Author's Note: Don't own them, yada, yada. For deanangst, thanks for the support. You know they'll never tell us what happened...

Dog Day Afternoon Morning

"No."

"Tim, down. Now."

"No." He spoke calmly, body still, hands steady and wrapped loosely around his gun, but his eyes were at odds with the rest of him – there was evidence of disquiet, of fear in them.

Raylan squinted up at his partner standing on the roof of his Lincoln then turned to look at the dog sitting equally still on the stoop of Dewey Crowe's house. The canine eyes too, seemed at odds with the animal's calm exterior – predatory, or at least that's what Raylan imagined he saw in them. He shook his head and looked again and this time he willed himself to see only a dog sitting contentedly in the morning sun. It didn't quite work. He cleared his throat.

"Tim, you're being ridiculous."

"No, I'm not. There are thirty deaths a year from dog attacks in this country, not that I'm laying any blame knowing how stupid people are. What's ridiculous is being afraid of snakes or wolves or coyotes – combined they hardly even count as a statistic annually for human deaths. This fear is logical. That fear is not – it's irrational." Tim's voice was surprisingly calm and even, or maybe just controlled.

Raylan checked his watch for the time. "We gotta go, Tim. That dog is just gonna sit there, I promise you. It's okay as long as we don't move toward the house. Come on down." He finished his coaxing speech, snapped closed the clip on his holster as a show of confidence and moved a step sideways from where he'd been standing since Danny Crowe left them there all together, the two Marshals and the dog. It was a cautious step since Raylan was still a bit wary of Chelsea despite his assurances to the contrary for Tim's sake. It was a step that Chelsea didn't like and he lifted his rear off the planking and bared his teeth in response. The low, rough growl that rolled past the sharp canines and across what seemed suddenly to be a pathetically tiny distance separating the dog from the Marshals made Raylan freeze, sent a tingling of panic up his pant legs. He stopped, smiled stiffly at the dog, put out a hand and said, "There, there. Easy now."

Tim wet his lips, a nervous gesture, a dry mouth, eyes still intent on the sharp teeth bared with the growl. "Are you talking to me or the dog?"

"Why don't you get down on the far side and get into the car and open my door for me."

"This is a rational fear, Raylan. I'm not getting down nearer to those teeth."

"You gonna stand up there all day?"

"If I have to. I got mad sniper skills, buddy. I can stand here for hours. I'll even take a piss from up here."

The stalemate dragged on. Raylan and Tim stared at Chelsea; Chelsea in turn watched them, slowly letting his hindquarters settle back on the stoop now that Raylan had stopped moving. He barked once, a reminder of what was what, and Raylan jumped.

"Shit."

"Raylan, how about if I just shoot him? I can do it from here, no problem."

"You'd probably just piss him off more, he looks tough enough to take a bullet and still pull your leg off. Besides, you and me'd be suspended. There'd likely be more hell to pay shooting someone's dog than shooting someone."

"And you're calling me ridiculous."

"Point taken. It's a ridiculous world. So get down – you're not gonna change it standing up there."

"No."

Raylan shifted slowly to a more comfortable stance and Chelsea was on his feet again, growling. "Down boy," Raylan soothed.

"I don't think your charm's working on him."

"Don't think I'll try flirting, either. He reminds me a little of the bouncer at the VFW in Harlan. Why don't you get down and show him your Veterans ID card."

"No. He'd likely take my hand with the card."

Raylan tempted fate with another step. The reaction was immediate – Chelsea barked and then started growling again, somehow a different tone to it, more threatening than before, and he moved, aggressive confidence, forward to the edge of the short drop from the porch. Raylan cursed, slid his hand up and unclipped his sidearm again. He looked at his Lincoln, only six feet or so away, an infinite distance under the circumstances, and the door unfortunately closed. He chewed on some options but the best one involved talking Tim down.

"So, tell me Tim, since you're so logical – guns kill more people than dogs annually, right?"

"Right."

"Now follow me… You're afraid of this dog – thirty deaths a year – yet you'll stare down an armed man and not flinch and there are over 8,000 gun deaths a year. That is not logical."

"I'm not trying to rationalize any irrational lack of fear here, just my well-founded fear of nasty-looking dogs like Chelsea."

Raylan huffed. "This is ridiculous. Danny Crowe is sitting in that single-wide right now laughing at us and drinking a cold beer."

"Let him laugh. I stopped caring what people think years ago."

"Get down and I'll buy you a beer."

"Nice try."

"Get down off my goddamn car!"

"Fine, but you'd better have a gun out and aimed."

"Fine." Raylan pulled and aimed.

"At the dog, Raylan!"

"I thought I'd just shoot you and then make a run for it."

"That's not fucking funny!"

Raylan did a mental step back and reassessed. There was real fear in that voice. That was not Tim being funny or sarcastic. "I got a clear shot at Chelsea," he said, trying to calm Tim down again. "I'll shoot him if he goes for you."

Tim looked over to make sure, dropped his arms and wiped a sleeve across his forehead. One last glance at the dog and he turned, sat on the roof and slid down onto the trunk. Chelsea started barking when Tim moved out of sight.

"Raylan?"

"I got him. You're good."

Tim took a few long deep breaths, swore loudly and dropped to the ground on the far side of the car, then peered through the windows and moved slowly to the passenger door. Chelsea jumped off the porch but didn't come closer, the barking more aggressive.

"Tim?"

Tim was already scrambling for the door. He opened it and clambered in, shut it quickly, gently, quietly, before leaning across to push open the driver's side. Raylan covered the last few feet in a spasm of speed and Chelsea charged, jumping up and pushing on the outside of Raylan's door, slamming it shut in his hurry to get to his prize.

"Well," Raylan panted, "that was fun." He started the car and backed quickly out of the yard. "Maybe we'll get lucky and run him over by accident."

Tim was uncharacteristically silent. Raylan turned the car at the road and Chelsea made a last effort to get a piece of a Marshal and lunged at the passenger side door. Tim threw himself into Raylan trying to put a few desperate inches between him and the teeth gnawing uselessly at the glass.

"Jesus, Tim. Calm down."

"Fuck you, calm down. Mother-fucking dog!" He moved back over to his seat when the house and Chelsea were small enough in the sideview mirror.

"Put your seatbelt on," Raylan chided to take the edge off. "There are more deaths from car accidents than any other…"

"Fuck off."

Tim kept his arms tightly wound around his chest on the way to Cumberland, letting himself go only to wipe a hand across his mouth at intervals. Raylan let him have his silence for a time but when the knuckles were a little less white and the Glock returned to the holster he had to ask.

"Okay, Mr. Calm, Cool and Collected, so what's the story here?"

"There's no story."

"There's always a story. You get bit by a dog when you were a kid or something?"

"One year for Hallowe'en…" Tim let his arms drop, relaxing, and Raylan leaned a little closer, curious, "…my mom dressed me up as a fire hydrant. I had dogs chasing me all over town."

Raylan frowned. "Seriously?"

"No." A snort and a sneer.

"We've got another, oh, I'd say, half an hour till we get to Cumberland, and then after that over two hours in the car back to Lexington. How many more stories do you think you can make up in that time because, Tim, I'm just gonna keep on asking."

"Go right ahead. I've already got dozens lined up." Tim settled himself comfortably in his seat, the edge wearing off. "The next year, my mom dressed me up as a squirrel…"

"A squirrel?"

"Sucked my nuts right up into my stomach when that pack of dogs came at me."

"You're fucking hilarious. I think I'm gonna tell the whole office how funny you were today."

"You're an asshole." Tim ran his palms across his jeans, chewed on his lower lip. "If I tell you a story will you shut the fuck up about all this?"

"You can tether me in the yard with Chelsea if I don't."

"That's not funny, Raylan."

"I thought it was."

"You ever watch a dog fight, and I don't mean two pets scrapping at the park?"

"No."

"It's raw, brutal. They still do it in Afghanistan, out in the open – weekend fun for the family. Not legal but good luck policing it." Tim rubbed at the memories, fingers kneading into his forehead. "I watched one, made myself watch it…almost. Truthfully, you can't look away, or I couldn't anyway. Fuck, it's horrible but you can't help it. It's mesmerizing, the violence. And people bet on it and yell, egging them on, wanting to see more gore and shit. The dogs rip each other to pieces. They're ferocious about it. And I think what bothered me most is that it's… Well, it's no different than some of the stuff I saw people doing to each other over there – worse than those tortured fucking dogs. It's no different but worse because it's..." He was quiet again for a stretch then his voice was hard and he said, "That was not cool."

"What?"

"That bit about shooting me and leaving me there. I saw them do that to someone. They did it to a guy once, shot him and left him and let the dogs tear at him. I couldn't look away from that either."

"That'll stick with you," said Raylan, thinking about a man eating a grenade, wondering who 'they' were.

"Yep."

"Hey, look, I'm sorry. I wouldn't do that."

"Yeah, I know."

"You want to head back to Lexington? I'll come down myself later and follow up on Boyd."

"Trying to ditch me? No way. Art'd be pissed. I'm fine. Forget it. I just don't fucking like dogs that much."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Raylan chanced a glance at Tim, looking for some body language, a twitching maybe. "What d'you say I buy you a drink when we get back and we toast Lassie."

"Yeah, sounds good. I'll even toast Cujo if it gets me a free drink." The lazy drawl was making a comeback.

Raylan nodded, satisfied, everything squared. "Boyd then?"

"Sure, Boyd."

"You know I hate snakes."

"That's fucking ridiculous. What did snakes ever do to you?"

"I don't really care for spiders, either."

"Yeah, okay, they're kinda creepy, but you'd be better off hating mosquitoes. They're responsible for more deaths annually than any other…"

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