AN: So I really enjoyed the most recent episode more than I have the majority of this season. The entire Art arc really took an interesting turn and I couldn't help but feel that there were several really great moments of insight into Tim's character as well as the dynamic of the team without Art there to support it. As someone who enjoys nuance I wanted to take a little detail and see if I could elaborate on it just to see where it went.

I'd love to hear your thoughts, and as always I own nothing about Justified and this fic is one of my own musings.

Enjoy!

~Voi

He hates hospitals.

Hates them with a passion he's not sure matches anything else he thinks about or does. It's the result of one too many military tours, the culmination of too many bedside moments that are followed by the unsettling beeping of machines that count down to zero never to start up again.

His brothers in the field.

His mother.

Since becoming a marshal he's only had to be there a handful of times, and all of them were dealt with in a few hours. But treating a nasty gunshot wound is one thing, eventually it heals itself. There is no healing the damage that time does at a hospital. It's the waiting, the watching, that threatens to unravel the careful shroud of control he wraps himself in every day.

Glancing at the man lying so quietly in the other room, Tim feels his chest and throat tighten to the point of near strangulation.

He doesn't want to be here. But there's no way he would leave Art either.

And because there's no real way to escape, his body finds an outlet for the stress.

His hands haven't stopped moving since he propped himself against the wall, fingers dancing, pressing unseen piano keys, twirling the invisible knife on his knuckles with practiced ease. Restless hands, his mother had said with a laugh as she sat him in front of their family instrument, nothing to do but find an outlet.

Fluttering in the gloom like pale birds in the night sky, he tries to remember the notes of his favorite song and gets only half way before it dissolves into chaotic nonsense.

Art is just on the other side of the wall, fighting for his life, possibly breathing his last. And Tim cannot think past this truth even as it threatens to undo the quiet he's barely managed to scrape together with that moment of memory, of music.

The issue of who is to blame, who is responsible, is what keeps his eyes trained on the door, watchful for the one Marshal he figures will understand.

Rachel is too by the book, but with Raylan…

He swallows hard and shifts himself so that he can better see through the glass that shows who is approaching the door from the other side.

Raylan is on his way with Leslie, Art's wife, but it's been nearly an hour and there's still no sign of them.

Restless hands.

He can remember the disproving look his instructors at training has passed him whenever it would happen. It didn't matter that he was a sharp shot; that he was the best damn trainee they'd had in years. It's why he'd started keeping a knife with him, it helped with focus.

He loathed discovering that such precious focus was hard to come by now.

Tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Tim forces himself to exhale slowly, inhaling with equally mindful control.

Inhale, exhale.

Once more, then again.

He looks up at the sounds of familiar voices and finds a small comfort in the familiar as Rachel looks up at him, though her expression lets him know she's about to ask him twenty or so questions.

"You doing ok?"

The lie is already on his lips before he has to think about it, "Yeah. Just waiting like the rest of 'em."

"You're looking a little pale, Tim."

Serious and to the point, she doesn't blink at his usual attempts of avoiding the question.

"Well hospital lights are notoriously uncomplimentary." He gestures up at the cold fluorescent, "No helping that unless you want to install some of those nice mood-lights they sell with the little dimming mechanism."

"Right."

He knows that look too, the one she gives him as she sighs and walks a little ways away, entirely unconvinced. But because they've long since accepted each other's eccentricities, and she has made her peace with what they both know is his load of bullshit, the moment is almost comfortable. And for a split second Tim can pretend they're back at the office rather than standing here.

It helps that Raylan shows up a moment later, and for the next few hours he can forget where he is as long as he talks about business.

But his hands don't quite ever stop, and even when he leaves the hospital, stepping into the chill of the evening, he finds himself unsettled.

The piano in his living room provides the outlet he needs. And despite the hour, the evening air fills readily enough with chords of music that help ease the tightness and the restlessness.

But it's a long time before he falls asleep.