly.
"How many red lights you run to get here this fast?"
He'd seen worse. Hell, some could argue he lived in worse, but that was neither here nor there. What mattered was Tim standing there looking a little wild and tight. Raylan was glad he'd called.
He kept it light- badumtish- "Only the ones that didn't have a local with a radar gun on it." A bit of a grin is offered as he comes down the hall. "No one's out this late, not really. And what're they gonna do if they pull me over? Arrest me?"
He scoffs jokingly as he comes to a stop in front of the door, ready to step in as Tim steps out of his way.
"You gonna believe me if I say you rushin' over here so fast is what has me all flush and a little faint?"
Now that Raylan's up close and personal, there's no hiding that Tim looks like he's overheating. It's probably why he's got the AC blasting in his apartment, which he motions for Raylan to head into before following and closing the door. Much like the rest of the building, it's nice but nothing overdone. Nicer than the digs Raylan keeps, but that's a low bar.
"Bottle's on the counter. Glasses are ... Above the counter in the cupboard, let me grab some."
Later, tomorrow probably, he'll think about the fact that Raylan's in his apartment. This probably makes them proper acquaintances, though Lord knows they've spent plenty enough time together thanks to work. Lord also knows he's entertained the thought of Raylan being over once or twice, under different circumstances.
"That one I'll let you have." Mainly because it sounded rather good coming from the smaller man. There was no doubt that Tim had already been drinking and none in Raylan's own consumption. He shouldn't really have driven, but he was old and tempered enough that he could and mostly safely so. He was tipsy enough to drop a wink in on it as he slides in.
It didn't hurt that Tim looked just as good dressed the way he was, all comfortable and at Home. Raylan knew he wasn't supposed to notice.
He ambles over to the counter and turns the label his way, pausing only long enough to take off his hat and set it on the counter, brim up thank you very much, and reads it as Tim gets the glasses.
"Not bad. You could do a lot worse in whiskey choice," he praises, cracking it open and watching Tim with a careful but casual eye. He'd never seen this side of the sniper but he didn't want to misstep and make the situation worse.
"I just save that for company. You think I can afford to be drinkin' that daily?"
Though considering the bottle's got a reasonable dent in it, Tim hadn't waited for someone else to be there before getting into it.
This is good, he thinks. The banter is familiar. It gives him something to focus on, and Raylan's got that good southern drawl that sounds real nice. It doesn't do much to keep his hand from shaking, making the glass tumblers clink together a bit as he grabs them down.
"If I pour, more's gonna end up on the counter than in these glasses."
"Depends on how much of a bread diet you're into."
Raylan taps the counter with his finger. Set 'em down, Tim. He pours them each two fingers and nudges Tim's glass towards him as he collects his own, eyes raking back over Tim's face thoughtfully.
"You wanna talk about what's goin' on in that head of yours?"
He didn't know the protocol or what worked best for Tim, but he was willing to learn and adjust as necessary.
Tim knocks the whiskey back, lets the burn work its way down his throat. He fixes his gaze on the counter top for a long moment, then reaches up a hand to rub the back of his neck.
"I was just watchin' the late news like I always do, and there was a story about some college group doin' ... Something. I don't know, by the point I wasn't payin' much attention, but, uh. This one guy looked a lot like a kid I served with back when I was just a kid. Next thing I know I might as well be back in a fox hole learnin' what real explosions sound like."
He knows he doesn't have to give Raylan any details at all. He's surprised by the fact that he sort of wants to, and not surprised by the fact that he feels it's the least he can do considering he interrupted Raylan's night.
"They say talkin' to someone helps circumvent the panic attack from settin' in."
Raylan lets a few beats settle between them before he grabs the bottle, straightens and jerks his head towards Tim's couch. If Tim had told him no, that he didn't want to talk about it, that would have been fine. The fact that Tim didn't go that route was.. Well, Good. Heartening. Warming in its own way that Tim would trust him with that kind of thing.
"Let's go get comfortable, huh?"
He leads the way, dropping himself down into a corner of Tim's couch and once Tim joins him, he pours the man another drink.
"So that's why no buzzer. It happen like that? In a snap? Any.. lead up? The job we do ain't the easiest, once everyone's gone and the lights are off."
Getting comfortable, he means. He's teasing. Mostly. No one in their right mind is ever going to say no if Raylan Givens wants to get cozy on a couch together.
Tim follows, and this time he only takes a sip of his drink - a generous one, but just a sip - rather than downing it in one go. When he talks, his speech is quicker than usual, tone a bit excited thanks to the creeping anxiety that refuses to simmer down.
"Guess it's sort of always there. I wasn't lyin' when I said ranger school fixed me to be an early riser, but I don't sleep all that well to begin with. No tellin' what it's gonna be that triggers it, though. Some guys, they hear a car backfire or they see war on the news, that's about all it takes. Maybe it says too much about me that when we've got guns goin' off every which way and I'm starin' a man down the end of my own, everything else sort of ... Clicks off. Then it's done, everything clicks on again and I'm not much bothered by what we just did."
"Nah. I don't think it says anythin' about you other than you've got the tools to do the job. Makes you good at it without you havin' to be in that kinda war zone."
Raylan could see how anxious and tight Tim was. Normally, Tim was a guy who leaned back more easily, spread out like a pad of butter doing it's best to melt in the summer sun, but tonight was different. Tim looked a bit like a loud sound was going to launch him off the couch like a wound up cat.
"Then again, one could argue that I ain't the.. best to be talkin' on it. Considering." Considering how many men Raylan put down without any issue about it. "It's better that you function this way. Save all the fractures and everythin' for when your life isn't in danger.. You ever thought about goin' on one of those.. Those Silent retreat things? See if that gives your body a chance to relax, where you're just up in the hills with some guru tellin' you to breathe? Hellva way to get away from all-" He gestures at the apartment and the noises, the backfiring cars on the street, the noise Tim must hear from his neighbors.
"Unless it'd make things worse." And if that was the case, you just pretend Raylan didn't say anything at all. But he was, in his heart, a Fixer. A man who wanted to Fix what he could, as much as he could because there was so much that none of them could ever really help.
"Tell me honestly, Raylan, you think you can see me up in the mountains doin' yoga?"
At the very least, it gets a sort of laugh out of Tim. A nervous one, but a laugh all the same. He takes another sip of his whiskey and leans over a bit, as if he's about to tell Raylan some sort of secret. Hell, he hopes Raylan doesn't expect him to be this chatty all the time now. Something about feeling so jittery makes him feel like he has to talk.
"There's a reason I don't take vacation until they force me to. I need somethin' to do, somethin' more than twisting myself up to relax."
Raylan smirk crookedly, lips curling almost mischievously at the edges. "Only if you're wearin' those yoga pants that all the ladies are screamin' about. Make a hellva image with those legs of yours."
He can't help but lean in a little himself, ready to hear whatever secret Tim was going to spill and hums with a little bob of his head and lift of his eyebrows.
"I can't say I don't understand that one." For different, but similiar reasons. "And unfortunately, there's no assholes to be chasin' around this time of night." And all of Raylan's other suggestions were.. More than Unprofessional. "Guess that leaves drinkin' and shootin' the shit, doesn't it."
"See now, I thought I've caught you checkin' me out once or twice."
And that's not a joke. It's not his fault he's trained to be observant, after all, though he has to give Raylan kudos for being pretty subtle about it. He's still going to let Raylan think it's a joke if he wants to, though.
Sitting back, Tim runs a hand down his face and looks up at the ceiling. His finger taps against the side of his glass as his legs bounce a little.
"What's a fun fact about Raylan, then? Before I go oversharin' and you know my life story."
He was tipsy enough to not argue with it, joke or not. Tim wasn't an unattractive man and those trousers and jeans the man wore fit very nicely. Instead, he shrugs with his face, head bobbing as he keeps his mouth busy with a sip of his whiskey.
"I was on a swim team in collage," he offers with a look over. "We didn't go to Nationals or get any medals or anythin' like that, but.. Made the physical for the Marshal's service a hellva lot easier, in hindsight. Though I'm sure you flew threw it. Bet it ain't shit compared to the military."
He glances over at Raylan. Tim doesn't need to assess him. He's done it plenty of times, but he can see how Raylan would fall into swimming. Broad shoulders, strong arms.
"We'd do water survival training in ranger school. Swimming around in full gear, weapons and all. The swim test was one of the few tests not timed, just a hard pass or fail. I hated every meter of it."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@ figmented;
It's after work hours that it creeps up on him, like it does with so many others.
Sometimes, it's something that happened during the day. It's not even the shooting or the guns. Sometimes it's something as simple as one of the hills reminds him of a hill he'd hunkered down on, or something on the news brings him back to a memory he'd forgotten he has. Usually that's when the drinking comes into play (also not recommended). The way Tim sees it, he can drink himself to a point of numbness without hitting total drunkenness and maybe if he's lucky he can fall asleep without seeing anything behind his closed eyes. Generally he copes just fine.
Generally.
On the rare occasion, the rising anxiety won't dissipate. He's called Rachel before but he hates to bother her. He hates to bother anyone about it, if he's being honest, and he knows if he keeps going to her that she's going to say something to Art. It'd be well-intentioned, sure, but he'd still be in for a psych evaluation and paid time off.
Tonight when it hits him hard, Tim tries to just soldier through it. Tries, except that before he really realizes it, he's half a bottle in and Raylan's number is punched into his phone and it's ringing before he thinks to hang up. Stupid, of course. As if Raylan's not going to call back. As if Raylan's not going to come running if he doesn't answer when he calls back. Letting out a huff of a breath, Tim calls Raylan again, intending to play it off as an accidental call.
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It was better that Tim called him back because he was already in the middle of dialing the number, brow knitted in concern. Tim didn't call unless he was in trouble - neither of them were really the 'shoot the shit' kinda guys when work was all said and behind them for a day, so he took this kind of stuff seriously. None of them really knew what Tim got up to outside of work anyway, and who was to say he wasn't out chasing assholes in a not so dissimilar way to how Raylan spends some of his nights.
"Tim," he greets, that thread of concern woven into his tone. "Odd hour for you to be callin' - everythin' alright?"
He expected a call to action or something. People didn't call him this late unless there was trouble.
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Tim pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out the best way to effectively bullshit Raylan while he feels like he's on the edge of a full-blown panic attack or something like it.
"Yeah. You know how it is, tryin' to fix up a late night snack and looking at something on your phone, not enough hands and something drops." He exhales, breath shaking a little despite himself. "Anyway, you're my last outgoin' call and I pressed your name when I fumbled it. Figured I'd give you call back to explain, save you havin' to put on your hat."
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"That excuse work on anyone?" he asks with a hint of levity in his tone as he pushes to his feet.
They all knew that Tim had.. struggles. Specific Service Related struggles, but Tim showed up, kept his cool, and was all in all a reliable man to have at your side. No one dug; it felt unkind. But Raylan knew Tim called Rachel now and then when he was feeling.. Overwhelmed, was the word Rachel had used and Raylan hadn't prodded.
"You know I can smell bullshit over the phone, right?" He let a beat pass. "What's up Tim?"
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It had been a long shot. Tim would've been surprised if it had worked, honestly. And now ... What? He shifts his weight, one foot to the other as he stands in his apartment kitchen.
"Look, I really do mean it when I say I didn't mean to call you. Guess I did it before I realized what I was even doin'."
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"Sounds to me then, like you got somethin' on your mind you're lookin to kick around a little." He was emotionally intelligent enough to leave the door open for a guy like Tim, not assume anything, and not near dumb enough to ignore the brain moving on automatic.
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Tim glances around his place, doing his best to keep his breathing even and slow.
"You're not running around Harlan shootin' people up, are you? Cause I got a bottle of some of the good stuff I probably shouldn't be finishin' by myself right now. If you're free."
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"You got a couch that'll hold a body without killin me? Finishin' a bottle means I probably shouldn't drive back."
He was already slipping into his room and tugging on his jacket and slipping on his hat. Of course he'd come over and sit with Tim. He liked Tim. He sympathized with the shit men came home with from war; he'd seen plenty of veterans, was raised by one. And not everyone was Arlo and Tim deserved the kind of backup that Raylan knew the sniper provided at the local VA club.
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Through the embarrassment that comes with asking for Raylan to come sit with him, Tim's a little relieved. Not that he's afraid he's gonna go do something stupid, he has better faith in himself than that, he just doesn't care much for going through the misery when he's left alone like this. Worst case, Raylan's gonna be asking him how he's doing a little more often. Tim thinks he can handle that.
"Hey, look. When you get here, don't ... Don't use the intercom, all right? Just text me to let me know you're here and I'll dial you in. The buzzer's probably gonna set me off a bit."
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"I've squeezed into tighter places. It'll be more than serviceable. But I'll send you a message when I get there. Maybe.. fifteen or so minutes."
They ended the call and Raylan pulls out of the lot. He knew where Tim lived, had looked it up before on a long stretching day where the sniper was less than idly playing through his mind, though he'd never admit such a thing. He knew Lexington well enough to know how to get around. Tim's place wasn't hard to find.
Tim's phone lights up about nine minutes later. Knock knock, Avon Calling.
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He's waiting in his doorway, leaning against the doorframe when the elevator opens to let Raylan on to his floor. He'd look like his usual nonchalant self if it wasn't for the way his foot was tapping a little too quickly.
"How many red lights you run to get here this fast?"
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He kept it light- badumtish- "Only the ones that didn't have a local with a radar gun on it." A bit of a grin is offered as he comes down the hall. "No one's out this late, not really. And what're they gonna do if they pull me over? Arrest me?"
He scoffs jokingly as he comes to a stop in front of the door, ready to step in as Tim steps out of his way.
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Now that Raylan's up close and personal, there's no hiding that Tim looks like he's overheating. It's probably why he's got the AC blasting in his apartment, which he motions for Raylan to head into before following and closing the door. Much like the rest of the building, it's nice but nothing overdone. Nicer than the digs Raylan keeps, but that's a low bar.
"Bottle's on the counter. Glasses are ... Above the counter in the cupboard, let me grab some."
Later, tomorrow probably, he'll think about the fact that Raylan's in his apartment. This probably makes them proper acquaintances, though Lord knows they've spent plenty enough time together thanks to work. Lord also knows he's entertained the thought of Raylan being over once or twice, under different circumstances.
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It didn't hurt that Tim looked just as good dressed the way he was, all comfortable and at Home. Raylan knew he wasn't supposed to notice.
He ambles over to the counter and turns the label his way, pausing only long enough to take off his hat and set it on the counter, brim up thank you very much, and reads it as Tim gets the glasses.
"Not bad. You could do a lot worse in whiskey choice," he praises, cracking it open and watching Tim with a careful but casual eye. He'd never seen this side of the sniper but he didn't want to misstep and make the situation worse.
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Though considering the bottle's got a reasonable dent in it, Tim hadn't waited for someone else to be there before getting into it.
This is good, he thinks. The banter is familiar. It gives him something to focus on, and Raylan's got that good southern drawl that sounds real nice. It doesn't do much to keep his hand from shaking, making the glass tumblers clink together a bit as he grabs them down.
"If I pour, more's gonna end up on the counter than in these glasses."
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Raylan taps the counter with his finger. Set 'em down, Tim. He pours them each two fingers and nudges Tim's glass towards him as he collects his own, eyes raking back over Tim's face thoughtfully.
"You wanna talk about what's goin' on in that head of yours?"
He didn't know the protocol or what worked best for Tim, but he was willing to learn and adjust as necessary.
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"I was just watchin' the late news like I always do, and there was a story about some college group doin' ... Something. I don't know, by the point I wasn't payin' much attention, but, uh. This one guy looked a lot like a kid I served with back when I was just a kid. Next thing I know I might as well be back in a fox hole learnin' what real explosions sound like."
He knows he doesn't have to give Raylan any details at all. He's surprised by the fact that he sort of wants to, and not surprised by the fact that he feels it's the least he can do considering he interrupted Raylan's night.
"They say talkin' to someone helps circumvent the panic attack from settin' in."
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"Let's go get comfortable, huh?"
He leads the way, dropping himself down into a corner of Tim's couch and once Tim joins him, he pours the man another drink.
"So that's why no buzzer. It happen like that? In a snap? Any.. lead up? The job we do ain't the easiest, once everyone's gone and the lights are off."
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Getting comfortable, he means. He's teasing. Mostly. No one in their right mind is ever going to say no if Raylan Givens wants to get cozy on a couch together.
Tim follows, and this time he only takes a sip of his drink - a generous one, but just a sip - rather than downing it in one go. When he talks, his speech is quicker than usual, tone a bit excited thanks to the creeping anxiety that refuses to simmer down.
"Guess it's sort of always there. I wasn't lyin' when I said ranger school fixed me to be an early riser, but I don't sleep all that well to begin with. No tellin' what it's gonna be that triggers it, though. Some guys, they hear a car backfire or they see war on the news, that's about all it takes. Maybe it says too much about me that when we've got guns goin' off every which way and I'm starin' a man down the end of my own, everything else sort of ... Clicks off. Then it's done, everything clicks on again and I'm not much bothered by what we just did."
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Raylan could see how anxious and tight Tim was. Normally, Tim was a guy who leaned back more easily, spread out like a pad of butter doing it's best to melt in the summer sun, but tonight was different. Tim looked a bit like a loud sound was going to launch him off the couch like a wound up cat.
"Then again, one could argue that I ain't the.. best to be talkin' on it. Considering." Considering how many men Raylan put down without any issue about it. "It's better that you function this way. Save all the fractures and everythin' for when your life isn't in danger.. You ever thought about goin' on one of those.. Those Silent retreat things? See if that gives your body a chance to relax, where you're just up in the hills with some guru tellin' you to breathe? Hellva way to get away from all-" He gestures at the apartment and the noises, the backfiring cars on the street, the noise Tim must hear from his neighbors.
"Unless it'd make things worse." And if that was the case, you just pretend Raylan didn't say anything at all. But he was, in his heart, a Fixer. A man who wanted to Fix what he could, as much as he could because there was so much that none of them could ever really help.
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At the very least, it gets a sort of laugh out of Tim. A nervous one, but a laugh all the same. He takes another sip of his whiskey and leans over a bit, as if he's about to tell Raylan some sort of secret. Hell, he hopes Raylan doesn't expect him to be this chatty all the time now. Something about feeling so jittery makes him feel like he has to talk.
"There's a reason I don't take vacation until they force me to. I need somethin' to do, somethin' more than twisting myself up to relax."
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He can't help but lean in a little himself, ready to hear whatever secret Tim was going to spill and hums with a little bob of his head and lift of his eyebrows.
"I can't say I don't understand that one." For different, but similiar reasons. "And unfortunately, there's no assholes to be chasin' around this time of night." And all of Raylan's other suggestions were.. More than Unprofessional. "Guess that leaves drinkin' and shootin' the shit, doesn't it."
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And that's not a joke. It's not his fault he's trained to be observant, after all, though he has to give Raylan kudos for being pretty subtle about it. He's still going to let Raylan think it's a joke if he wants to, though.
Sitting back, Tim runs a hand down his face and looks up at the ceiling. His finger taps against the side of his glass as his legs bounce a little.
"What's a fun fact about Raylan, then? Before I go oversharin' and you know my life story."
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"I was on a swim team in collage," he offers with a look over. "We didn't go to Nationals or get any medals or anythin' like that, but.. Made the physical for the Marshal's service a hellva lot easier, in hindsight. Though I'm sure you flew threw it. Bet it ain't shit compared to the military."
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He glances over at Raylan. Tim doesn't need to assess him. He's done it plenty of times, but he can see how Raylan would fall into swimming. Broad shoulders, strong arms.
"We'd do water survival training in ranger school. Swimming around in full gear, weapons and all. The swim test was one of the few tests not timed, just a hard pass or fail. I hated every meter of it."
He holds out his glass, looking for a refill.
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