tinstar | Malcolm x Raylan: Cowboy Surprise

Malcolm x Raylan: Cowboy Surprise

Art was suspicious right off the bat when Raylan took a week off with the express note that his phone would be Out Of Order til the next Monday, but the Chief Marshal wasn't going to look gift horses in the mouth. Not when it suggested he'd have a few days of peace, until Raylan caved to turning his phone back on again. Still, he watched the younger Marshal walk out of the office and promised himself to check into the state of Harlan within 3 days to make sure that the place wasn't on fire. The smoke would reach him before he called, he was sure.

But Art didn't have much to worry about - Raylan had no plans on staying in the state for his vacation, beyond one day spent closing up Arlo's and securing it the best way he could before getting on a plane to New York City. He wanted to surprise Malcolm - it'd been near two months since they'd last seen each other and frankly, Raylan was tired of missing him. They'd called and texted, stayed in a fairly consistent, if odd houred, touch but it wasn't the same.

Once he landed, Raylan rented a car and navigated his way towards Malcolm's apartment, stopping to grab a bouquet of flowers. It was.. Extra, but Raylan didn't want to show up empty handed, just in case. Thirty minutes later, Malcolm's door buzzer was being hit, like Raylan was here to deliver something. Well, he was, but that was half the fun.

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Raylan locked the doors behind them, chain and all, and shrugged off his jacket. Once that was hung and his hat to match, he wasted no time coming to collect Malcolm in his arms. Everything that he'd repressed seemed to flow out of him like a dam giving way, so it was no surprise that he found himself wrapped around and kissing Malcolm again.

When it broke, he spoke first, faces kept close in their intimacy. "I want to be that safe space for you, Malcolm. I like that I am. You need one." And he was happy to provide. He was.. good at this kind of security. The kind that had nothing to do with bullets or mafia or petty crime. The kind that he could control.

When Raylan gathered him up, his arms slid tightly around him and Malcolm clung to him like a rock in the sea. Tension eased out of him during the kiss and when it broke, he listened to those words and couldn't help his eyes welling up a little.

"I love you," he whispered shakily.

There was no arguing what he felt in Malcolm's tight grip, that sense of need and desperation, and Raylan knew this was Malcolm's first dive off this particular dock. Malcolm might have had crushes before, but he hadn't loved someone. Until now.

Raylan smiled, a faint curl to all his features that left him with only soft edges. "It's okay. I love you too." The smile pulled. "But I think you already knew that."

And if he didn't, he did now. Raylan kissed him again, breathing him in as his hands spread across and up Malcolm's back. If he could help beat back Malcolm's darkness by just being there, by just wanting to be with Malcolm and love him and find some kind of workable normal for them.. Well shit. Miami was definitely going to happen.

Edited (Be WITH, not just .. be Malcolm, that'd be really weird.) 2020-05-23 13:42 (UTC)

It had never gotten far enough to be love. Not like this. He'd held his heart back, like he'd tried to do with Raylan, and he'd waited for the inevitable moment when it was all Too Much and it had always come. Except this time, every time all signs - ie the emergence of his worst symptoms - pointed to it happening...it hadn't. And instead of informing him gravely that he couldn't do this anymore but to take care because he deserved to be happy, Raylan had only pulled him closer.

Malcolm didn't know what to do with that kind of unconditional love except cling to it and offer himself as unconditionally, to give Raylan the same safe place.

As the kiss broke, he tilted his forehead against Raylan's and took deep breath. It both felt incredibly fast - it had been months, but also so little of it had been spent together - and at the same time it felt like he'd been holding his breath for too long already.

"I'd hoped that," he murmured, his hand sliding up Raylan's neck to thread his fingers through his hair. "Seemed too good to be true," he admitted with a huff of a laugh.

Raylan was a little breathless when the kiss broke again, but in the best possible way. This was only the second time he'd done this himself, despite having numerous other relationships outside of Winona, and the differences between Malcolm and Winona against everyone else were sharp in Raylan's vision.

"Couldn't tell ya when it happened," he replied quietly, tilting his head a little into Malcolm's fingers. "And I didn't mean to say it so soon." But clearly, these were extenuating circumstances. "But we've all got problems. Like you said, I'm not here for easy."

"No," he conceded with a soft smile, "I guess there are a lot of reasons I wouldn't have been your choice if you wanted an easy road."

He'd have probably started off by choosing a woman, for one thing. Malcolm's gender was still going to be an issue to him being in Raylan's life, but it was one he was prepared to adapt to or deal with as required.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked, though not making a move to untangle himself just yet, his fingers still idly stroking Raylan's hair. "You've been a saint in putting up with my family."

"Don't know that I had much of a choice," he admitted. Even their first kiss had been impulse he couldn't control and Raylan couldn't say why he didn't stop there. Drunk or lonely or affection starved or just tired of dancing with a tension he hadn't even acknowledged. Everything after that was worth the feelings that Malcolm had left in him.

He stole another kiss, this one more chaste and gentle. "A drink sounds great. And it was better than last time. I think your sister approves of me." Not in any inappropriate way, but Raylan didn't feel like Ainsley was going to proverbially try to string him up for existing near her brother.

"And seeing you guys all together at home.. clears some things up." His face curled in amusement, hands finally loosening a little on Malcolm so that he could break away if he wanted. "So Ballet, huh?"

He gave Raylan a rueful smile at the question, then pulled away to go to the cupboard and get down a glass. He paused and then got down another glass.

"I've been telling people my mother made me take it since... I was still taking it," he admitted. He took a decanter of scotch down from another cupboard and glanced at Raylan over his shoulder. "Kids at school found out I was doing it and..." He shrugged. "They started making fun of me. But they all had overbearing rich parents who made them do things they hated, so I just... said she made me take it."

He poured two fingers of scotch into a glass and brought it to the island, pushing it towards Raylan before turning to pour scotch into the other one. "But I loved it," he confessed. "I loved how it looked and how it felt. Then, one day, I came home from school with scrapes on both hands and both knees and my father noticed at dinner, even though I tried to hide it under the table. He took me down to his office afterwards and asked me what happened. So I told him about the kids making fun of me for being in ballet and pushing me around in the yard. He told me about the degree of athleticism required for it and how it put professional athletes in a lot of sports to shame and that kids don't know how to process emotions like jealousy, so it comes out as aggression." He took a breath and turned around with his own glass. "And then my father got arrested for torturing twenty-three people to death in that basement and.... " He shrugged and looked down into his glass. "Well. The kids at school forgot about the ballet. I was 'Psycho' after that." He took a large swallow of scotch and then looked at Raylan. "I stopped taking it around then. My presence in the class made the other students' parents uncomfortable. I still like watching ballet, but... I don't tell anyone."

Raylan watched, coming to lean on a nearby counter edge as Malcolm poured out. He understood how Kids could be - by and large, especially in groups, they were prime assholes. Money didn't change that, it only made it worse.

"I've never seen ballet." It seemed like a better place to start. "Just pictures. I imagine it takes a hellva lotta discipline to get on up on their toes. You ever thought about taking classes again?"

Ladies went to pilates and spin class, why couldn't Malcolm take some ballet on the side?

Malcolm smiled at him.

"I'm too old now. I'm not flexible enough anymore."

As flexible as he was.

"Maybe we can go to one some time, though?" he suggested, looking up carefully, fidgeting with his glass. It'd have been so great to go to one with someone. But maybe Raylan wasn't interested enough to sit through three hours of it.

"Not nothing you can't get back," he reasoned. That's how it worked, right? Hell, he didn't know; he'd trust Malcolm's word on it, even if it felt like the idea was shut down out of a defeatist place.

Raylan shrugged and nodded thoughtfully, pulling a soft smile. "Won't say no to a first time show. Can't promise anything after that-" Though, if he didn't hate it completely, Raylan was sure he could withstand it for Malcolm's sake.

"After all, you're going to be sitting through a baseball game."

Did anyone even teach Ballet for Middle Aged Men of Limited Flexibility? He doubted it. But he liked the thought and he set the glass aside to step nearer to Raylan and slide his arms back around Raylan's middle. When Raylan mentioned the ballgame, his eyes widened.

"The tickets! I have to pick up the tickets at some point. I wonder when the game is..." he mused. Well. That was a problem for tomorrow Malcolm and he set it aside to rest his head on Raylan's shoulder, comfortably breathing in the scent of his skin at his neck.

"So, apart from ballet, what else did that dinner clear up?" he asked curiously.

Raylan chuckled, abandoning his scotch so he could rest his hands around Malcolm's waist. "You should probably find that out. Important knowledge for where and when to be. We can even get you one of those funny lookin' foam fingers that say 'We're #1' to cheer with."

Once he was done talking, Raylan propped the weight of his head on Malcolm's and humming again thoughtfully.

"You know how you said you find out about how a person was made by their home? Ain't just that basement that defines you. And you're not the only damaged person in that house. That basement really is like a horror show. Even with nothin' in it. Couldn't imagine living above that, even in spite. Not without... fillin' it with something else."

It was so intimate, the way Raylan held him. It was so warm, like the way he held him at night, despite the danger.

"He ruined everything he touched," Malcolm said softly. "I know I'm not the only one. My mother wants what's best for us. I know she does. I only object to being told that the only things I'm good at and make me happy aren't it."

His grip around Raylan tightened a little.

"But she liked you. She's plenty blunt when she doesn't like someone and when she doesn't approve of my choices. You heard her call my job a 'macabre hobby'."

"She's got a funny way of showing it. I know throwing money at a problem is the Rich People's way of solving things.. But then she chides the people that give you the one thing she can't buy in bulk from whatever up avenue shop she gets her clothes from. What's wrong with allowing some fondness from your housekeeper?"

He didn't understand it and sighed deeply, knowing that no amount of words would change the way things were in that aspect.

"How weird is it that your dad sounds more supporting than she is? At least he gave you good advice."

"She was different before the arrest. Lighter. She was happy. Afterwards... she drank a lot. She took pills. Louisa looked after us... quite a bit. My mother might pretend to complain about her affection for us, but she won't intervene. She feels guilty that it was necessary. And Louisa is loyal to her. She stayed with us. She never sold her story to the tabloids." He sighed, one hand sliding up between Raylan's shoulderblades. "I think a lot of her... controlling and chiding and.... picking at things are based in guilt. For choosing him. For not protecting us from him. For not being a rock for us afterwards when she was rudderless herself. I don't blame her, but she drives me nuts."

"Weird way to appreciate those that pick up the slack. But I see how and where she affects you. Can't nothing be done for it now except this. Ain't my place to say more."

He hadn't suffered it, he didn't have to shoulder that guilt or the guilt of not doing the best by her children despite the size of her bank account; Raylan wasn't here to judge. Turning his lips onto Malcolm's head, the gears kept rolling in the back of his mind anyway.

Where and how she affected him, like the way he thought he was embarrassing and inconvenient if he didn't hide his problems. He apologized for hallucinating because it made a scene while they were trying to eat.

Intellectually, he knew some level of it, but so much had been internalized.

"My father only sounds like he was supportive," he added. "But he's actually a raging psychopathic narcissist. If he gave good advice, it was so he would look good. He doesn't do anything that doesn't glorify himself or serve his own needs. He wore a very convincing mask of fatherhood."

Raylan frowned softly and pulled his head back, lifting his chest a little with the motion to get Malcolm's head to come back up so he could study those too blue eyes. These were uneven and dangerous grounds, but Raylan wasn't scared of being asked to back up his own reasonings.

"Darlin'.. Just because the giver is flawed doesn't make the advice flawed. I know your daddy's got his own problems, murders aside, but that advice he gave you isn't wrong or less valuable havin' come from him." Worth suspect and investigation, but Raylan made short work of that. Could confirm.

"For whatever else your father did, he loves you. He gives a shit about you. Doesn't matter why. Trust me. That's better than the alternitive."

He gave that definite consideration, looking up into Raylan's eyes. Raylan was a smart man and Malcolm hadn't forgotten the stories Raylan had told him of Arlo. Things like Arlo breaking his arm and beating his mother. For all of the Surgeon's monstrosities, he'd never raised a hand to his family in anger. Even when he intended to kill Malcolm, his intent had been to cover for his crimes. It was a rational act, not an unpredictable frenzy that could come at any time.

"I suppose. Though the 'why' is that he sees me as an extension of himself. An accessory to his life. Something he made. Like his murders. He knew everything there was to know about human anatomy. He could have destroyed those bodies, but he didn't. He couldn't bring himself to destroy his work. I think that's the same reason why he couldn't kill me on the camping trip, in the end." He took a breath. "But I think if you'd followed the path of your life the way your father wanted you to, he'd have seen you as nothing more than an accessory to his life. It's hard with people who aren't capable of empathy. Their version of love is... rooted in their worldview of what's useful to them."

"All fathers do. We are, no matter much much we don't like it." Raylan had long come to accept that. They couldn't run from their makers forever. He couldn't run from what he'd been made into, with every whipping, punch or shouting match.

"You're right. About both of 'em. Arlo never taught me shit and he used me til the day he died. Hell, he was hired out to kill me once," Raylan said, brows pinching a little with it. "I can't even pretend that he might'd've cared. I know comparing them is.. fundamentally useless."

But he didn't have any other way to express how he wished he had the opportunity to pretend, even with all the reasons not to.

"But you should rethink what he told you - the important parts, not about the murders or the Stepford Lies that he told to do 'em, but what he put into you, as kid.... That's not the chloroform-" fuck you couldn't walk two steps without needing an addendum when it came to Martin Whitly. "Point is, not everything he said was bullshit."

One thing that Malcolm was absolutely certain of at that point was that Raylan absolutely did care about him. And he made sense, however grudging Malcolm was to accept that truth. Most truths were hard; he knew that well.

"I'll think about it," he promised. And he would. It wasn't a blow-off; he meant it.

He hesitated and then he said "This morning's affirmation was 'Keeping things bottled up only leads to broken glass'."

Raylan almost believed that promise, only a fraction of him pulling off in doubt. He'd let Malcolm prove himself, which required nothing but time.

The affirmation made him scoff a sound. "Seems like your cards know your day better than we ever could, huh. You ever look at these before you go to bed, gauge how well you did on 'em that day?"

He smiled a little at that.

"No; maybe I should. Maybe I'd do a better job of internalizing them." He pressed his lips together and looked at Raylan. "How have you been doing on the one I gave you?" he asked.

"I give us a solid B plus." For what that was worth.

"Eh, I've been working on it, here and there. The contents have started to change dramatically - that counts right? Poor thing is about worn to nothin' in my wallet. Might have to get it laminated or something."

THESE TWO. FUCK. /ded

I KNOW I CAN'T THEM

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