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 got a full, if watery, smile at that.

"A weird lightbulb in my darkness? That's definitely you," he conceded with a laugh, burying his face in Raylan's shoulder for a second. When he lifted his head, he stilled, staring into a corner by the bookshelves for a long moment before squeezing his eyes shut and ducking his head.

He smiled back but the look faltered as Malcolm stilled. He still didn't quite know what that particular look on Malcolm's face meant, but as soon as he ducked his head, Raylan was sliding a palm across his face, tugging him back into his shoulder so he could hold his head.

"We'll go snorkeling, in Miami," he whispered into Malcolm's hair. "Get to see all these tropical fish up close and in person."

It didn't really matter what he was talking about, it wasn't whatever had caused Malcolm to look like that. It was a distraction to accompany the proverbial curling around Malcolm.

"I've never been snorkeling," he replied in a slightly shaky whisper. Slowly, reluctantly, he lifted his head and looked over to the same corner, then breathed out relief before burying his face back into Raylan's shoulder. "It sounds nice."

Raylan didn't stop him from looking up but as he tucked back in, he slid his hand over his shoulders and rubbed up and down his back.

"Neither have I. But the pamphlets look amazing." He took and let a deep breath into Malcolm's hair as the narrator droned on behind them. A moment or two passed before he eased up and looked down. "You okay?"

Malcolm nodded, though he didn't pull away.

"Yeah. It was just..." He waved a hand vaguely towards the corner and pressed his lips together. "Hallucination," he admitted. He was still worried that they were a step too far. They'd been rare around Raylan, but if they proliferated? That was insane person shit, right? Seeing things that weren't there? "Gone now."

"What did you see," he asked, inisting with a little dip of his head, eyes encouraging Malcolm to bring his a bit higher for everyone's comfort. He sensed the hesitation and the way Malcolm was holding back but wasn't sure why. With a glance at the TV, Raylan picked up the remote and muted it for a minute. He didn't want the distraction of it.

Malcolm met his eyes, holding his gaze for a moment.

"My father," he admitted.

"All we need now is Ainsley, and the whole family will have dropped in," he joked softly, humor running away from his face quickly. "I know you've been told this by god knows how many people but.. He can't hurt you the way he did. Not anymore. You're aware now. Sharp. Keen on his bullshit. You're not ten anymore."

Jessica wanted to keep Malcolm in a padded room, secure from the most mundane of threats. Raylan wanted Malcolm to learn the power of choice - his choice. His choice to rebel against the overwhelming idea of his father that haunted him. Maybe it would help; Raylan didn't know. But he knew there could be better for Malcolm, somehow, no matter how many years it took.

He nodded slowly, taking that in.

"I... didn't see him when I lived in DC. And I didn't see him in my head as much. ...Maybe when we live in Florida.... maybe it'll help." He looked into the empty corner again, then at Raylan and then huffed a self-deprecating laugh down into his lap. "Or maybe I should do what you're saying and call his bullshit."

"Maybe it's both. Maybe it'll take time and practice." Raylan was patient. He could be patient.

"The sooner we get you away from here more often, the better I think it will be." Martin could go another ten years without seeing his darling son. Raylan would happily update Martin to the terms of Malcolm's living arrangement, if needed.

Malcolm took a steadying breath.

"I try to stay away from him as much as I can but... I think there's a degree to which you just can't... pretend you don't come from where you come from, too. And maybe facing him is the way to push past this fear in the end. I don't know."

He leaned up and pressed a kiss to Raylan's cheek. "I promised you another cup of coffee," he recalled, pushing to his feet and padding over to the kitchen where the new pot should be nicely steeped.

"Not seeing him isn't going to change where you come from, darlin', pretending you don't come from where you do." There was something serious there that Raylan thought they might wanna talk about more.

But his flightly lover was up and about again, leaving Raylan to follow him with his eyes. "Put a shot of scotch in it?" he asked, turning his head to follow Malcolm until he couldn't anymore.

He wanted so badly for Malcolm to be okay, and it was okay that he wasn't. But that didn't mean it wasn't a struggle Raylan hadn't realized all the same. He'd have to deal with this feeling every time this happened. It was only a passing thought, but Raylan wasn't immune to his own humanity.

He also had the resolve to overcome it.

Scotch. He could do that.

He got the decanter down and splashed some into Raylan's cup.

"Lately he's been... pursuing me," Malcolm admitted. "And I want to know what happened to that girl, so sometimes I answer him."

He pushed the plunger down on the french press and filled the rest of Raylan's cup.

"But he won't talk about it. He just...spends the time trying to get inside my head and make a mess."

He brought the cup over, setting it in Raylan's hands before curling up with him again.

"I try really hard to keep things on the right shelves in there."

"Once you've got your answers though," he elaborated, shifting on the couch so he could lean one arm over the back and comfortably look at Malcolm as he worked. "You'll get them eventually, right?"

He nodded. "I've started remembering more since I..."

He bit off the words and looked at Raylan, suddenly unsure of whether he should admit this. But what was he going to do. Lie to Raylan. No, thank you.

"...One night I put chloroform on my pillowcase. For the scent memory. It started digging out some new images."

That got a concerned look as he sat up a little more. "You're what? Is this gonna be a regular thing you do when you're pressed or.."

Raylan was trying not to judge, but he was instantly worried about the revelation. Crazy shit was part of the Malcolm territory and not one he was afraid to face, but it was telling in it's own right.

"What'd you see?" He couldn't NOT ask.

"Oh! No. I. I only did it once. It was before I met you, actually. I... remembered some more of that night. It wasn't... super helpful, but since then some fragments come back sometimes."

He paused, taking a breath.

"I thought my mother knew something for a little while, but it turned out she thought he was having an affair."

"God, if only that'd been it." The pain and trouble far too many people.

"You're not going to do it again, are you? Will you at least tell me if you do? Doesn't that mess with your.." he gestured vaguely at Malcolm and then the bed.

Nightmares? Night Terrors? He hated giving verbiage to it, like it gave them more room than the ugliness that came with them deserved.

"Oh, yeah. Any kind of sedation messes with me. I have to be able to wake up or I'm trapped in there."

He looked Raylan in the eye. "I'm not going to do it again. It's just something I tried one time."

Raylan held his hand out, both for the coffee that Malcolm was still holding hostage and the man himself.

"Good. I'm glad it brought some things back to the surface, but I hope druggin' yourself isn't somethin' you feel like you need to do again." Clearly, it worried him.

"I know it's not obvious from my morning pharmaceutical regime, but I do try to avoid chemical intervention. I turn down my mother's barbiturates every time she offers them. Which was daily for a little while. She was convinced it was the answer to my insomnia," he explained, tucking himself comfortably back into Raylan's side.

Raylan could only scoff as he shifted his legs to take Malcolm's weight between them as he snuggled in, coffee cup in hand and a kiss pressed into Malcolm's hair. "I don't know what barbiturates are so you'll have to fill me in on what you mean."

"They're heavy hypnotics. They make you sleep. But, funny story, for most anxiety and insomnia applications, doctors actually prescribe benzodiazepenes now, which I'm already on, because they're less addictive and have a less toxic overdose. But, barbiturates still have uses for heavy migraines and seizures but, mostly - another funny story - they're most commonly seen in euthanasia now. Both veterinary euthanasia and, in combination with muscle relaxants, human execution by lethal injection. The lethality of the overdose comes in handy when you're killing someone I guess." He tilted his head up to look up at Raylan. "I arrested a serial killer in California that used it to kill his victims."

The expression he'd find on Raylan's face was a slight horror. "Jesus," he muttered with a faint pull of his brow as he took a sip of his coffee, carefully resting his mug bearing hand on the back of the couch.

"I know why you take 'em, but I don't think I could, knowin' all that."

"I don't take barbiturates," Malcolm said. "I want to be super clear about that. My mother wants me to, because she thinks more sleep will cure my ills, but I won't. I do take two different benzos, but they do not have lethal applications." He looked up at Raylan again. "I'm not suicidal. I feel like I can't stress that enough. Though it's hilarious that my mother offers me pills for which the overdose has no antidote while harbouring concerns about that..." A beat. "Well. Darkly humourous, I guess."

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