So I got carried away...
Title: Grumpy Old Man
Summary: Someone's been forgotten on his big day
Rating: PG
Characters: Art Mullen, Raylan Givens (Justified)
Spoilers: None really.
A/N: Ahahaha, so, um... I write long? This is in response to one of sardonicynic's prompts: Art Mullen : "Happy birthday, Grandpa!". Comment character limits be damned!
"Would you stop that?"
"What?"
"That little clicking sound you're makin' over there."
"That what?"
Raylan gives a quick, distracted glance over at Art in the driver's seat. Raylan's main focus is on the tiny screen of his cell phone as he types.
"That. That irritatin'... click, clicky."
Art moves one hand from the steering wheel to paw at Raylan's hands, trying to cover the screen and discourage more typing.
Raylan draws his phone back out of reach. He hits send on his message, and tucks the phone away into his jacket pocket, eying Art.
"Gee, Art, I didn't realize texting and riding shotgun was a federal offense nowadays."
"It's just damned annoying," Art grumbles. "I'm tryin' to drive here, and all I can concentrate on is the clack of your big fingers on those tiny keys."
Raylan's expression turns into a mock thoughtful one.
"Well then, I apologize for being such a road hazard. Could've killed us both, I suppose."
"Don't mock me," Art warns, completely unamused.
Leaning against his door, Raylan turns in his seat and tips his hat back to regard Art.
"Is something wrong, Art?"
"No."
"You seem a little... out of sorts." Raylan gestures with his hands, trying to assess his boss.
"How do you mean?"
"Pissed off." Raylan finally decides. "You're acting like I shot someone and dumped another IA mess in your lap."
Art glances over.
"Have you shot anyone?"
With a smirk Raylan faces forward again.
"Not that you know of."
Art huffs what's not quite a laugh, and looks back at the road.
"Today is just one of those days," Art says finally.
"One of what days?" Raylan asks.
"You know what I mean."
Raylan shakes his head.
"I don't think that I do."
Art sighs in irritation.
"Just never mind."
"Well hold on," Raylan says, holding up his hand, "lemme just figure this out."
Straightening in his seat, Raylan starts to tick things off on his fingers.
"Let's see, it's Wednesday, but you aren't the type of guy to let the middle of the week get you down. Gettin' on towards the end of the month, but eh, ain't no thing. Been hot out, so maybe that's it. Or, maybe... weren't you due a birthday sometime?"
Raylan tilts his head, and Art doesn't look over when he replies.
"It was today."
Raylan gives a slight frown.
"And I'll bet the wife and kiddies forgot."
Art doesn't answer, and Raylan snaps his fingers, finally having it.
"And there it is."
"Old men don't celebrate birthdays," Art says, affording a turn he's making more attention than it probably needs.
"'Course they don't." Raylan's pocket buzzes, and he pulls out his phone, still talking as he reads the message.
"One year older, another closer to being dead... "
"Oh, shut up, Raylan." Art throws him a glare.
Raylan laughs.
"Tell you what, let me buy you dinner."
"Just what I need," Art mutters, "a pity party."
"Now I didn't say anything about a party," Raylan corrects. "C'mon. Ramsey's is just around the corner. They got pie."
Raylan puts on a grin, and waggles his eyebrows.
Art looks over and rolls his eyes.
"Oh, fine. I need some coffee anyways."
Raylan smiles brightly in triumph, and sits back with his phone.
Art shoots him a threat in a Look, and Raylan types quick and hides the phone away, lifting his hands, palms out.
Art mutters to himself, and tries to tackle parallel parking.
*****
"Art, it's fine. That parking job would be legal in any state in the Union."
"Of course it was," Art says, exasperation edging his voice, "but it would've been better if I didn't have a big white stetson in all of my mirrors."
"I'm sorry," Raylan says amiably, one hand on his chest while the other gets the door to the restaurant. "We run afoul of any meter-maids I will take full blame and responsibility."
Art snorts, and gives a curt nod of greeting to the waitress who comes up to them.
She gives Art a smirk that turns into something more sly when she looks up at Raylan, eyes on his stetson.
"Mr. Givens?"
Raylan swipes the brim of his hat and smiles back.
"Hello, there."
"Right this way." The waitress gives each of them a cheeky grin, and leads the way through the restaurant.
"Here often?" Art mutters to Raylan.
Raylan just shrugs and follows behind Art.
The waitress navigates them through the crowded dining area from the front entrance towards the back. When Art sees they're headed for the outdoor patio he shakes his head and starts looking for an empty table.
"I don't wanna sit outside."
Raylan nods that it's alright.
"It's nice and fresh out."
"I don't like eating outside," Art protests, ready to change direction towards a table by the kitchen.
"Art-- "
"No-- "
"Get out there." Raylan blocks Art and gives him a light shove in the back to send him through the door.
Art is turning to raise a fuss when a loud cheer erupts.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"
Art stands completely gobsmacked at the crowd of gathered family and friends.
Raylan sidesteps around him just in time to get clear of the litter of young children who break free from the group to mob Art.
"Happy birthday, grampa!"
Art kneels to meet them, and Raylan watches, bemused.
The birthday boy's wife sidles up beside Raylan, tip-toeing to whisper, "I owe you one."
"You sure do," Raylan responds. "The Marshal's service doesn't really give much training on dealing with grumpy old men."
The woman laughs, and gives a nod to the far corner.
A waitress steps up and delivers a piece of Mayday pie à la mode to Raylan. He accepts it with a smile and digs into the ice cream first, tipping his hat to Art when the old man walks by, big wide grin on his face.
Summary: Someone's been forgotten on his big day
Rating: PG
Characters: Art Mullen, Raylan Givens (Justified)
Spoilers: None really.
A/N: Ahahaha, so, um... I write long? This is in response to one of sardonicynic's prompts: Art Mullen : "Happy birthday, Grandpa!". Comment character limits be damned!
"Would you stop that?"
"What?"
"That little clicking sound you're makin' over there."
"That what?"
Raylan gives a quick, distracted glance over at Art in the driver's seat. Raylan's main focus is on the tiny screen of his cell phone as he types.
"That. That irritatin'... click, clicky."
Art moves one hand from the steering wheel to paw at Raylan's hands, trying to cover the screen and discourage more typing.
Raylan draws his phone back out of reach. He hits send on his message, and tucks the phone away into his jacket pocket, eying Art.
"Gee, Art, I didn't realize texting and riding shotgun was a federal offense nowadays."
"It's just damned annoying," Art grumbles. "I'm tryin' to drive here, and all I can concentrate on is the clack of your big fingers on those tiny keys."
Raylan's expression turns into a mock thoughtful one.
"Well then, I apologize for being such a road hazard. Could've killed us both, I suppose."
"Don't mock me," Art warns, completely unamused.
Leaning against his door, Raylan turns in his seat and tips his hat back to regard Art.
"Is something wrong, Art?"
"No."
"You seem a little... out of sorts." Raylan gestures with his hands, trying to assess his boss.
"How do you mean?"
"Pissed off." Raylan finally decides. "You're acting like I shot someone and dumped another IA mess in your lap."
Art glances over.
"Have you shot anyone?"
With a smirk Raylan faces forward again.
"Not that you know of."
Art huffs what's not quite a laugh, and looks back at the road.
"Today is just one of those days," Art says finally.
"One of what days?" Raylan asks.
"You know what I mean."
Raylan shakes his head.
"I don't think that I do."
Art sighs in irritation.
"Just never mind."
"Well hold on," Raylan says, holding up his hand, "lemme just figure this out."
Straightening in his seat, Raylan starts to tick things off on his fingers.
"Let's see, it's Wednesday, but you aren't the type of guy to let the middle of the week get you down. Gettin' on towards the end of the month, but eh, ain't no thing. Been hot out, so maybe that's it. Or, maybe... weren't you due a birthday sometime?"
Raylan tilts his head, and Art doesn't look over when he replies.
"It was today."
Raylan gives a slight frown.
"And I'll bet the wife and kiddies forgot."
Art doesn't answer, and Raylan snaps his fingers, finally having it.
"And there it is."
"Old men don't celebrate birthdays," Art says, affording a turn he's making more attention than it probably needs.
"'Course they don't." Raylan's pocket buzzes, and he pulls out his phone, still talking as he reads the message.
"One year older, another closer to being dead... "
"Oh, shut up, Raylan." Art throws him a glare.
Raylan laughs.
"Tell you what, let me buy you dinner."
"Just what I need," Art mutters, "a pity party."
"Now I didn't say anything about a party," Raylan corrects. "C'mon. Ramsey's is just around the corner. They got pie."
Raylan puts on a grin, and waggles his eyebrows.
Art looks over and rolls his eyes.
"Oh, fine. I need some coffee anyways."
Raylan smiles brightly in triumph, and sits back with his phone.
Art shoots him a threat in a Look, and Raylan types quick and hides the phone away, lifting his hands, palms out.
Art mutters to himself, and tries to tackle parallel parking.
*****
"Art, it's fine. That parking job would be legal in any state in the Union."
"Of course it was," Art says, exasperation edging his voice, "but it would've been better if I didn't have a big white stetson in all of my mirrors."
"I'm sorry," Raylan says amiably, one hand on his chest while the other gets the door to the restaurant. "We run afoul of any meter-maids I will take full blame and responsibility."
Art snorts, and gives a curt nod of greeting to the waitress who comes up to them.
She gives Art a smirk that turns into something more sly when she looks up at Raylan, eyes on his stetson.
"Mr. Givens?"
Raylan swipes the brim of his hat and smiles back.
"Hello, there."
"Right this way." The waitress gives each of them a cheeky grin, and leads the way through the restaurant.
"Here often?" Art mutters to Raylan.
Raylan just shrugs and follows behind Art.
The waitress navigates them through the crowded dining area from the front entrance towards the back. When Art sees they're headed for the outdoor patio he shakes his head and starts looking for an empty table.
"I don't wanna sit outside."
Raylan nods that it's alright.
"It's nice and fresh out."
"I don't like eating outside," Art protests, ready to change direction towards a table by the kitchen.
"Art-- "
"No-- "
"Get out there." Raylan blocks Art and gives him a light shove in the back to send him through the door.
Art is turning to raise a fuss when a loud cheer erupts.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"
Art stands completely gobsmacked at the crowd of gathered family and friends.
Raylan sidesteps around him just in time to get clear of the litter of young children who break free from the group to mob Art.
"Happy birthday, grampa!"
Art kneels to meet them, and Raylan watches, bemused.
The birthday boy's wife sidles up beside Raylan, tip-toeing to whisper, "I owe you one."
"You sure do," Raylan responds. "The Marshal's service doesn't really give much training on dealing with grumpy old men."
The woman laughs, and gives a nod to the far corner.
A waitress steps up and delivers a piece of Mayday pie à la mode to Raylan. He accepts it with a smile and digs into the ice cream first, tipping his hat to Art when the old man walks by, big wide grin on his face.