Tim checked his watch every thirty seconds or so. His call to Art had been nearly fifteen minutes ago, and he wished for the chief to arrive soon.
Raylan had passed out a few minutes earlier, and Tim hadn't been able to wake him up again. It was the loss of blood, Tim was sure of it. It had simply become too much, making this situation even more dire than it already was.

Finally, a very welcome sound reached his ears: distant sirens wailing, their sound getting closer.
"Hold on, Raylan," Tim mumbled to his partner, even though he knew the words went unheard.
Now that help was so near, Tim felt his own nerves get out of control again. His hands started trembling, and his breaths were getting shaky and fast.
"Come on, hold it together!" He scolded himself.

The sirens from outside were real close now, and only seconds later Tim heard tires race over the gravel of the driveway. There were commands being called around, and the sounds of guns readying was unmistakable. Any second now…
The SWAT team entered the house with an enormous noise. There was a lot of yelling and running footsteps. Tim knew they were clearing the house, and it wouldn't be long before they would come upstairs to find Raylan and him.

"Tim?"

Art's voice reached Tim's ears before anyone had even gotten to the upstairs.
"Art, up here!" Tim yelled back, his voice cracking on the words.
Art came running up the stairs.
"Oh, my god…" His eyes found Raylan lying in a pool of his own blood, and Tim, who still had his hands pressed firmly into his partner's wound.
"Paramedics, up here!" Art yelled to the medical team standing by downstairs.

"Is he alive?" Art hunched on the floor next to Tim. The younger marshal nodded curtly in reply.
The lack of any verbal response made that Art had a good look at Tim. It didn't take him long to notice the trembling hands and, finally, the gunshot wound.
"Shit, Tim, you were hit as well?!" Art said incredulously.
"It's not much, don't worry about me," Tim grumbled.
"Yeah, well, I do," Art answered curtly.

More footsteps came up the stairs, revealing two paramedics carrying up a gurney.
"Let's give them some space to do their job." Art took Tim's elbow and tried to get him to stand up.
"No, no… I gotta keep pressure… the bleeding…" Tim rambled, reluctant to let go.
"Don't worry, we'll take it from here." One of the paramedics was kneeling on Raylan's other side, ready to take over the moment Tim would pull his hands away.
"Come on, son, it's alright," Art encouraged gently, "let them do their jobs."
Tim looked from Art to the paramedic, and slowly raised still trembling hands. He finally got grudgingly to his feet.

Art steered Tim away from Raylan and the paramedics, and sat him down a little further down the hallway. They both watched as the paramedics hooked Raylan up to a heart monitor, got an IV going, and applied a temporary pressure bandage to his abdomen. It was clear they were preparing for an emergency transport, and that an urgent surgery would be needed to remove the bullet and stop the bleeding.
Tim listened nervously to the rapid beeps of the heart monitor, indicating a too fast rhythm. He tried not to think about what this might mean.
The tremble in his hands had spread to the rest of his body now. The breaths he took seemed to get lost on the way to his lungs, making him feel choked up. His injured shoulder seared and throbbed painfully, raking up a lot of bad memories from the war.

The paramedics worked swiftly, wasting no time in getting Raylan to be transported to the hospital. It took them about twenty minutes before they believed his condition to be stable enough, and lifted him onto the gurney. They made sure Raylan was securely strapped in, and the IV-lines and wires were unobstructed.
"He'll be taken to Eastern State Hospital," one of the paramedics turned to Art.
"Alright, I'll be on your tail," Art answered, "say, you got room for one more?"
Art gave a careful nod in Tim's direction, who was sitting at his feet.
"I'm sorry, chief, not for another patient," the paramedic said apologetically.
"Don't sweat it, I'll take him myself," Art said.
The paramedics wheeled Raylan away and carefully carried the gurney down the stairs.
Art waited until the paramedics had cleared the stairs, before he turned to Tim.
"Come on, son." Art placed a light hand on Tim's uninjured shoulder, "we gotta get you to the hospital, too."
Again only that wordless nodd, so unlike Tim. The way he held himself and how he was acting, worried Art. Given Tim's war history and diagnosed PTSD, this could easily go the wrong way.
Tim moved as if in slow-motion, getting to his feet with seemingly a lot of effort.
Art watched with concern as Tim reached for the wall for support. The young marshal was swaying on his feet and visibly trembling all over.
"Come on." Art put an arm around Tim's waist to support him, and persuaded him to get moving.

It were baby steps, but Tim was moving. Without Art's support he definitely would not have gotten down the stairs. His legs had turned to Jello-O, and all his muscles seemed to have gone into a trembling frenzy. When they had cleared the final steps of the stairs, Art halted.
"You good?" He quietly asked.
"No, but let's keep going," Tim mumbled.
Art slowly moved again, but they were stopped before they could reach the front door.
"Chief, hold up!" It was the head of the forensics team.
Art looked over his shoulder. "Not now, this man needs to go to the hospital."
"Actually, I need a word with him," the forensics tech answered, "Deputy Gutterson, I need you to surrender the weapon you fired."
Once again only that wordless nodd. Tim reached for his sidearm and handed it over without protest.
"I fired once, the bullet should be in the perp's brain," he said emotionlessly.
"Thank you, Deputy," the forensics tech took over his gun.

Art steered Tim forward again, and moved him in the direction of his car. He gently sat Tim down in the passenger seat. The younger man immediately slouched down as low as he could go, put his feet up on the dashboard, and loosely crossed his arms over his chest.
"Here," Art threw a towel in Tim's lap, "press this against that wound of yours."
Tim reluctantly took it and held it lightly against his shoulder. A grimace of pain spread across his face.
Art closed the car door, and walked around to take up his seat behind the wheel.

The drive to the hospital took about twenty minutes. It was entirely spent in silence.
Art would occasionally cast a sideways glance at his colleague. Tim sat staring out in the distance, completely turned into himself. His hand holding the towel still rested against his shoulder, but applied no pressure at all. Sometimes he would close his eyes for half a minute. Several times Art believed Tim to have passed out, but when he looked to his side a minute later, Tim's eyes would be open again.

Art parked his car in front of the hospital in a hurry. He jumped out, and trotted around to the other side of the vehicle to help Tim out.
If Tim had been weak back at the house, he was even weaker now. Without Art's support he was not quite able to walk a straight line.
"Come on, easy, son," Art soothed, as he helped Tim up the entrance steps and into the waiting area of the hospital's emergency room.
Tim did not make any sound at all, even though he must be in considerable pain.

"Tim?" Art sat the younger man down on a chair in the waiting area.
"Hm…" Tim responded lethargically.
"I'm going to get you signed in and have a doctor look at you straight away," Art explained, "it may take a few minutes, but I'll be right there."
Art pointed over his shoulder to the admissions desk.
"Raylan?" Tim mumbled weakly.
"I'll see if I can get some information on him, too," Art answered, "I'll be right back."
Art walked over to the admissions desk on the other side of the waiting area, leaving Tim for just a few minutes.

But then, Tim broke…

Thanks again for reading :-) Next chapter will be up asap.