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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Malcolm hoped Raylan didn't have to go back to work, but he didn't say anything, carefully cutting a bean into thirds.

"Raylan!" came the cheerful voice on the line. "It's Martin Whitly. Can I call you 'Raylan'? Deputy Marshal is a bit formal when I hear we're practically family these days."

The phone was pulled away from his ear so he could stare at it like it had shocked him or something and abruptly hung up the call, eyes lifting to Malcolm.

"How did your father get my number?"

Malcolm just stared at him like he was speaking another language.

"...What?"

The phone rang again.

He looked at the number. Same one. He could let it go to voicemail, but if this had to happen, he'd rather get it over with.

"Givens," he answered, hopeful that it wasn't Martin and knowing in his bones it was.

Time to start the dance. At least he had scotch in front of him. And Malcolm.

"Raylan! It's Martin. I think we got cut off," he said breezily. "Anyway, I understand you and my son have grown pretty close in recent months and I haven't been able to get ahold of him all day today. A little birdie tells me he might be there with you."

"Connection out here does tend to be touch and go." He wasn't sorry.

"How's that?" he asked, giving no specific directly, but looking for how Martin 'came to understand' anything about him and Malcolm. "Your birdie got a name?"

Just in case he wanted, ya know, ~options~.

Malcolm couldn't glean much from Raylan's end of the conversation, but his hand had started to shake without him even noticing and he was markedly more antsy than he'd been moments earlier.

"Oh, you know how the grapevine is," Martin answered lightly. "So can I speak to him? He hasn't returned any of my messages and - I don't know if he told you - but he and I have an arrangement."

"Eight days out from now, if you saw him day before yesterday," he replied, standing up and grabbing his scotch for a swig. There was no use in fighting against what Martin already knew; it was just a new deal of the hands.

"But if he's not answerin' his phone, I don't know what to tell ya. Probably in airplane mode, bein' on the way back to New York and all."

"I haven't been able to get through for the last eleven hours. Long flight back to New York. Where are you living these days? Moscow?" Martin noted in the same light tone, but with an edge. "I only need a minute," he said. "Put him on the phone."

Malcolm stared at Raylan; Martin was looking for him, specifically. He pressed his lips together and watched.

"Mm, well, I mighta asked him to turn off his phone while he was here for obvious reasons. The man deserves a break from his family, now and then.. Why do you wanna speak with him? You really oughta save this for your time with him. Put it in a list with bullet points if that helps."

Raylan was very specifically not looking at Malcolm right now. He wasn't going to leave the room but he didn't want to make what he could feel from Malcolm worse with assumptions he didn't currently have the time to reassure or fix.

"I realize you two are bosom chums these days," Martin said, "but that's between him and me."

Malcolm wasn't sure to make of Raylan not looking at him. He bit his lip and leaned in his direction. He could take the phone, if it would help.

It was at that point that Raylan should have wished him good luck and hung up the phone again.

Instead, "How'd you get this number?"

"It's not that hard when you know the right people," Martin told him. "Can I assume, based on your clumsy stonewalling, that you're at least attempting to look after my son?"

Raylan smirked. "Stonewallin' against what you already know and what I'm not ashamed of ain't much. Seems a waste of time to me."

No matter what Martin knew, he was no closer to getting to actually talk to his son. Raylan had that power.

"It's not like I lose anything. You don't gain anythin'." He shrugged. "I'm sure your little birdie will tell you how I'm doin', why should I?"

"Raylan," Martin chided, "you're not doing him any favours, you know; keeping him away from his family. My son... he has a lot of problems. He needs his base of support." A beat. "Of course you probably know about a lot of his problems. Which does make me wonder why you'd take them on. And then I think... maybe you like that he's a broken toy. He doesn't have a lot of options, after all. He's not going anywhere. The more you ply him with affection, the more beholden he becomes to you, the more you can control him."

Raylan couldn't help the genuinely amused chuckle that Martin's accusation brought.

"You know how, in dysfunctional marriages, the one asshole who is screamin' with paranoia about their significant other cheating usually tends to be the one cheatin' themselves? Sounds to me like your plan for doin' the same thing didn't work. Course, you're in a league of your own, aren't ya," he clucked as he ambled further away from the table. "You and Jessica both."

Fuck it, why not poke that bear a little bit and see what came out.

His own training told him to get off the phone but this was a social call, not a work one, so he ignored it.

Malcolm turned in his seat to follow Raylan with his eyes, which were wide with concern and curiosity and a little bit of fear, but he didn't get up. Raylan was clearly trying to have this conversation without him... maybe for him? He had so many questions he was biting back to wait for when he hung up the call.

"Oh, you're a student of the human mind as well! I can see why you get along with my son," Martin said with what sounded like delight. "Now, I can see why you'd approach me with venom, but do tell me what my lovely wife has done to incur the same. She didn't kill anyone. And I'm pretty sure she wasn't cheating, though she did go on and on about that. Which one were you in your dysfunctional marriage, by the way?"

"Marshals tend to need to know it," he said passively. He was a good reader of people, in his estimation, though Malcolm and Martin were better disassemblers of the machine that is a mind. He could explode and tell Martin about himself and his wife like a petulant teenager. Or he could be an adult. He chose the latter.

Raylan emptied his glass and turned, ambling just as evenly back towards the kitchen. He wasn't trying to have the conversation without Malcolm, he'd have gone outside for that, but he didn't want to work Malcolm up with anything.

"Maybe if you hunt down my ex-wife's number, you can ask. Hell, I'm sure you can ask Jessica too. I'm sure she'll put a more dramatic spin on it to better suit your tastes. Better use of your limited phone time too, I'd imagine." The point was that Raylan didn't have to tell him shit he didn't want to.

"She and I don't talk as much as we used to," Martin said idly, like they'd somehow naturally grown apart. "Anyway, it's been lovely getting to know you. Put Malcolm on now. I know he's there. I would so hate for some sort of misunderstanding to come in the way of our arrangement and his mother's acquittal."

"Mmhmm. No. That's not gonna happen, even when he is here. If he wants to talk to you Martin, he'll turn his phone back on. That's not somethin' I can control or circumvent."

He wasn't going to turn into another doorway for Martin Whitly to try and bully his way through.

"Only voice you get to hear on this particular line is mine. And as I'd like to get back to my dinner, I'll say good luck gettin' a hold of Malcolm."

"It's important," Martin all but growled. "About something he asked me. Tell him it's about her and give him the choice."

"Sure, next time I get the chance. You have a good night now."

Raylan hung up the phone and dropped it on the counter top, heading straight for the scotch. Just a few more fingers.

Malcolm was still watching Raylan from his seat at the table with a sort of wide-eyed trepidation. Raylan pouring himself another generous glass of scotch was not a good sign.

"What did he want?" he asked hesitantly.

"He's got something to tell you. About her," he answered with a look from under his eyebrows. "He threatened your mother's acquittal. Pullin' out that many stops makes me think he's a little desperate. It's up to you if you call him. I don't care if he knows I was lyin' about you being on your way to New York or not."

Malcolm fidgeted in his seat.

"He's not going to tell me anything new about her," he said, but his confidence was shaky at best. "It was a ploy."

He flexed his hand, finally realizing it was reacting.

"I shouldn't call him. Giving him what he wants is like feeding a feral animal. It just keeps coming around after that."

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