DON'T BE AN ASSHOLE.

He doesn’t look all that imposing, but Ruth can tell a lawman from a hundred paces, so when one of the girls comes to tell her he wants to speak to whoever’s in charge, she has a moment to let herself be idly, carefully nervous, before she clears it away, gets up and heads out front. He’s paying her very little mind, which is just fine. Gives her an advantage.

‘Think I preferred it less aerated,’ he’s looking at the hat that had dropped into his hands, ‘then again, could’ve been an inch lower.’ What he knows about Marshal Gutterson could fill a mug without spilling, the one thing he knew hasn’t exactly been proven yet and he’s not sure if he wants to see it. Arthur puts his hands up in innocence, hat hooked on one thumb by the bullethole. Every pretence of going along with Tim. 

Tim still hasn’t lowered his gun, because he’s not stupid, and a gun isn’t the kind of thing you lower. It’s the kind of thing you put away, once the threat has been diminished.

Ben told her there was a marshal on the plane, but not that it was Raylan. Just a marshal, who’d been shepherding Austen back to Los Angeles. Not that Ben knows Raylan means anything to her, she’d almost half convinced herself the first time she saw him as she’d approached the beach with Jack, but the closer she got to him, the more she’d been sure: of course Ben knows, because Ben knows everything. He knew about Goodwin, and he knew about her sister, and he knew about her, and he knows exactly which strings to pull to make her dance like a marionette.

But that’s irrelevant right now, mostly, enough that Juliet can forget about Ben for now. There are any number of suspicious stares being levelled at her, but she’d expected that. What she hadn’t expected was Raylan.

He’s not with the swathes of people running to embrace Jack after all this time away, kidnapped by the Others. Juliet eases around them and aims for him, feet steady in the sand. Either he hasn’t noticed the new arrivals or he has and doesn’t care, but she has to touch his arm to get his attention.

“This is totally fucking unnecessary, by the way. I have, like, my own bodyguard. Like, he’s on the payroll. He’s over there, look, see? His name is – well, to be perfectly honest with you, I don’t fucking remember his name, but then I don’t remember yours, so. Is that what socialism is? Anyway, I think he’s into cuckolding, which is presumably why he’s letting you guard my body right now. He just has the vibe of a beta cuck. You know what I mean? You totally know what I mean, look at you.”

Roman cranes his neck up.

‘ i told you i do work on cars, right? the guy who wants me to work on his car, the reason why i’m here, must’ve given me the wrong address to his vehicle – his ford explorer – or google maps really fucked up.’ he tries to look hapless, sheepish even, pulling out all the stops just short of batting his eyelashes to sell what is a really shitty lie. even so, even under gene’s instruction, it’s not good enough to buy. tim will know he’s lying, but maybe that’s not the worst thing in the world. better for tim to let barry’s skeletons out of the closet while his own back is turned, seeing the look of disappointment firsthand would- well, it wouldn’t be great for his brittle self esteem. 

with every passing minute he readjusts his seat, crossing his legs under the dashboard, uncrossing them, leaning pensively towards the window, leaning reluctantly in towards tim. what a stupid idea to come here in the first place, to plan a hit around a vacation that’s planned around rekindling an old old (missing adjective) interest. it was probably one sided back when it started, something borne out of necessity and tons of testosterone. whatever, stupid thought, can’t go down that hole now, it became too late to start regretting things when he crossed state lines. 

‘ i hope i didn’t like, get you in trouble. you were just on my mind because you’re the only person i actually know here. the car guy doesn’t really count since he’s obviously an irresponsible douche. ’ 

Tim’s pretty good at being able to tell when people are lying to him. He’s always been okay at it, but being a marshal has forced him to kind of hone the skill. For a second he feels bad about testing Barry like he’s a common fugitive, but just for a second. Usually people who think they’re good liars fall flat in one area, and Barry’s is that he just dropped way too much information in one go. The Ford Explorer. His lips tug into a flat line, tight at the corners, and he sighs imperceptibly through his nose.

Looking at Barry in the rearview is easier than looking at him head on, because he’d have to turn his head and that’s not safe, and also with the boundary of a mirror between them, that feels like more space than there actually is. His brows knit inwards. “Obviously,” he says after a pause that feels too long, but warranted. The too-long-ness is character building, or something. Tim’s good at long silences. His whole life is a lot of long silences, with moments of noise in between. Barry is a heavy decibel spike. “It’s cool, man. I called in a favour.”

he pinches the collar of his shirt self-consciously, pulls it out for a look from which he gains absolutely nothing, and lets it fall back against his chest. if it’s a real compliment, if he could confidently tell, he’d go right home and order three more in incrementally muted colors.

‘ do you mean it? ’  did she? does she?  

‘ – what were you saying before that? you were doing sort of a ferris bueller thing off to the side and it got totally lost with all the noise. was it supposed to be a ferris bueller thing? i love that movie. i really resonate with ferris. ’ he’s obviously a cam. 

The safest option here is to just ignore all that other stuff and move swiftly on. “Of course I meant it. You think I’d lie to you? To your face? About your top? It’s a nice top.”

Barry’s a total sadsack. You just get this energy off him, like he’s never gonna be happy. And god, that’s so hopelessly fucking tragic to even think about for another person, but it’s making me feel better just sitting next to him, cos I feel like I have more of a chance now.

Not with him. With – being happy. God that’s depressing. Although, you know what, he’s tall, he’s got arms, he’s got a jawline, he’s got a not-unsubstantial arse. Potential rebound?

“That top looks nice on you.”

@dbaa

It’s silly, but that spot there is how You leak through. And. I don’t know why I’m telling You this like You don’t already know. You know. I know You know. You listen in. You can’t help it. Father Patrick couldn’t either. That spot there is, it’s one of those whisper galleries. So, you stand there and you hear all the prayers of the people in the front pews. Father Patrick used it for heresy. He fancied himself a bit of a prophet. When the old ladies knelt for prayers, he’d go stand in that spot. And sure enough, he’d hear them and their old, frail voices and he’d tell them their prayers have been heard by You through him. He might’ve been senile, by that point, and not’ve known. I’m not trying to place judgement. That’s Your job. It’s not divine to hear prayers, it’s easy, it’s gospel gossip. Anything is a prayer if you listen closely enough. It’s the answer, I believe, is what You want from us. I want to show her that. And, yeah, sure, it’s a cool fucking trick. I want to impress her. Is that so bad? I rest my hands on her shoulders and orient her onto the spot.

          “Stand there.”

I’m smiling, and I know I’m smiling, stupid-smiling that makes me look stupid and feel stupid, but I don’t actually feel all that stupid around him, so that cancels it out. I’m just thinking my cro-magnon thoughts about his arms and his neck and his bum – god, his bum though – and that’s alright for now.

You know when you’re bigger than you were when you were little, but not properly big yet, and you start to really care about how you’re smiling in pictures, cos it’s starting to look weird? So you ask someone – I asked mum – and they tell you to use less teeth, and also to press your tongue against the back of your front teeth because that makes it look natural. And then you start looking at pictures of yourself doing that no-teeth-tongue-press smile and you start to think to yourself, God, is that really what I look like?