tinstar | Malcolm x Raylan: Cowboy Surprise

"I changed it legally. I was trying to get into the FBI with a serial killer for a father," he pointed out. "It's on my prescriptions," he offered as evidence, since they were sitting on his counter. Easy to verify. "It's on all my documents now. Malcolm Whitly doesn't exist anymore. You can't find him anywhere after 2008."

Raylan hummed and nodded again. He didn't need to verify.. but he also knew it wouldn't stop him from looking at the med bottles when they got back to the apartment.

"Why 'bright'? Why not.. Smith or Jones or something?"

He looked at Raylan, then looked at his tea, then looked at Raylan.

"I've never told anyone this before," he admitted. A beat and then "Not that anyone has ever asked, either...."

It was possibly the world's least desired secret.

"Okay, well I knew I wanted to change it. And I wanted something simple, because I didn't want to draw attention to myself. If I wanted to draw attention to myself, I would have stayed the Surgeon's son. And so I thought about.... who I wanted to be." He glanced at Raylan. "He's all darkness inside. I wanted to be something else."

He'd been taking a drink of his coffee but he couldn't help but look over at the fact no one had asked.

"You wanted to be Bright," he echoed, nodding a little and smiling. "Well you have managed that. Especially in the mornings." A beat passed. "They don't ask about that kinda thing in your office? Should I be concerned about how much they care about you?"

It was a tease, but only half of one.

"Gil never asked why, he just said... okay. I mean, I think he just thought it was a good thing for me to distance myself from Dr Whitly. He calls me 'Bright' almost exclusively. I think he prefers it because it has nothing to do with... him. He calls everyone else in the office by their first name. He considers it... just my name. I appreciate it." He huffed a laugh and looked at Raylan. "My mother, on the other hand, has referred to it as 'a ridiculous alias', but I think she's mad that she kept the name and all its burdens and I shed it like a snake shedding its skin."

"Of course he did. Gil got front row tickets. Can't imagine that didn't leave a mark on him." And now that Malcolm was back under Gil's wing, Raylan could imagine that Gil wanted to focus on the now.

"Just figured the others mighta been curious, even in passing conversation. But I can't say I envy the repercussions of keepin' the name. That's a world of attention on a narrow set of shoulders. She's a strong woman to deal with it so well." Makes for strong kids too, though Raylan wasn't going to say that again.

Malcolm, for all his fragilities, was strong as hell.

Malcolm huffed a laugh.

"I think what they do know about me is plenty weird enough for them," he said. "We get along well, but... I think - like most people - they have a limit as to how much they feel up to dealing with."

At the beginning, the limit was a lot lower. He was the annoying little brother that Gil made them take along with them. Things were better lately, though.

He looked at Raylan as they exited the park and drew close to his building. "You never considered shedding his name?" he asked curiously.

"Maybe I've just got a higher tolerance." He didn't know why but he wasn't going to argue it.

The question had Raylan shaking his head, shrugging with his face with that bob of his eyebrows. "After 43 years, doesn't seem like there's much of a point. Only people that know it anyway is in Harlan and a name change doesn't get me outta the hat or what I'm known for. They're free to look up Arlo's rap sheet; shit. I'd hand it out myself if asked. No one is gonna be a fan of a petty, two bit criminal. Most interesting thing about it is the history, most of which isn't on more than some birth and death certificates. No name change changes where I came from." He glanced over, after another sip of coffee.

"I kinda like my name," he admitted. "Rolls off the tongue.. when they're not callin' me 'Rayray'."

And they'd have to recarve the gravestone outside of the family house. Not that he planned on keeping them there, but he'd gotten used to seeing his own gravestone with 'Givens' on it.

Edited 2020-05-18 03:55 (UTC)

What Raylan said made sense. Besides, he'd never planned to stay in the only town where the name meant anything.

But when he mentioned being called 'Rayray', Malcolm looked positively horrified.

"Who calls you that?" he asked. "That's. ...awful."

"People who think they know me well enough to incorrectly assume there's a way to shorten my name." Maybe for other people, but not for Raylan. He didn't bother to correct them, knowing full well that once a group of people knows you dislike something, they would use it until it was beaten into the ground.

"You don't get any 'Mal's'?"

He breathed out a laugh. "Not for a long time. Everyone at work calls me 'Bright'," he noted, no doubt following Gil's lead and he was grateful, "and my family would never..." He glanced over. "Every now and then someone at the FBI would get a little too... familiar. But it was usually someone I didn't have to know for long. Before that... private schools. Everyone's addressed by their last name there."

They reached his door and he dug out his keys and unlocked it, holding it for Raylan to step in before he followed up to the next door.

"Have you pointed out the 'Rayray' isn't actually any shorter than 'Raylan'?" he ventured. "Or is this person a lost cause?"

Raylan clearly thought the last was a little weird, pulling a face as he stopped long enough to let Malcolm unlock and open the door. Last names were for professional and militaristic use, mostly - everyone in a school felt.. horror movieish.

Stepping in and up the stairs, Raylan led them back upstairs as he answered, stepping back a little once they were on the landing, as he didn't know if the inner door was locked or not.

"Nah. Pointing it out brings more attention and hassle than it's worth and I'm not forced to see 'em that often. The majority of people just call me Raylan, or Deputy Givens." Once they were inside, Raylan ambled over towards the counter to free his hands enough to pull off his jacket and set his hat down.

Malcolm unlocked the inner door and then put the keys back in his jacket pocket before shrugging his jacket off and hanging it by the door. Then he carefully put the chain on and walked over to the counter to put down his cup of tea.

"Let me find you those keys," he said, stepping around the island to riffle through a drawer.

With his hands free and several doors behind them, Raylan could give in to himself and did so without hesitation, walking up behind Malcolm and sliding his hands around the man's waist as he stepped up against him.

Yes, that was better.

"Gotta say I'm surprised you've got spare keys on hand. Most people can't keep track of the ones they've got."

That was better and he let his weight settle back against Raylan's solid form just to feel it there.

"I figured if I ever did lose my keys, my mother could put her propensity for intrusion to use and let me in, then I'd have a set."

He found a ring with two keys on it - one for each door - and held it up so Raylan could see it over his shoulder.

"But now they're yours," he declared.

Raylan smiled at the weight and hummed his acknowledgement at the answer to his question, smile creeping wider as he reached up to take them and turn them over in his palm.

"Might have to look into actually keeping all my keys on one ring, now that I've got more than my room key and the car keys." Even he could hear the smile in his voice. It was almost embarrassing. "I'd offer you a motel key, but they'd up my weekly charge and I don't think you're going to be in Kentucky that often."

He pushed the drawer shut and turned around in Raylan's arms to wrap his own arms around him.

"And apparently I can con or bribe them into giving me a key at any time anyway," he pointed out. "That's not exactly 'bulletproof'," he teasingly chided, pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth. "How do you stay safe there?" he asked curiously.

Tucking the keys into his pocket, Raylan chuckled, bobbing his head in concession before greeting the kiss with a little hum and letting his weight sink forward, pinning Malcolm between the island and himself.

"That's what the gun is for. Not being there most of the time helps. Course, a smart man deals with his problems before they get to his shitty motel door." Or he tried at least. "It's avoided getting shot up so far, somehow. Not exactly a permanent residence."

Even if he'd been there for over a year now.

But he didn't pay any mind to any of that, choosing instead to kiss Malcolm again. When the kiss broke, he muttered, "I'm going to try my best to make sure you don't get caught up in any of my shit."

But he knew it would happen, sooner or later. It always did.

"Well, that's hardly fair, is it?" Malcolm returned with a smile. "You deal with my 'shit' every single day we're together."

He took one hand from around Raylan's ribs and threaded his fingers through the hair at his temple, up over his ear.

"We're in this together, right? That's what it's about. This, right here. And also all the shit. Whatever comes."

His head tilted a little with the fingers in his hair, eyes warm and curious as they studied Malcolm's face so close. "Your shit is only a danger to you," he replied softly, unable to argue against the pull of wanting to believe it would all be okay, to take refugee in the security that Malcolm promised.

He wanted this, this togetherness, this solidarity of selves against the world, but he couldn't help but worry that Malcolm would change his mind later. Still, that was later and Raylan wasn't going to let it sour or ruin the now.

"You make it very hard to argue, you know that?" Malcolm wouldn't have much of any time to answer before Raylan was kissing him again, less chastely then before.

Malcolm would dispute that his 'shit' was only a danger to himself. However much he relished going to bed with Raylan - and he really, really did - he was still quietly terrified of harming him in the night while he slept.

And then there were the John Watkinses of the world, who had come for his loved ones once and could do it again.

Not that he wouldn't gladly break his own hand again to save Raylan's life if he had to...

The kiss put a kibosh on the ramping up of his mind to racing as thoughts dissipated and only Raylan's heat remained. The hand in his hair slipped to the back of his neck as Malcolm eagerly returned it, humming into it, pressing against Raylan as much as his position sandwiched between the taller man's body and the counter allowed.

This time, the John Watkinses of the world would be going against a career Marshal instead of two women ill prepared for that kind of ugliness. They could argue about it later. When Raylan could think more clearly.

The wrap of his arms had him stepping back a half step, bringing Malcolm with him with a sound from the back of his throat before gently breaking the kiss.

"You're also terrible for coming up with any idea that isn't falling back into bed." Malcolm was.. inspiring, to say the least.

"Am I?" He grinned, kissing him again. "Maybe it was the two months," he teased.

His hand slid down from Raylan's neck to pluck open his first few shirt buttons one by one.

"They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but it has effects on other parts of the body, too," he pointed out.

"I don't think it had anything to do with the months," Raylan husked, face alit with amusement, eyes staying locked on Malcolm's face as he inhaled a little deeper as Malcolm started working on his buttons. Still, Raylan covered Malcolm's busy hand with his own, stopping it.

He glanced down for a second, eyeing their hands; woolgathering Helen would have called it before he spoke. "That's not all I came here for." He could get sex, if he wanted it - it'd never been a problem before, and his age hadn't dampened the attention he got. He knew Malcolm had meant it as a lighthearted remark, but Raylan hated the idea of being misinterpreted as shallow.

He didn't say it but it was written all over his face as he looked back up to meet Malcolm's gaze. "I want to enjoy what other people get," he continued, thumb brushing against Malcolm's skin. "I want to come home to someone, talk about our days, go out for date night, fight over dishes and where I leave my socks. I wanna hold hands and make out like we're teenagers and have all the time in the world for that in between."

Maybe it was a stupid way of going about his feelings, but it was that or silence, but he'd started the suggestion and now he felt like he needed to.. clarify.

"That and we're gonna run up a hellva water bill if we're not careful." That at least, came with a lift of a smile.

The notion that Raylan came to him - to him - just for sex was so absurd, that for a moment he was confused by Raylan's need to clarify that. Malcolm had eyes. Eyes trained in noticing and interpreting human behaviour and facial expressions. He saw the way people looked at Raylan. The way they reacted to his presence. He also saw how barely comfortable Raylan was with all this. If Raylan just wanted to get laid, he wouldn't go to a man, much less a man with Malcolm's general bare bones experience with human connections at all, much less sex. The fact that Raylan wanted to touch him so badly meant something to Malcolm, because he understood how many obstacles should have been in the way of it.

But as Raylan continued, he realized that it was a roundabout way of explaining that he wanted a relationship - a full-tilt, proper exclusive relationship - and that road was just the one he drove to get to that point.

Malcolm turned his hand slightly to grip the fingers of the hand that stilled it.

He kept his gaze on Raylan's face, assessing every movement. Finally, he just said "Where do you leave your socks?"

Malcolm's apartment was consistently immaculate, clearly the domain of a fastidious person living alone.

"Because I think what this place could really use is some socks on the floor," he noted conversationally, but with no hint of a joke in his eyes.

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