Raylan's words, whispered in his ear when they were hiding from the storm in the tunnel, echoed through Tim's brain and he gave Doc a cheeky peek from beneath his lashes. He didn't say anything or even argue the man's words because neither were his place but he did look back to the floor under he could get the urge to grin like an asshole under control.
He was taking notes but they were carefully written down and placed up on a shelf for the time being. He hadn't missed the fact that Doc seemed to have avoided the worst of the mess and Tim had no desire to drag the gunslinger into anything. But from a strictly aesthetic perspective, what he envisioned in his private shower times was his own damn business and did nothing to hurt nobody.
The direct questions at the end did a lot to sober the younger marshal up toot sweet and he continued to lean on the window sill with his hands clasped together in front of him. He didn't answer immediately, took some time to test the questions against his experiences with the profiler and his general impression of the man. Eventually his head hung a little lower as he shook it side to side.
"No," he admitted softly. "It isn't personal, ifn that makes sense, and it aint got nothing to do with he and Raylan," Tim peeked up and motioned at Doc; this was why he'd said what he had about his reaction to the gunslinger. "Outside Raylan and trying to survive in this town, we're like oil and water. I respect him from a professional perspective and I don't envy him what he deals with in his own mind. But beyond that?" Tim shook his head.
He was quiet, lacing his fingers in and out, again and again before he continued.
"Everybody keeps telling me I have it all wrong, when it comes to Malcolm," he turned and looks out the open door. "I try. I tried, but all I end up wondering is what the fuck is wrong with me that I can't ..." he unfolded his hands in a helpless gesture, shoulders slumping.
"And that makes me wonder how it's supposed to work. How we do this without tearing Raylan in pieces. Feels like I'm the mother standing in front of Solomon and there's only one right choice."
no subject
He was taking notes but they were carefully written down and placed up on a shelf for the time being. He hadn't missed the fact that Doc seemed to have avoided the worst of the mess and Tim had no desire to drag the gunslinger into anything. But from a strictly aesthetic perspective, what he envisioned in his private shower times was his own damn business and did nothing to hurt nobody.
The direct questions at the end did a lot to sober the younger marshal up toot sweet and he continued to lean on the window sill with his hands clasped together in front of him. He didn't answer immediately, took some time to test the questions against his experiences with the profiler and his general impression of the man. Eventually his head hung a little lower as he shook it side to side.
"No," he admitted softly. "It isn't personal, ifn that makes sense, and it aint got nothing to do with he and Raylan," Tim peeked up and motioned at Doc; this was why he'd said what he had about his reaction to the gunslinger. "Outside Raylan and trying to survive in this town, we're like oil and water. I respect him from a professional perspective and I don't envy him what he deals with in his own mind. But beyond that?" Tim shook his head.
He was quiet, lacing his fingers in and out, again and again before he continued.
"Everybody keeps telling me I have it all wrong, when it comes to Malcolm," he turned and looks out the open door. "I try. I tried, but all I end up wondering is what the fuck is wrong with me that I can't ..." he unfolded his hands in a helpless gesture, shoulders slumping.
"And that makes me wonder how it's supposed to work. How we do this without tearing Raylan in pieces. Feels like I'm the mother standing in front of Solomon and there's only one right choice."