tinstar | Slingin' from the hip, never the heart.

Sometimes, it was a boring job. Actually, most of the time the job was pretty boring, and Tim spent more time doing shit-all around the office than actually out doing leg work. At least Raylan had brought some drama with him when he arrived. Tim had to admire the way trouble followed Raylan around like a lost puppy looking for a home. It made work way more interesting.

Usually.

But that wasn't the case at the moment. It was a later night at the office than usual, spent waiting on some important paperwork to be faxed over that absolutely couldn't wait until morning. (Tim suspected that Art was punishing Raylan for doing something stupid and he got caught in the gravitational pull.) Tim sat, leaning back in his chair, feet up on his desk while he ate some sour candies.

After a long stretch of silence, one of those candies hit Raylan's cheek with a soft pap sound.

Ah the job of babysitting; something Tim got saddled with largely because he could handle Raylan and his shit and everyone including Raylan knew it. If this was anything else, he would have just asked Tim to cover for him - wasn't like the man ever seemed to be doing anything on his off time anyway - but it wasn't. After the shit he'd pulled, both he and Art knew that he was on the hook for whatever gruntwork Art decided needed to be assigned to him.

His expression remained unchanged as the candy hit the ground, eyebrows lifting a little in question as he turned his chin in his hand to look over, thumb holding his place in the book he was reading.

"We hit that part of the night, huh?" He looked back at his book. "Surprised it didn't take longer, to be honest."

"C'mon, Raylan. I ain't one of those pretty little girls that runs after you and gives it all up the moment we're alone. You gotta pace it."

Tim raised his eyebrows, popping another candy into his mouth. He chewed it as he kept talking.

"Wouldn't be any fun if I didn't draw it out." For effect, he drew out the word itself, so it came out more like draaaaaw.

A couple more candies then Tim swung his legs off his desk, setting the bag down as he stood up. He sauntered over to lean against Raylan's desk instead, arms crossed.

"What're you reading this time?"

Raylan smiled at the cute little joke. Yeah sure. "Got an aspirin or a quarter between your knees and everything, I imagine."

He could feel the restless energy rolling off Tim and took a deeper breath as he made his way around to Raylan's side of the divider, eyes coming up to meet him expectantly. The book was closed, cover turned right side up to face him, reading in large stylised block font 'The Friends of Eddie Coyle' by George V. Higgins.

"I know Art told you you gotta stay, but I promise I can intake paperwork without supervision. In case you got anythin' you'd rather be doin' than workin' on a back cavity." He wasn't ushering Tim away, that would take more energy than it was worth but maybe if he just.. opening the door of opportunity, Tim would be inclined to take it.

The smile grew on Tim's face, and he rolled his eyes.

"Don't insult me like that, Raylan. You and I both know you're shit without supervision, and the last thing I need is Art up my ass because I left you alone."

But Raylan was right in picking up that Tim was getting restless. He could sit still for hours and keep an eye on a target, but office duty is something else.

"Wanna order some food or something?"

It was worth a shot. He huffed a breath, smile breaking as his book bearing hand broke so he could glance down and put his bookmark between the pages before he tossed it onto the table, propping his chin into his fingers. A restless Tim meant he wasn't going to get any peace and quiet. Not while the Ranger had things to throw at his face.

"He ain't gotta find out," Raylan drawled in his own defense, hand falling out to gesture at nothing in particular. Still, even as he said it, he knew Tim wasn't going anywhere no matter his protests. Stubborn delightful asshole that he was.

"I could eat," he agreed with a lift of his eyebrows and a slight nod. "I've been thinkin' about that chicken you got for that one guy, took up two of our guys in the locker room? What was his name? Calvin Wallace or somethin' like that. Think they're open? If not," he continued with a wave of his hand before it fell to splay on his knee. "I'm good for just about any place that serves a decent cheeseburger."

"There's always a place open to get good chicken."

God Bless the south and their damn good food.

Tim finally moved away from Raylan's desk, going back over to his own. In the drawer was a decent collection of take out menus, and if they didn't like what they found, then Tim had it on good authority that just about ever desk in here had a similar stash.

The urge to turn one into a paper airplane and fly it at Raylan was strong. Instead, Tim just started looking through them.

"Let's see. Chicken and cheeseburgers."

Fried Chicken - Raylan's weakness. "Know the right way to my stomach," he commented as he got up from his desk to follow, chin lifting as though that really gave him a better look at the flyers in Tim's hands.

If Raylan's desk had them, he'd overlooked them under a mass of pens and abandoned post-it notes. More likely than not, considering how little attention Raylan ever paid to it.

"If we get the chicken, I'll pay," he offered with a gesture at the menus. "Maybe I'll even not ask about the types of dinners you get up too when you're not stuck here at work with me." You know, the ones 50 miles out of town. The one he'd never spoken about before but god was he curious.

"Can I ask you sommin', marshal?" It's quiet out on the porch, especially at night. No crickets. No birds. Barely even the sound of the wind tickling the brims of their hats as crispy leaves sweep across the deserted footpath. Doc is leaning back against his favoured pillar, smoking a cigarette. It's not a cigarillo, but. This particular beggar is not in the mood to be choosing.

With his feet crossed at the ankles, his right elbow atop the rails supports his weight. The other, dangling loosely, tends to the cigarette when the barrel of ashes get too long.

"You ever thought of yourself as a serial killer?" He is a US Marshal who had taught firearms; he must have shot more than just tin cans and paper targets. And if he has killed multiple people, one after another, then, well. Is that not what serial means?

Having settled in one of the porch chairs behind him, Raylan left one long leg angled out with the other serving as a shelf for the bottom of his cup that he turned idly as he enjoyed the quiet. So much of life was chaos and noise, giving a delightful sense of contrast sometimes, when self loathing didn't ruin it.

Raylan had lifted his chin at the first question, humming a soft passing note of permission, not that Doc really needed it, and lifted his eyebrows a little at the second.

"No. Serial killers murder for fun or some twisted, broken selfish reason. Take joy in it. Every man and the one woman I put down.. They were all justified, every bullet. Doesn't make me a serial killer.. though the argument for murderer still remains. Onna Arlo's favorites. For all he's done, he's never murdered someone." Arlo did love lording that over him.

"Don't know that murderer bothers me so much sometimes. Better I stop 'em then lettin' more people get hurt." He'd ask what prompted the question, but he also knew that Doc might get around to that explanation himself. "I imagine you've shot a few people, considerin'. You find it to be any different?"

Yeah so what if they tempted their own damnation for the greater good? Raylan would rather carry the unsure weight of it around then leave it on narrower, younger shoulders or innocent ones.

Justified. What does that even mean? Surely everyone believes that what they are doing is justified. They wouldn't be doing it otherwise. And who is to say that shooting people who hurt others is not some twisted, broken, selfish reason to justify pulling the trigger to oneself?

"I have killed a few people, yes. It does not keep me up at night." For Doc carries a lot of trauma with him, and there are many nights where he is kept awake or startled awake, but it is never because of the lives he has taken. What that says about him, he does not know.

"Who is Arlo?"

What people believed and what the US Government believed was very often at odds and for all the wild west vibe that people got off him and his hat, Raylan was beholden to the Marshals Service and ~~most~~ of the rules they followed. It was half of the power hammer he wielded.

"My daddy." He wasn't going to elaborate on why he called Arlo by his first name; he was sure a smart guy like Doc could figure it out.

"Where's this serial killer question comin' from?" His brow pinched a little as he focused on Doc's bent shoulders.

"Oh." Yep, they're tabling the daddy issues for another night, probably when they are both far less sober than they are now. Raylan's just getting a tight-lipped smile and a few nods for now.

"It occurs to me that I have been - still am, sometimes - living my life like the first time I was told I only had a few months left to live. I've got a little one on the way, like you do. And I was thinking. Looking at our friend, what he's going through - and you. With Arlo, whatever he might have done. I was just thinking... if she, or he, would forgive me." He does not have a badge, like Raylan. No justification. Only selfishness, and cowardice.

He'd appreciate that. He didn't like wasting sober breath on Arlo unless he had to.

He tilted his head a little as he listened and thought over his answer, ring tapping a few times against his glass.

"I've been sharin' a space with you for near a week now. None of us are perfect but you ain't cruel. You're not mean spirited. Whatever flaws you got, you seem to be a decent man. That puts you miles ahead of Arlo already. Just don't beat your lady or your kid and you're set."

Spoken as a child of that kind of environment, anything above that line was.. more than he could have asked for as boy.

Doc breathes out a sigh and looks Raylan over. There was a time they closed one eye on that, turned away, called it being a mean drunk or home affairs or something else they don't interfere in. The conduct of people who cannot act like gentlemen is something Doc doesn't feel like would be his place to comment.

"If anything she's gon' beat me for upping and leaving like this," he muses with a small twinge of a smile. Except he knows she won't. He knows she might take it as him bailing, even after he told her he would be there for her.

"Her name's Wynonna too. I thought that was rather uncanny."

That time wasn't past and Raylan had to suffer people knowing and doing nothing. Seeing them in church the next Sunday when his mother made him go and dealing with their sympathetic eyes. He always supposed that he should be grateful for it but that kind of graciousness wasn't in his DNA. Temper was.

"Yeah?" Raylan smiled. "It's not a name I hear a lot. Normally I wouldn't ask this, a man's business is his own, but we're out here chewin' the fat.. How'd you meet her? I take it she's not.. gifted with the same longevity you enjoy. Modern Woman?" A modern woman for an old school man. It was bound to be an interesting story.

"She is most definitely a modern woman, yes. Accidentally rescued me from the well. Threw a gun that belonged to her great great grandfather in it and left the rope hanging when she climbed in to retrieve it." It wasn't the smoothest start and their relationship is still very ill-defined, but he does care very much for her. Even if she isn't willing to open herself up enough to tell him that she loves him.

"I'm partial to the Colt Lightning myself but Wyatt Earp's Buntline Special is uh... particularly special." He would rather talk about guns than the fact that he's slept with his best friend's great great granddaughter, or that he has the potential of outliving her and the kid she's carrying. He hasn't actually thought that far yet.

"Suppose you have never used these old relics. They don't make guns like they used to." They're all... plasticky and much more reliable now.

Did that mean she threw a Buntline special down a well? ..Did that mean Doc didn't need to eat or drink, technically speaking? The last was an unexpected question but one that popped up anyway.

"Sounds like a big ass well.. I know how to fire and maintain rifles. They aren't as old as a Colt Lightning but there's still plenty of slide-action rifles out there bein' used. Can't say as to how they're made, I prefer my sidearm, but my range is pretty decent in both.."

A beat passed. "You said 2017. You still findin' reasons to shoot?" More to the point, was he still shooting with something as old as he was.

"Everyday." His eyes are steely cold, devoid of the warmth when he brought up the Earp girl earlier, and he answers with such certainty and without hesitation that he clearly didn't need time to think about it.

Now he is no hero, that would save a Raylan from an Arlo. He believes that is what the Marshal has committed to doing. He's committed himself to fighting other things. And while Doc has never been outdrawn, for as long as he can remember, sometimes he does dwell on what he has done, even when he's just pulled the trigger and the gun is still smoking.

"Sometimes I look at someone, or something, and I have to... come up with reasons not to shoot," he admits with a raised lip and a shake of his head. Whatever that says about him.

"Suppose I would rather be a bad man than let a bad man walk away."

Raylan nodded softly, pleased with the sure steel that Doc replied with. Doc's guess towards why Raylan does what he does was half right - protecting people that couldn't protect themselves. The rest of it was just wanting to be the asshole Lawman that came in to make bad guys have bad days. To refute the crime he was expected to fall into with everything he had in him.

Even if he found himself often walking the same line Doc was talking about.

"That means you're doin' the right job. If we let them walk away, we become responsible for lettin' back out to continue their shit... Get shot at enough, your gut starts feelin' it before it happens." He let a beat pass, considering how far to take this. A 43 year old Marshal talking to a 166 year old Gunslinger about getting shot felt.. a little laughable.

"Job bein' what it is, I admit there are times where I look for a reason to shoot. Better to put 'em outta their misery and ensure they don't come back to be a pain in the ass. One thing I do know is that everyone of 'em draws down eventually. They know what they're doin'. What they're askin' for. We supposed to die so they can feel like bigger better men and go on out into the world doin' what they want?"

Short answer: Hell no.

"I've been shot. I would not recommend it." He can feel the heat behind Raylan's words, like steel that's been tempered and hammered down to tow the line. Probably because it is not the Wild West anymore and he does not have the luxury Doc did of shooting anyone whose face he didn't like.

They might be a little too sober to be having this conversation, but he isn't sure either of them would be willing to tell the other when enough is enough, when it comes to drinking or the things they tell themselves so they can sleep like a baby at night. Best they don't start tonight.

"I just want to protect the girls," he says quietly, denying any such heroic motivations even though he would put his life on the line for just about any one of these folks he's practically just met. He knows himself and he is sure of these facts: selfishness and cowardice don't make for a hero.

Whether it's what Wyatt would have wanted... didn't really factor in. It didn't when he made the deal to stay alive as long as he had. And now he is dead. Dead men don't get a say.

"You need to be there for Winona, whether she wants you there or not. You can't make a little girl put on her best Sunday dress to come to your funeral. And I know - believe me I know - thirty seconds at the OK Corral ain't nothing compared to walking away from this life. But the world ain't ever gon' run outta assholes. You need to hang up that hat sometime, son."

Right again - People tracked that kinda stuff a lot more closely and as a Federal Agent, he was kept on a short leash. Something he felt was right, even if it got in his way more often then he liked. There were still ways around it, ways that Raylan had found over the years, but he didn't feel guilty about that law skirting. Sometimes the law wasn't in favor of itself.

"My bein' there sometimes aggravates the situation. I've been shot before too, couple of times. Never any fun and scary as shit. But better I get shot out in the field then lettin' trouble find me at home. You solve the problem before it gets to home." If he put down all the bad guys coming after him, it usually only left the slow and stupid coming at him.

"Better to risk her comin' to my funeral then risk me goin' to hers. That's protectin' them.. Modern world bein' what it is Doc.. There's simultaneously less and more to worry about. Things might be different if we were a little further in the past."

He does not have the luxury of taking care of their problems before those problems find them. The homestead is often under siege. And that is something that is going to be unsustainable, especially with that baby bump showing. Just another worry to add to the long list of worries that will never be resolved by standing around here.

"I know things are different." He can see, hear, feel that for himself. Many things have changed for the better. Some things have not. "And I also know where this road you're on will take you. Sometimes trouble comes finding you and yours, and you have to do what you have to do. But are you gon' stand there and tell me you don't ever go looking for trouble?"

It wasn't hard to miss the rebuke in the emphasis. Raylan wished his hands weren't empty. Smoking had never been his vice but getting up to get some shine right now would be a different kind of telling that he didn't want to tell. It gave his hands anything to do that wasn't worry his thumb against his index finger.

"You say that like the entire Marshal service ends their career in the ground. Any trouble I go lookin' for is backed by the might and power of the US Government and their resources. That means men, firepower, CI's and whatever else we got to throw at it. Deal with it out there so it don't come back here. Deal with the trouble at home the same way." He shook his head and stood up, unable to sit so idle.

"What the hell else would I do, Doc? This is the only thing I'm good at, shootin' shit and catchin' bad guys. No place for that at some greeter position in Wal-Mart."

"I am not worried about the entire Marshal service, Raylan. I am worried about you." and he can't possibly be the only one who is worried about him. But he can see that the topic is making Raylan uncomfortable. He does not want to push too much.

"Look." Doc raises both hands and leans back just a little bit, giving Ratlan the illusion of some space. "All I'm saying is. Every once in a while. The right thing to do is to walk away. Some of us missed that opportunity. I hope you will still have the choice, even if you are too stubborn to take it."

Worry is not something that Raylan has ever done terribly well with. Likely due to his childhood, if he had bothered to put any thought into it at all, but Doc saying that he was worried was surprising enough on its own. Very few people worried about Raylan Givens, least of all, Raylan Givens.

"It ain't that I'm too stubborn. I am the job. I've been the job since I was about 25. Winona doesn't get it either. I tried to go back to firearm instruction for her but.. It wasn't far enough away from the job. So I'm supposed to what, give up the thing that saved me from Harlan without a question? Because I might get shot?" Raylan shook his head, turned and leant on the railing, arms crossing.

"Without me out there, more people get hurt. With me at home, I'll drink myself to death," he admitted with a look over at Doc. "I ain't lookin' to do that just yet."

That's what stubbornness sounds like, good sir. But at least Raylan is honest with himself. Doc wouldn't have even admitted to the drinking. Breathing out a barely audible sigh, he tilts his head back and raises one foot to rest his sole against the pillar, going through the motions of lighting another smoke up. These cigarettes are not the cigarillos he would have preferred, but they are starting to grow on him.

"I ain't ever met nobody on their deathbed who thought they should've given more of their life to their job." Turning away briefly to blow smoke over his other shoulder, he gestures towards the hunched over Marshal with his cigarette slowly burning away between those fingers. "You might be the first."

"That's cause I still got a lotta years before I come anywhere near my death-bed. I know the risks of it all. I know what I ain't gonna get to have. Better to focus on what I can do, what I'm good at. It's not the job I focus on so much as the people within it. The ones we save. And I can't say there isn't a bit of joy knowin' that when I get outta bed, it's to ruin a bad guy's day."

It was the only admission to 'looking for trouble' that he'd give Doc - he could find out himself just how well Raylan found trouble when there was some to be found.

"You said you knew Wyatt Earp," he recalled. "He the kinda man who'd leave the job?"

Those years will be coming up to him before he even realises they have passed him by. Though, to be fair, it is still too early to say which path is the right one to follow. The end has to come first in order to determine whether it will have all been worth it in the end.

"Wyatt Earp wanted to be a farmer. He could not abide the violence, the bloodshed. But it was not to be." And John Henry Holliday wanted to be a dentist. That was not to be, either. He is here now, smoking on a porch a hundred and sixty something years later. And Wyatt is long dead and gone. Doc never blamed him or felt resentful for having to do his dirty work when he couldn't stomach it, for cleaning up after his messes all those times he shot, got cold feet, and ran away. He would always be a dear friend, and Doc doesn't feel the need to dig all that ancient history up now.

"The OK Corral damned us all." Doc closes his eyes and lets his cigarette hand hang loosely by his side, flicking ashes off with a few swipes of his thumb.

"Knowing what I know now, what happened to his children and his children's children, if I could take it all back, I--... hell I would have kept my practice open, bought him that damn farm myself, sent him there." So, yeah. If he can save one marshal several lifetimes of agony, he will. And if he can't, then at least he's tried his damnedest best.

"That's somethin' the stories left out, apparently." Raylan couldn't imagine being a farmer. It worked for the age that Doc came from but.. Not him. He knew what a farming life was and that kind of peace and solitude would drive him a different kind of insane. Nevermind that farmers were poor and worked much harder to break even. He wanted to lift himself out of the hollars, not settle into one.

"It made you legends," he argued gently before moving on, knowing full well Doc would argue such a title.

"What happened to his children's children? His sin carry over onto 'em?" Raylan had feelings about the Sins of the father being passed on, but that was something he knew was a luxury of his time and only a half held one at that. Can't be fully out from under it when you've accidently kept family feuds up.

He would say that there is no value in being a legend. Especially not with the prices they have paid, unable to break free from this cycle of harm. He might not be unhinged the same way 'The Surgeon' is but the only difference between himself and Malcolm's father are the narratives that managed to make him out to be a celebrated killer.

"They come of age. They get hunted like animals. They die. Those who hunt them become more despicable, more of a monstrosity, ever more cruel and vile. And then the next generation comes of age." Doc doesn't go into the details. He does not expect Raylan to understand even if he might believe whatever Doc tells him about the legend of the Earp curse. It is a terrible legacy to leave behind, any way you look at it.

"I am not certain that we are cut out to be farmers, you and I." Raising chickens somewhere no one can find you has a certain sort of undeniable charm. But it is not their calling.

"Sounds like humanity, if you don't mind my sayin' so. No bloodline is.. granted the right of purity or.. goodness. That comes down to the people that raise those people. Can't imagine that havin' that name caused any flowers to sprout out of anyone's steps, but.."

He lacked a lot of context, coming at this as he came at all Family lines. They were bullshit and yet, he still clung to his name and its power in the Harlan hollar. He didn't run drugs, or scams like Arlo, he wasn't a preacher or a teacher, he wasn't hill folk, but he still had the name. The trouble that Arlo had set up to come for it.

Then again, there were no devils or men who were trapped in wells for over a hundred years.

"On that last point though, you are right. My options were really get out, get into law just to stick a seed in Arlo's craw or join him and start my life of petty crime. If it wasn't for my Aunt Helen, I'd likely be dead or in jail.. That in mind, I think this is the better option. Least I know I ain't him."

"She has inherited some sins," he agrees. And he will pass his own sins on, if he is not careful. It was not something that had weighed on his mind before. But lately he has been contemplating what legacy is, what it means, the unexpected lasting impact that mistakes made a hundred and fifty years ago has had today.

"You did not merely 'get into law' to defy your father's legacy," Doc insists. He understands well, how the weight of a last name is all the more heavier when everyone knows it in a small town, when it is tainted by deeds you did not personally commit. But to reduce such a life decision to merely an act of defiance, like a petulant child - it is simply not true in his eyes.

"What Arlo does is Arlo's business. You are a good man, Raylan. You did not suddenly discover this when they stuck a star to your chest and gave you a gun. If you had other ideas, if you were a different man, you would be using that authority differently."

A heavy weight to bear when you're seeing the legacy fully formed, Raylan imagined. Were Doc an arrogant man of that type, a bragger who let it stroke his ego, there'd be a lot less sympathy to be found. But he could see the cracks in stoic face Doc wore and where the weight of it curved him a little.

Raylan looked over at the protest, eyebrows lifting a little as Doc tried to disassemble him and smiling faintly at it.

"Hard to say that when he's draggin' me and the Marshal's service into it. When his business is our business. I am a good man because I was forced along with Arlo's business my entire life. I was shootin' rats by ten, drivin' by 11 so that he and the truck could make it back to the house from Noble's Holler. Used to beat her so bad she'd run up into the black holler, take refuge.." He killed Frances too, though not directly. Not in an actionable way that Raylan could lock him up and make him suffer for. His eyes got a little darker as he thought about his mother and what she had to suffer. What she taught him while she was suffering.

"He was a powerful man. Expected me to be just like him," he continued, face pinching with incredulousness. "Just like every other family clan in those mountains. And with Arlo, you didn't have a choice about gettin' that kinda attention. You ever see tornado weather? Sky turns green, and you know somethin's up as soon as he'd walk in. Except with him, didn't matter what you said. Truth or what he wanted.." Raylan shook his head, tone as calm and unbothered as ever. "It was goin' south. No, I got into law to stop people like him. To catch criminals like him and put the trash where it belongs... And I don't know you'd find to many people who'd call me 'good'. More than likely 'Asshole'. But I'm an asshole that's generally right."

In the federal pen is where that kinda trash went. And he was good at it.

Edited 2020-12-04 19:45 (UTC)

He fell quiet while Raylan talked. It may have only been a week or so but they have fallen into quite a comfortable, intuitive pattern with each other. They are the kind of men who would not inadvertently step on each other's toes, knowing when to let the silence stretch and when who should fill it.

There are no interruptions. Only drinking. There is little else that can be done now, dredging up all this past.

"You can be both a good man and an asshole. I have known many of those too." He flashes a rueful little smile over at Raylan. The two are not mutually exclusive. He reckons they forge the best kind of assholes in the fires on those hills. In fact you have to be an asshole sometimes to do the right thing. That's just the way of the world.

When they told him he had a few months to live, he didn't want to do medicine anymore. He wanted to live life, see new places, meet all the people worth meeting before his time was up. Moved somewhere warmer - they said it'd help the cough - started gambling, sleeping around. They were too busy chasing outlaws and shootout highs to follow where the drunks went, stumbling home beating on their women and children. They could've been heroic. They chose the thrill instead. And now he looks at Raylan. Looked, at John Constantine. And man. He didn’t have time but he ended up wasting all of it anyway.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that alone, Raylan." Doc couldn't have been there for him, he was busy counting mould in the bricks in his prison, but someone should've been.

It was a pattern that Raylan appreciated. It almost made him feel at home, like he could be sittin' on Arlo's front porch with Doc, shooting the shit til the stars were high in the sky. If asked, he'd be hard pressed to pin down why he and Doc were so comfortable with each other. Doc had a soothing way about him that seemed to compliment Raylan's own southern affability.

Raylan couldn't help but scoff a smirk at the opinion. "I wish more people agreed." No, he'd been hearing all his life about how he was always 'too' something. Too quiet, too loud, too angry, too soft. Too much of whatever the other person couldn't quite handle. It didn't matter what people thought of him, in the end, but that didn't mean he didn't take on the criticism and carry it around with him.

He shook his head. "No use apologizin' for the past. Nothin' to have been done about it, with all the people that saw it goin' on. Only one that did was my Aunt Helen. Used to know when Arlo was goin' full tilt and drive up in her beat up station wagon and I'd run out and climb on in. She'd take me back to her place, turn on the TV, made sure I got somethin' to eat." He shook his head again. "She's the one saved me from that place. Saved my life from the mines.. I wasn't always alone.."

He took a deep breath and shifted his hat on his head a little. "At any rate, I know where I come from. What my blood makes me capable of. My ending up a Marshal is half and half with my endin' up as an outlaw. Mighta always been that way, regardless of Arlo, I don't know."

He looked over. "You always want to be a dentist?"

Could be that it's like talking into a kind of funhouse mirror. If you only feel comfortable mired deep in your own thoughts, keeping things to yourself, it's not really cheating if you're talking to someone you can understand on a level you don't necessarily share with a great many people.

Besides. The only thing better than keeping everything bottled up inside is having two whole bottles you can stuff more into.

"I don't think there's all much of a difference 'tween marshals and outlaws. Either you're an asshole with a badge or an asshole without one." Either way, whether you have a badge, maybe a uniform, or some kind of rulebook or creed or whatever helps you sleep at night - still an asshole. At least, he's a likeable asshole. He's got that much going for him.

At the mention of dentistry, Doc cocks an eyebrow and smiles almost fondly. This is ancient history that Raylan is digging up now. "I would not say I gave it that much thought, but I did enjoy it, however short it lasted. Everyone still calls me Doc after all." He was a bit of a learned man, of his time anyway; would have been a waste not to put that education to some use. He'd started out fairly young and he was quite good at it. It became a bit of a calling. Probably would have kept going if his health had allowed it, too. Of course, he doubts that anyone today would know his name if he did.

Half-wondering if dentistry is merely a way to distract from Arlo talk, Doc deftly turns the conversation back onto Raylan.

"Does it worry you, that you'll turn out like Arlo? Have one drink too many, someone say sommin' that sets you off and you just..." Doc purses his lips and shakes his head. "Snap?"

Keeping things bottled up was a skill of Raylan's he'd been perfecting all his life.

"There is, but it ain't in the badge. It's in the respect for life and the law. Plenty of Federals with a badge that ain't got business carryin' one, except for the power of the US Government getting in the way." Still those people eventually fucked up and were caught, booted out in disgrace. Authority was a tricky line to walk sometimes, even for the best of them.

"That's your fault for takin' up first aid and expandin' 'Doc' out to general care instead of stayin' in Dentistry. Still, quiet a job change. Quite a job start, considerin' the times." And he'd be interested to know more if-

Damnit Doc, Raylan couldn't help but think as the conversation was turned right back to where it was before. He'd bared plenty of what made him but the question asked was a focused one into what he was, verses where he came from. He looked down into his glass and the fraction of tension in his jaw were the only indications that he gave that they were getting close to nerves, but questions asked needed to be answered, lest they pop up again and again and again..

.. but it wouldn't be so bad to crack the lid on his proverbial bottle, let out a few wild tendrils of steam before capping it back up and tucking it into the back of his head again.

"I'm 43 years old, Doc, I'm grown. Already turned out like I'm gonna turn out. Only thing I share with Arlo is a name and a temper." That was completely untrue - Raylan was very much like his father; Charming, witty, stubborn and sharp minded in an undercutting and unexpected way with a temper to match. The only difference was how they led their lives. How they saw it work, functionally, practically for the people in the low valley. "Winona told me, when I came back to Kentucky that I was the angriest man she'd ever seen. Not on the surface maybe but still. I suppose I see her point, now and then."

"I was trained in a little bit of everything. No point letting that go to waste. Besides, people have been getting hurt but no one here's been asking for a filling." They probably wouldn't want one of his fillings either. They use much better equipment and techniques now, and it would be far less tedious than what he is used to.

Doc is a natural storyteller. He could regale Raylan with tales of old for days. He has something of a flair for being melodramatic, describing vividly and exaggerating a few details to spin elaborate half-truths and improvisations into wild and thrilling tales. If he liked the sound of his own voice that much, Raylan would struggle to get any moment of peace and quiet between Doc and Malcolm yapping away.

But storytime will come soon enough. Right now it is getting tidbits out of Raylan time. Though Doc can sense that he is pushing a line he does not wish to cross. He will have to tread carefully to walk them back over to safety.

"You never know. My old man came back different from the war. Everyone came back different. Sometimes it's all set in stone, 'fore you were even born. Sometimes things happen, or other people come into your life, and they change everything." He hasn't seen Raylan truly angry yet. He's not sure he wants to. He doubts it would change anything between them, but he would rather they all get along, work through their issues. No need to be putting water under the bridge if they can stay dry in the first place.

"You don't look 43 though..." He's technically outlived Doc. Maybe Malcolm has, too. "Still got your whole life ahead of you." Plenty of time to be righting old wrongs and committing new ones.

"Suppose Dentists count as any kinda Doctor when there ain't one around," he reasoned. All Raylan knew is that he wasn't going to be asking for any dentistry. He knew what kinda goods were used back then or, at least, that they killed or made ill half of who took 'em. No fault of the doctors, he was sure, but cleanliness had a long way to go from the time of Doc's training.

Raylan would rather have other people talking then talk himself; him talking is what led to situations like this, where he could feel more bits of him being slowly pulled out like bait on fishing line. Always Be Cool was a motto that Boyd had said often enough that it echoed around the back of Raylan's mind now and then. This was one of those times.

"I was born after Arlo came back from 'Nam. Doesn't matter how they come back. Doesn't give 'em any right." Yes, Doc was starting to skirt an emotionally dangerous line, even though his tone stayed at the same casual level.

"It's the whiskey - it's a natural preservative. You're.. what, like.. 35 when you got dropped into that well?" He looked it, for all his hundred fifty plus years. Raylan smirked and shook his head. "Nah, none of us change for the better after a point. We normal people now just get.. Older and crabbier and more assholish til we grow a cancer until we finally give up the fight and die."

Well. So far no one's died from him patching them up yet, so the decent track record's staying intact. A gunshot wound or moderate burns he could still deal with, but he's hoping it won't come to him needing to do anything too complicated. Cutting anyone open or reattaching a severed something is far beyond what he would consider himself capable of doing.

Doc isn't familiar with ''nam' but he doesn't ask. However they personally feel about war, trauma, abuse, violence, he thinks he's pushed Raylan as far as he wants to be pushing anyone tonight. He taught himself to drive and he knows to ease up on the gas, cruise for a bit, take it easy. Makes the ride a whole lot smoother.

"We best be finding ourselves some proper whiskey then. You and I got shit to be done before we turn old and crabby and die of cancer." He'd like to think that the moustache no one would recognise him without makes him look older, more distinguished, like he knows what he's talking about, but even after all this time, he's a young man at heart, buried somewhere behind all those walls.

"Mm, our livers are gonna liquify on this shit at this rate," he admitted with a soft laugh that dissolves into a sigh as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose before setting his hat a little further back on his forehead and shaking it softly. "We got plenty of time to get shit done. I might be old compared to most of the people here, all the young twenty something kids who still think that just bein' offended about a situation is enough to change it, but I still got plenty of gas left in my tank. You too," he agreed with a finger gesture over at him.

No, it was better Doc left the previous topic where it was. Raylan didn't want to get angry about it or frustrated at innocent questions from someone just trying to understand him better, not when he welcomed it all. That wouldn't have been fair, he answered as much as he asked.

"What are you doin' runnin' a bar? I mean, I figure you're not gonna run back into the life you had before, things are.. a lots different now but.." He left the questioning hanging but looked over at him as he finished.

"There are an awful lot of young folk around here," Doc agrees. Young by normal standards, that is. He is not familiar with terms or concepts like 'millennials'. It's difficult not to be protective of them, sheerly out of instinct. Especially of the young ladies, although there might be something carried over from the old days.

"I came into possession of Shorty's after the previous owners- moved on. I am familiar with the business, although all this new paperwork is a bit of a nuisance. It gave me something to do, some income, some space, away from Wynonna. And I have repurposed the basement, experimenting with some medication for a friend of hers." Not that she knows that he is helping Dolls. That particular affliction, like Doc's immortality, is not something they can treat with over-the-counter medication.

He is not certain he can explain Dolls's salamander... dragon...? Fire-breathing abilities in any succinct manner so he opts to leave it at that.

"Seems like you can't be a gambler or a gunslinger these days. I'm open to suggestions, if you have any. Apart from some back alley dentist of questionable repute."

"Suppose they'll keep us from gettin' too crusty and stuck in our ways, maybe," he said, grin breaking even as he finished. "As though we ain't anyway."

But he looked over to listen to Doc go to answer the question posed, head tilting a little bit at the 'away from Wynonna'. Having been married, Raylan understood the distance that people needed in an relationship but it was rare for him to think of it that way - space away from Winona.

"Runnin' a bar is honest business, ain't nothin' wrong with it. Just not.. what I imagined someone like you doin'. Then again, most of that assumption is based on stories. I suppose I oughta apologize for that but.." He shrugged a little. It was what it was.

"Bartendin' and basement Chemist ain't a bad role. Keeps you busy durin' the evenings, I suppose.. You livin' with Wynonna then? What's she do for a livin'?"

"I'm a hell of a lot older than you, so. There should be no 'old man talk' coming from you," Doc chides. But no, you might be able to teach these couple of old dogs some new tricks. They might learn them well enough, or at least adapt. But they'll always go back to playing with their favourite toys, visiting their favourite watering hole, sleeping in the same spot, and eating the same damn puppy chow they liked when they were a fraction of the age they are now.

"Stories are all I have, but. I don't think I can live that life anymore. Not without- getting arrested and drawing all sorts of wrong attention from the government." Maybe Wyatt had the right idea, settling down and living out the rest of your life in peace. Doc has the time now to be doing that. Even if Purgatory is the sort of town where nothing is ever quiet and still for very long. Trouble will come looking, even if he were to hang up his boots.

"We uh... it's uh... complicated." Doc sighs, scratching the bridge of his nose. "There's a shady as shit government organisation in our town. She's working with them. Back in the day Wyatt Earp went after the wrong sheriff. I was hoping I'd paid for that, in full, but she's... still cleaning up his mess. At least she's getting paid for it, I suppose, but. I don't trust them. At least with the marshal service, you know what you're gettin'. Them rules are simpler. Or they were, I should say." He eyes Raylan up and down and cracks him a lopsided smirk.

"Not that I am in any way implying you're the type to play by those rules. You've got trouble written all over your face."

Raylan's grin peaked in its spread at the admonishment, eyebrows bouncing up a little as he bobbed his head. What are you gonna do about it, old man. They both still had plenty of years to learn something new, to still be surprised by the world. Or themselves, though that was less likely than the rest.

"You'd have to sharpen up in different areas, that's for sure. Tech bein' what it is." Paperwork, cameras, trails. All the best ways that people like him chased people who broke the law. Regardless of the reason why they broke it.

But Raylan was interested in Wynonna, and the type of woman that would snag Doc's eye, forehead creasing as he frowned gently in faint confusion. Of course, the crack at the end broke it back into an innocent smile, Raylan blinking big dark eyes at him.

"I don't have the faintest clue what you mean by that. My file is thick based on bias and nothin' more." Complete lie. But back to Wynonna.

"But rules are meant to evolve to a situation.. Even though I work for the Federal Government, I still support not trustin' it in whole. Especially some of the agencies." like the FBI. Don't get him started. "What do you mean 'went after the wrong sheriff'?"

"Maybe they just don't like the look of your face," Doc teases. He has heard many defences before. Has himself needed to produce such defences. But different times necessitated different courses of action. It was one man's word against another's and who could outdraw whom where a bottle of your special occasion whiskey couldn't solve a disagreement. They didn't need any lawyers to prove anything. Maybe Raylan would have lived well in his time. But you can't choose where and to whom you are born.

"The Earps are... caught up in something you would find hard to believe." More so than Doc Holliday still being alive and kicking is hard to believe. Nevermind the whole getting his best friend's great great granddaughter pregnant and all. Well, he does love them hot and batshit crazy, so on that front Wynonna has got those covered at least. There are complications there - which relationship doesn't have any, really? - but he tries not to think of the two of them as anything more than... whatever the term is these days for consenting adults who enjoy sleeping and killing and watching the occasional TV program together. Maybe that term is simply a special kind of... family friend.

"When I was close to death, Wyatt rode to Purgatory, take care of the sheriff. Word is he was terrorising the town. Before he could put the sheriff down, he cursed Wyatt Earp and all his descendents. The seventy seven people that Wyatt killed would come back every time the next Earp heir turned 27, a little more feral and demonic each time. It was the sheriff's wife Constance who came after me." Doc glances over at Raylan and sighs, lowering his gaze as his jaw shifts uncomfortably. It is what they do, going around hunting resurrected unsavoury characters. There is little time to be spent on more conventional endeavours.

"She's got 27 good years with her baby, should she choose to keep it." Doc is actively choosing not to get attached to any idea of a happily ever after. There is no such thing. "And then it all goes to shits, all over again. That is if they both live that long. I... God I pray that they do, but. I do not think they will."

Edited 2020-12-28 06:07 (UTC)

"Maybe so," Raylan agrees with a curl of his features and a bob of his head. He did have the tendency to rub some people the wrong way, only made worse by his childish poking of said raw rub, just to get what he wanted. Raylan might have done well in Doc's time, but he'd rather have been born in the one he was.

Just for basic vaccinations and medicine, if he were honest.

"We're caught up in something I find hard to believe so that door's hinge has already been greased." But he hadn't asked his question idly, and watched Doc's features as he spoke, and as he got into Magics, Raylan leaned forward a little bit in his consumed interest. As Doc finished, Raylan had to chew it over, expression saying just that as he sat back in his chair, eyes casting off the porch again. Eventually they came back to Doc.

"Also means that the family line has managed to continue in.. very short busts of time. Well shit, Doc," was all he could say for another minute.

"So you get seventy seven that you gotta put down every time a new Earp hits 27? Was the.. the sheriff's wife the one that cursed you? Saved you?" Was it a little bit of both, considering that Doc was dying anyway?

"Pffuh. It's just your everyday kidnapping, possibly trafficking depending on what they're after." Nothing too strange about that, apparently. Maybe it would make things a little easier knowing what they want, why they have been put here. It's the question that many people have been asking, after all. But hey. If there isn't going to be an easy road back, maybe it's better that it's two lone wolves chewing out their cowboy hats than the people they know.

"Mm, that would be her. We did get her, in the end. Took care of her without getting myself killed in the process." They're... linked? It's complicated. And Doc isn't going to get into the details. He doesn't even know the full details of it himself.

"They haven't... hm... I mean no one's managed it yet. And I don't think it ends, after that." That would be too simple. It's perhaps worse than the fate of being trapped alone in the dark, just having to watch them all die. He has grown quite fond to the girls.

"Honestly Raylan I don't know it's going to work. I'm not just a bartender. We are violent people in a violent place doing violent things, and I know it. It just- ain't what anyone deserves." This isn't worrying about your baby's first steps or their first day of school or their first date or the first time they put their foot down on the gas pedal. This is going to be Doc and Wynonna arguing over why they should or shouldn't be putting a gun in a hand too small with a thumb too short to reach the hammer and this constant need to protect someone, not being able to let go or even let them out of their sight for half a second, always fearing the worst.

Underneath all that is what Doc doesn't want to say, about Earps, Hollidays, and Givenses, but that Raylan will understand precisely because he doesn't want to say it out loud. They are who they are because of the luck of the draw, and because they are who their violent worlds need them to be in order to survive. There are enough cold and hard people in this world, and if he can help it he doesn't want anyone else to turn out like himself. Or Wynonna. Or Raylan.

"There ain't nothin' every day about this place except you and I, if you haven't noticed." Raylan had no doubts that Doc absolutely noticed. "Traffickin'", he scoffed as his head turned back out to the porch and the scoff betrayed him into a short laugh that he tried his best to bury in emptying his cup. "Like we got anythin' worth the trouble we'll cause in the tryin' to keep us."

Raylan wasn't going to ask for the details. Even if Doc did know them, hearing them alone wasn't going to make him understand and it was a pointless path to wander down without context. It wasn't like he was suddenly gonna figure it out.

"A whole lotta live ain't what anyone deserves. No one deserves half the shit that's thrown at 'em." He sat forward to tug that moonshine bottle back out from under the table they'd stowed it away under like it was something they were keeping neat and tidy, hidden from no one but tucked away per the social rules nonetheless. "But that is a lot to deal with. I hope like hell to keep Willa away from Law enforcement, away from the people like her granddaddy, like her roots.."

He popped the cork and poured a generous amount in his mug, holding the bottle out in offer to pour Doc some more too.

"Don't matter much what I'd do, so I won't bother. What I will say is that you got the skills and intestinal fortitude to figure it out. I know that kids are.. soft and innocent. Full of possibility.. Only a rare few ain't got but a single option for their path for in life. You help raise that little girl. You help teach her to be proficient. You do your best. Hope for the best.. What else can anyone do. Don't start killin' yourself over decisions you haven't even made yet."

"I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be considered 'every day', neither. Think you're on your own with that one, Marshal." Sometimes Doc does enjoy the limelight, and he likes being special. Sometimes he shies away from it. But the fact of the matter is, just because it's easy to forget he's more than a century and a half old sometimes doesn't mean that Doc is any less strange than the other people or the other things that are happening in this town. At least he is able to be an anomaly that Raylan can blend into. Surely two cowboys don't stick out more than just the one.

"Sometimes you cannot protect them from everything, hard as you may try." Sometimes you are the problem that you are trying to protect someone else from. Doc understands that too. He doesn't quite make eye contact as he holds his mug out for an unhealthy ration of moonshine. He would never risk asking if it is maybe too much or perhaps too early or say or do anything other than bring his drink in close once Raylan has finished pouring and peering into his rippling reflection before taking a drink.

"I think we're in the same boat for that. Not mattering much what we would do." Doc is actively rejecting the notion of making any plans beyond taking things one day at a time. Maybe decisions will be made that will require his input. Maybe there will be none. He is not allowing himself to get involved any more than he already has. For Doc it is not a matter of sticking his head in the sand as much as it is not wanting to meddle in something that, for better or worse, he doesn't feel is his place to interfere in. But maybe Raylan does perceive this very conscious, deliberate distancing as strange.

"Well if we can survive living on this I'm pretty sure we're set to survive this place at least," Doc jokes, lifting his glass of moonshine to gesture at what good shit he is referring to, changing the subject again to more neutral, friendly banter territory. "Whatever else is waiting for us back home, however we get there, it's a whole other problem for another day."

Raylan bobbed his head, begrudgingly. It was more than odd to be the most 'every day' of the bunch of them, part of why he'd gravitated so easily to Doc's like type habits and mannerisms. There was a comfort there, in their large group of two. It wasn't as though Raylan really forgot but it was easy to let slip from the forefront of his mind that Doc was coming on a hundred and seventy.

Pouring out, the bottle was set back down so he could get back around his own cup. He wouldn't find any argument to the idea that it was too early or too much - they had nowhere to go. Nothing to do.

"Even if you could, we shouldn't want to. Not everything. Shit shapes a person. Either way, we could never think of all the things that might happen." One day at a time kept the plate that was already heavy enough, a little lighter. He didn't understand Doc's distancing but.. he doesn't have to. Understanding wasn't going to give him any secrets or gifts that would change Doc's mind. Man had a right to make it up the way he wanted to.

Raylan huffed a chuckle. "If we can survive this, we'll survive anything. Pretty sure we're workin' on being test subjects for how to liquidate our livers. They might need a doc for us, we keep goin' at this pace for weeks more. Somehow," he mused with a look into his cup with a pull of his lips before he spoke into it as he lifted it up for a drink, "I doubt we're going to stop."

"Oh you and I have stomached worse things, I'm sure." There has been no reason to stop, so far. Doc doesn't think he would find any reason to in the coming days. He is in a better mood when he's had a glass, aboe to think more clearly than when he is cranky and grumpy, and other people who have had a glass themselves would find him more tolerable too. It's a win-win situation, as far as he's concerned.

"Suppose we are turning in after this bottle. That's about as responsible as I am willing to be." Gives them a little bit more time to finish up, but not too much that they might risk filling in the silences that fall between them with questions or suggestions that might go too far.

Raylan chuckled and sighed, setting his hat a little too far forward on his face as he laid his head back against the chair. "Far too many to tell," he admitted with a heavy hefted breath that sounded fairly satisfited with how they'd spent their evening.

He glanced at the bottle from under the rim of his hat with a nod and settled back down. "Probably a good idea. Else we're gonna pass out out here and I don't know how safe that is. Malcolm would hate to come down at see us lookin' like to CowboyPopcicles out here." He heaved another deep breath.

"Might as well finish inside, let our toes remember what it's like to be warmed by actual heat and not moonshine,mm?" Raylan pushed his hat back and stood up, wobbling a little before getting his feet under him. "Maybe we don't wait for the rest of the bottle," he admitted with a laugh.

[ooc: yeah, I feel the wrap up of this one comin' you wanna cap it off?]

"My soul is unwilling but my toes might agree with you," Doc jokes. He doesn't think he has much of a soul left anymore, but that's another topic of misery for another miserable day.

Standing mostly upright out of sheer stubbornness, he reaches over to get the door, holding it open long enough for Raylan to get inside. A heavy hand claps against his back on his way in and Doc follows soon after, letting the porch door swing closed behind them. Thought of conquering the stairs is a little daunting right now but with a few laughs and clumsy bruises on their way to the promise of a dreamless sleep in a soft, warm bed, they can probably manage the feat between the two of them coordinating their efforts leaning against each other on their way up.

But first. They have a drink to finish in the dark.

[ 1 | 2 | 3 ]

[ How would you feel about Raylan comin' to arrest Arlo from Boyd's general custody, ala Image 2?]

[ Hell yeah! ]

All parents damage their children. It was something Raylan had seen or heard somewhere, offered up like it was a dark comfort meant to imply a collective suffering of children at the hands of their parents. A community of disappointed sons and daughters. That was nice enough on paper, he supposed but out in the real world.. Well. They hadn't had to suffer Arlo Givens in his prime. Hell even now the old bird was a credible threat, you put him in the wrong position - some things never changed.

Which was why Raylan was on his way to Boyd's Bar first and if that didn't pan out, he'd head over to Ava's. All that mattered was that Arlo had a warrent out for his arrest and Raylan aimed to be the one to bring him in. He couldn't say much about Arlo taking up with Boyd, old dogs don't learn new tricks, but that didn't mean Raylan thought it was a good thing. Not that Arlo gave a single shit about what Raylan thought either way.

Pulling up in front of the bar, Raylan stepped out and rolled in, half expecting Arlo to be sitting at one of the tables with a whiskey in hand, half expecting the place to be deserted for more profitable reasons. Reasons he could chase after.

It'd be a real good day if he managed to get Arlo and Boyd in handcuffs by the end of the day.

Raylan's mostly right on the second guess. The bar is empty, though it's difficult to tell if it's because it's just opened or if Boyd likes things that way, and he's particularly fond of not letting anyone know the answer.

Boyd himself is particularly fond of not letting anyone know much of the answers. Or the big game, or the play. Arlo swooped in earlier and Devil let him know, and Boyd had given instructions accordingly with mild annoyance that didn't show but stained his words, just a little. Arlo is becoming a liability.

Perhaps, Boyd thinks, Arlo ought to go. But that would mean he would miss one Raylan Givens, and on cue the other all but swaggers onto the scene, walking from the hip, a cross between a man's man and a real old fashioned cowboy.

When Boyd moves out of his office, his smile is genuine, the whiteness of his deeth sliding perfectly into place.

"Raylan Givens," he announces, all charm, arms open in a cross between a welcoming gesture and feigining surprise. "I would offer a drink, but the way your feet hit the floor suggest you're here on business."

He always did have good timing.

If anyone didn't know Boyd, the wide gesture and the warm smile might be taken as actual warmth and welcome but Raylan didn't much buy the store front dressing for whatever nefarious deeds it was covering in the back. He'd seen Boyd sling too much shit with an eerie sincerity that would almost hook Raylan if he wasn't so astutely aware of This Shit.

If he didn't know that Boyd cared about Arlo in some degree, he would almost wonder if his body was back there. Wonder, not worry.

He gave Boyd a superficial little smile, lifting his chin as he spoke. "I'm lookin' for Arlo. You got him in the back?"

A finger gestured that way with the question but even if he didn't, Raylan was heading that way anyway. Boyd was right. These boots were here for business, and that's just what they'll do.

Boyd's smile is smooth, barely changing as he watches Raylan all but glide across his bar floor and towards the back.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were accusin' me of something." His voice is light, jovial as he follows him idly by. he has nothing to hide. Arlo's not there, after all. No one is, just Boyd by his lonesome. Devil's the one who's squirreled Arlo away.

"Am I correct in ascertaining that this ain't friendly chat with your old man?"

"Gimme time, I'm sure you'll give me a reason," Raylan replied darkly in return as he looked over the back office and the boxes of stock that were being kept here instead of.. wherever the rest of it was. If Arlo was here, he'd likely be sat on that couch, looking like someone just shoved shit under his nose at the sight of Raylan.

Taking a deep breath, hands propped on his hips, Raylan turned around, one finger gesturing at Boyd's general direction.

"I know he's workin' for you and I ain't askin' on or about what, but I need to know where he is," he insisted, ignoring the question posed. "It's only gonna be worse for him if it's lookin' like he's runnin' from what's comin' to him."

Was there ever a friendly chat between Arlo and Raylan? Even if Boyd was almost never there for them, Raylan knew full well Boyd knew what the relationship was like and only god knows what Arlo had been whispering in his ear when asked. No, Raylan was sure Boyd knew exactly what talking to Arlo was like. Unless you wore a skirt, you weren't likely to get a differently toned one.

"Your daddy ain't here," Boyd says simply, cheshire grin full and wide as he crosses his arms. It's defensive, but made to look far more languid than he has any right to be, nonchalant. Boyd is correct, though his truth is only partial--he'd sent Devil to hide him for a while, purposefully leaving him ignorant to his exact whereabouts.

"May I be so bold to ask what he's gotten himself into this time? Last I checked, you weren't exactly jumping at the chance to have a meaningful fatherly reunion."

Of course he wasn't here. Goddamnit. The tense in Raylan's jaw turned to 11 as he stared Boyd down, debating the ask and knowing that answering would only send Boyd scurrying off into the brush to warn Arlo. Shit, maybe Boyd would be stupid enough to do just that and Raylan would get lucky.

"I wanna take him out for roller skating and ice cream, Boyd," he started sarcastically and afterwards, I figure we can take a stroll down to the office, have a nice long talk about what's been goin' on in this back room to start with," he said, finger jabbing towards the smaller man before he stormed back out towards the bar area to stop in front of the jukebox, hands on his hips and tounging his lip as he debated back and forth with himself.

Finally, he turned around. "What are you doin' with him, day in and day out anyway? What can't you find some other backasswards dumbass to do for you?"

That's a layered question. Complicated in the way only they can be--Boyd answers, having followed Raylan to the jukebox, with a slight flourish of his hands. It's quick, long fingers outstretched, midway to raising them like a man of god. Far more casual, though the smile is gone.

"Harlan's a small town," he reasons. There's more to it, there's always more--Arlo is skilled, if old, and his expertise and connections are things Boyd finds useful. There's another part, subconscious at best: Raylan. They'll always orbit each other, even if they're both playing with fire. He does, however, give as much of a straight answer as he can.

"Last I heard, he's recently enjoyed the fine dining that Diggers has to provide, most notably during happy hour." Boyd's going to be making one hell of a quick phone call after Raylan leaves--just in case Devil brought him there. But it's information and the type of information that Boyd doesn't give lightly. A gesture, of some sort. Or a ploy. "If you see him there, I do hope you'll be kind enough to remind him that our specials are infinitely better."

The first time he'd been outside of New York State in over three years, and he and Peter had ended up in Kentucky. Granted, it was Lexington, which landed it in the "It could be worse, I guess" category of travel destinations, but that wasn't the point.

The first time in over three years, and he was in Kentucky, and he wasn't even sure why. It was a case, Peter said. That was basically what Neal knew about the situation. Something something Detroit mob, something something seized art, something something Manhattan white collar unit case.

He minced through the Lexington courthouse in Peter's wake, feeling wildly overdressed and, for once, not in a good way. There was standing out, and then there was sticking out, and he was doing the latter. Peter at least had the benefit of the FBI uniform, that was to say, a middling-quality suit that had been worn several years past the expiration date of the style. Neal hadn't bothered to tailor his clothes to the region, which left him with little choice but to lean into it. Smile at the women who walked by. Hold the doors open with little half-bows, wear his hat at just a bit more jaunty of an angle.

When they stepped off the elevator and Neal realized they were heading for the US Marshals' offices, he almost stopped dead. He caught up with Peter just in time to walk inside, whispering in the man's ear, "Really? We're helping the Marshals Service?"

The FBI uniform stuck out just as much as Neal's hat, people openly staring at the fedora more than the suit with it, by and large - they were used to the latter coming through now and then but Jazz hadn't exactly found a fond home in the middle of Lexington, the tryhard city in Kentucky. Being the capital had that effect if you understood anything about the unfortunate land and people around it.

The office was pretty transparent in all the glass that it had and the back most conference room had the most bodies in it, but it was Tim, sitting at his desk, who stood up and stepped around to greet them. The elevator dinged behind the closing glass doors and they were promptly pushed back open by one tall, too lean man in a hat.

"Heya, how can I help you," Tim started, glancing at Raylan who was glancing at the obvious strangers to town from under his own hat as he slipped past them with a polite 'Scuse me' as he went past them and into the bustling conference room that introduced the hatted cowboy with a 'Raylan, good-' by a stout older man, obviously the Chief. Tim smiled faintly, lifting his eyebrows with a little tilt of his head to draw the two men back to his question after the noise is muted by the closing glass door.

“ViCap?!” Will Graham and Jack Crawford said the word at the same time with the same level of incredulity, neither of which appeared to have any effect on the beautiful but hard looking woman who stood in the room with them.

“Be glad it isn’t back into a jail cell,” she said without any hint of mercy. “Which would have been my preference but when you bring in a high-profile serial killer it appears that gains you special friends.”

“Settling the wrongful arrest lawsuit made those friends,” Will remarked with an innocent expression on his face that earned him a narrowed eye glare from Prurnell, Jack growled in his throat and gave Will a stand down side glance.

“I need Will, right here in the BAU.” He said with firm directness. A man used to getting his own way through the sheer force of his personality. Except Kade Prurnell was a woman who was also used to getting her own way through the sheer force of her personality and she quickly fired back, “Your needs are the least of our concerns, Jack.”

It was at this point that Will decided to slouch down a bit in his chair and hope the both of them forgot he was in the room.

“Look!” Jack stood up going for intimidation through size, but Prurnell was having none of it and stepped right into his desk, finger jabbing in the big man’s direction. It was like watching a chess match with each player vying for dominance over the center of the desk … er … board and Jack was not winning this.

“This is not a discussion, Jack! I am here telling you about the reassignment as a courtesy…”

“COURTESY?!?”

“YES!”

“You are taking one of my strongest assets…”

“Strongest?? Three department psychiatrists agree that Will Graham is an unfit, unstable, broken pony who should be taken out behind the stable and shot!” She paused and looked at Will. “No offense.”

“None taken,” really. It was not anything he had not already called himself, and worse.

Jack looked ready to launch into his next argument but Prurnell got in there first.

“You are never getting field clearance for him again, AND it is on his permanent record that he is never allowed to own or carry a firearm.” She looked at Will flatly. “Not that the last one is any great loss.” Will shrugged. His questionable marksmanship with a pistol was one of the less offensive running jokes about him making its way around the office.

Jack set his hands on his hips. It made him look twice as pugnacious but Will and Prurnell both knew it meant that Crawford was beginning to accept defeat. Will straightened in the chair and picked up the conversation.

“Violent Crimes Apprehension Program,” he spelled out ViCap. “Not like we’re not in the same building,” he offered to Jack only to catch Prurnell’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.

Uh oh.

Jack saw it as well and his bullish shoulders tensed. “What?”

Prurnell leaned back with a smile that was sweet, in the way that cyanide gas had a sweet almond scent.

“Mr. Graham’s doctors feel it would be in his best interests to relocate from the area of such recent trauma. It so happens that the FBI and the US Marshals office have been discussing joint operation initiatives. One of the pilot programs is being stood up as we speak.”

Both Jack and Will wore the same are you shitting me expression. Will recovered his voice first as he shifted in the chair with a humorless snort.

“The FBI and the US Marshals office? Joint … anything? We can’t share a urinal without trying to piss on each other.”

Jack scoffed as Prurnell looked pained.

“Part of why it has been decided that more interagency cooperative efforts…” both Jack and Will groaned like teenage boys having to hear reprimand from the school principal for the hundredth time. Prurnell rolled her eyes and reached for her briefcase. She reached into it and pulled out a file folder, throwing it into Will’s lap and looking smug when he ooofed as the corner caught his crotch.

“Everything you need is in there,” she said without sympathy watching as Graham opened the file.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

“Harlan Kentucky?” He looked up over his glasses at her. Prurnell smirked. “What? You like remote areas. You report to Chief Mullen two weeks from Monday.”

“Is this our punishment or theirs?” Jack asked in an unpleasant tone. Prurnell just smiled sweetly and turned for the door.

“Don’t think of it as an either/or, Jack.” She paused fingers curled around the door handle. “In this instance the answer is both.”

As the door closed behind her Crawford fell into his chair with a long exhale, like a deflating balloon. He stared at the door for almost three minutes, the silence broken only by the rustle of paper as Will flipped through the file.

“This is bullshit.” Jack said.

“Mmm.” Will acknowledged absently.

“What do they think a forensic profiler is going to do with the US Marshal service?!” Jack was starting to wind back up, but Will ignored him as he read from the file.

“’…assigned to provide support service to the US Marshals in the development of criminal profiles that will aid in the apprehension of fugitives from the law’.”

Jack made a face.

‘That’s like …”

“…teaching my grandmother how to suck eggs?”

Jack snorted. “They are going to hate you.”

Will sighed and shrugged as he pried himself out of the chair. “Can’t be any more annoying about it than Zeller and Price. That’s not what worries me.”

Jack grunted an unspoken inquiry as he began to look back down at his own work.

“Eastern Kentucky without a sidearm? I’m going to be underdressed.”

"Oh Jesus, Art, a joint operation initiative pilot program?" The question was asked with an expression like he'd had shit waved under his nose, head pulling back like he could get away from the suggestion via space from the file in front of him alone.

"Yes, Raylan, because believe it or not, we are supposed to be on the same side."

The curl of Raylan's face suggested he'd believe that when pig sprouted wings. "Except when they get in our way, take over our cases and treat us like we're shit on their shoes."

"Yeah well, it's still a day that ends in 'y' and you ain't got a choice. There's cases we ain't solved yet the the Federal Government would like us to practice on."

Raylan sighed and dropped the file onto the table. "Fine. They at least tell you who we're stuck with?"

"One agent and one consultant. A.. Jack Crawford and Will Graham," Art replied, head pulling back as he tromboned the file a little, glasses lost somewhere on the desk. "And we already got your first case." The thump of the file dropped on the desk was almost intimidating. "Read up, because you're gonna be the one greetin' them when they get here."

"Joy," Raylan drawled, eyeing the file with distaste.

"They get here in two weeks, so read up."

Raylan just grunted and looked away.

--

Two weeks later, Raylan was sat behind his desk, the fat file spread out in front of him. He already had a lead but he had to wait for his 'help'. It annoyed him, just like reading this file had. This wasn't what he was meant to do; be a desk jockey, waiting for carpetbaggers to come and tell him how bad he was at his job, regardless of the fact that he wasn't on the case when it happened.

He sighed roughly as he looked at the office doors. They should have been picked up by now, driven in by a Marshal that knew where he was going. Raylan couldn't imagine what was keeping them.

Athena wasn't sure how she expected going home to feel. Would it hurt? Would it be dizzying, scary? Or would she just take a step and find herself waking up somewhere familiar? She really hoped it would be somewhere familiar and not some random East Coast beach or something.

She and Jeff were in the middle of the pack when it came to the timing of exits. It had only seemed right that the people who came first got to leave first. Saying goodbye was a wrench, in a few cases in particular, but it wasn't the first time she'd had to walk away from people she loved for the sake of someplace different. Someplace better. And home really, really would be better than Mathias.

Athena took a deep breath, hoisting her backpack a little more firmly onto her back and flashing Jeff a smile--

Then they were in it. Or rather, there was a moment of nothing, and then she stumbled forward onto her knees against a marble floor. The building fairly roared with noise after the quiet of Mathias, and Athena clapped her hands over her ears, swearing under her breath as she tried to orient herself. A suited man reached down to help her up and she scrambled back and to her feet, backing away fast enough that she rammed a woman in business clothes.

"I'm fi-- shit, sorry, um--" She turned in a quick circle, struggling to get a grip on where she was. Definitely not somewhere familiar.

"You all right, miss?" The suited man peered at her in concern, speaking with a distinctly familiar twang.

"Oh fuck no," Athena whispered, pushing past him and running for the nearest directory.

Courthouse. She was in a Lexington courthouse. One with a Marshals office. Too damn big of a coincidence. Athena tried to keep her shit together, forcing herself not to panic. Not yet. She pushed her way onto the elevator, practically dancing from foot to foot as it crawled up to the right floor. She shoved her way out with equal disregard for manners, stopping short at the clear doors bearing the Marshals' logo.

It's Raylan. She could see him from where she was standing, his hat set to one side, focusing on paperwork at his desk. For a second Athena considered just turning around and walking away. He didn't deserve to have this shitstorm dropped into his lap. He didn't owe her anything. If anything, she owed him. Owed him enough to let him have a life without stepping into the middle of it and fucking things up for him even worse than she did for her aunt.

Except she couldn't do it. She couldn't just leave. The thought terrified her, for more reasons than she could get her head around. God, had she always been so fucking selfish?

She knew the answer was yes.

Athena shoved her way through the front doors of the Lexington Courthouse Marshals Office, stopping short half-way to Raylan's desk. What exactly was she supposed to say?

She was clean, at least. Showered. But her clothes were ill-fitting nineties hand-me-downs from some disappeared boy's closet, and her backpack showed all the abuse of its time in the middle of nowhere. And she was just standing there.

Give it another minute, and the eyes of everyone in the office would be on her anyway.

It had been three months since Raylan had woke back up in Harlan, in his shitty motel room that smelled of boot and faintly of Jim beam and gun oil - You know how sad that sounds, that room, someone had said to him at it's description. He had not been at all well, and it had taken 3 weeks before he started to realign. The nightmares ebbed off, the affects of drinking too much moonshine on a regular basis eased, letting him maintain the weight that he had lost in Mathis and magically regained when waking up here.

Physically, he was fine. No scars on his face and body, despite the fact that his fingers felt the ghosts of them when he touched his face, but mentally, Raylan was broken. Even after 3 weeks, he was still a little shaky. Art had sensed Something was Wrong when Raylan threatened to leave if he couldn't have his own leave but so far, no one else in the office had dared asked him what the hell had happened.

Another 3 weeks passed before Raylan appeared in the office like he had never left, tucking everything under the hood, in spite of the emptiness that had settled in him. He was back in reality; he knew who he was and he could sort out there from here. He had his guns. And he was all alone again. Tim remembered nothing, staring at him with that narrowed eyed suspicion as Raylan had danced around his questions, his hints and his searches for Malcolm had been all in vain. So it was back to work. Another pyre of things he couldn't resolve and couldn't talk about.

Same place he'd been in when he'd left but worse. It was all so much worse.

Another extra month hadn't made it much better but Raylan was working on it, night after night, drink after drink.

Today was a Tuesday. He'd looked on his calender not five minutes before the doors to the office opened violently and the file in his hand slowly lowered to his desk as Athena charged over and stood before him like she was just there. Like she wasn't some hallucination.

But this was The Office. Raylan glanced around, at Rachel and Tim before standing up. "Athena."

There was no hesitation in pushing up from and moving around his desk, one hand settling on the outside of her shoulder as he guided her into the conference room across from his desk with a soft "Come with me."

Once inside the room, Raylan shut the door and pulled the blinds, like he was worried she wouldn't be there when he turned around from his task. But there was no use in waiting, in torturing himself with the what ifs and Raylan turned.

"Please tell me I'm not havin' some kinda flash back hallucination." It was a roll of the dice, if she understood what that meant or if he just made himself to look like the weirdest fucking adult in the office. But he had to know, right out of the gate. Did she remember him or did he have to compartmentalize?

For a second she stares at him some more. Unsteady and scared and still with a burn on her ankle and where is Jeff, where are Raylan's scars, what is going on but he knows her.

He knows her. Right now that's something she can hang on to. Figuratively speaking.

Literally speaking, she cannonballs into a hug, presses her faces against his chest, and bursts into tears.

It was the best kind of feeling, to have the air slightly knocked out of him again by one of her hugs and Raylan wrapped around her with a rough sound. It was her. This weird, fantastic Bard Child that he had gotten attached to, that he had lost and fretted about in the quiet dark of the night.

"It's okay," he whispered at the vibration of her shoulders and the sound of sobbing that came up with it. No goddamnit, his throat wasn't tightening up, his eyes weren't pricking with a wetness that he fought and failed to restrain as he hugged her tight.

"I was so goddamned worried about you, girl." He pulled her back by the shoulders so he could look her in the eye. "Where did you come from? How'd you get here?"

She lifts her fingers to touch the spot where his scars were, very quickly descending into some kind of shellshock at the strangeness of all of this. How unreasonable it all is.

"I don't know," she whispers. "I was in the schoolhouse, after the fire, and then... Nothing. And then here. I was with Jeff but he didn't show up with me. Not in the same place anyway, I don't know if he's actually here somewhere, fuck what if he is and he has no clue what's going on and he's just fucking out there without--fuck."

She half-turns toward the conference room door, but she can't do it. She can't pull away from Raylan's grip on her shoulders, not right now. She looks back at him, eyes filling again.

"My ankle hurts," she says, voice tiny.

"I know," he muttered in awe at the touch on his face; he knew what it was, a question in a touch, a verification of the proof being wiped away, leaving only what they knew had happened in their minds. He couldn't believe it. How was she standing here?

His brow pinched, head shaking a little bit at her timeline, obviously confused. Letting out a breath, he nodded, a strange half circular motion, stuck between a nod and a shake of his head.

"I was there for another month." He shook his head again, blinking away tears as he turned his head and glanced down before reaching over and pulling out a chair. "C'mon, sit down. Lemme see."

The rest of his work day was forfeit. Nothing mattered more than figuring this out and tending to what Athena needed. If she was fresh from that Place.. It had taken him weeks to reconstruct even a normal looking front. She was going to need the same.

She does as she's told without argument or sarcasm, a kind of weird numbness starting to take hold. Athena sits and tugs up the pant leg over the ankle in question. There's a rough bandage on it--very rough--soaked through in a couple of places with fluids. She grimaces a little when she looks at it.

"It wasn't that bad so I kind of... lied and said I would take care of it. Other people needed help more."

She still has that same tiny voice, the one that says she's three steps from breakdown. Or another breakdown, really. "I mean I sort of took care of it?"

Edited 2021-09-13 02:43 (UTC)

"We gotta get you to a hospital," he declared, looking up at her from under his eyebrows. "I'm goin' with you."

If Athena thought she was going to easily escape the Marshal once she'd made it into his line of sight, she was deeply mistaken. Raylan was going to turn into an annoyance after too long. But for right now, they were both just happy to see each other. He had so many questions about Jeff but none that she could apparently answer; that wasn't a problem. He'd get the toadies on it.

"We're not there anymore, Athena. We don't need to compromise anymore. C'mon."

If she didn't stop him, he'd urge her to her feet and back out the conference room doors with a commanding tone at Tim as he shortly explained, "Cover for me, will ya? Somethin's come up."

Tim and his stoic face watched them head towards the door with a sarcastic flit of his fingers. "Sir yes Sir," came the dry reply to follow them out of the office doors and to the elevator where Raylan pushed the down button several more times than was necessary.

"Wait til we get in the car," he said quietly with a glance to the side. He didn't trust anyone here and it showed.

Tim, that had been Tim, but he hadn’t…

She’s overwhelmed, hanging on to Raylan’s hand like a lifeline and not even cognizant of the fact she’s doing it. Athena nods silently at the command, not sure what to say even if she could.

Even if…

She drew in a sharp breath, squeezing his hand tighter. She could feel it. She could feel it, the pure song of the Gift moving around them. She closed eyes tight against more tears and stepped onto the elevator wordlessly, her other hand coming up to grab his sleeve on his forearm, like the held hand isn’t enough.

Edited 2021-09-13 11:08 (UTC)

Once in, Raylan hit the ground floor button as aggressively as he had the down button, almost glaring the door into closing so he could drop his eyes back down onto the young woman clinging to him like he was a lift-raft. It was foolish and maybe short sighted, but a passing thought wasn't even cast about for her Gift - Now was not the time for Music. First things first.

"It's okay," he murmured. "We're gonna get you taken care of, don't you worry."

Once the elevator doors opened, Raylan continued to lead her right through the side Marshal's Entrance and towards his Crown Vic. Opening up the passenger side of the door, Raylan sat her down again and squatted down so that she didn't have to let his hand go just yet. So that he didn't have to let go yet.

"I can't say I understand how any of this works, or how you're here after me. Might be a Time Line thing. I'm still waitin' for Tim to wake up." God it was good to see her. Even if he knew this wasn't her place. This wasn't even her world. It was only then that Raylan thought about her Gift. "Your ankle aside, is.. everythin' else in place?"

It’s a stupid thing to do. Such a stupid thing to do in a world that apparently doesn’t have anything like this, but she’s missed it so, so much.

Athena hums a soft note and light gathers between them, a little multicolored glow that fades when she lets the note go.

Well, she’s crying again. But this time it’s not because everything is terrible. “It’s back,” she whispers. “It feels right again.”

If asked, he would have said it was the furthest from stupid. He didn't even have a Gift but getting his hands back on his guns felt like some part of him had been returned to his own care. What that said about him was up for discussion.

He smiled softly at the light, forever amazed, but he had to glance around to make sure no one was staring at them too hard.

"Back at full power, eh Songbird?" Raylan squeezes their hands and stands up. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but since we don't have anythin' like the Gift here, just don't go advertising what you are. I might work for the government, but that doesn't mean I trust them."

Squeezing her hand again, Raylan let go and closed the door, walking around the back of his car to slide into the drivers seat and turn the engine over. "We tell the hospital that you're my niece. You fell into a bonfire while.. I dunno, tryin' to jump over it. Dead parents and you're spendin' the summer down here in the country to recover. It'll work enough for the paperwork."

Why yes, he was already planning how they were going to get around each upcoming roadblock, and ruthlessly so.

Hope it's okay for him to lie to other People Athena because he was going to, but all in the name of keeping her safe.

She's not going to protest the lying in this case. She's lied for survival plenty of times. As long as he doesn't do it to her, she doesn't care one bit.

Athena stares out the window, quiet, the shock of it really starting to hit now. It's a city. There are people. So many people. Birds, a rat climbing a dumpster, it's bright and alive and she has to look away and press the heels over her palms against her eyes to try and recover from the brightness.

"It's so loud," she whispers, then shivers. How could she have gotten used to that place? Its hideous quiet, the lack of anything alive but her fellow prisoners? It makes her feel queasy and confused. "Fuck, how can it be so loud?"

Athena shifts to hugging herself, even though she's not cold. Now she's staring out the front window, eyes huge, voice still quiet. "How long have you been out?"

The only saving grace here was that Lexington didn't have that many buildings that were more than 5 stories, a handful in what loosely constituted 'downtown', which even reached on the skyline for faint echo of any other large City. But that didn't make it any quieter.

Raylan glanced over as she spoke, brow furrowed as his attentive eyes glanced back and forth between her and the road. He remembered that feeling, the need to get used to the sound of life. Yeah, he was gonna take her out to Arlo's after he made sure she was physically well.

"There'll be plenty of silence once we get outta Lexington." He let a beat pass. "Three months." His hands flexed and twisted a little on his steering wheel. "And I'm still not fully right if I'm honest."

He glanced over again. "You got any idea why Mathis dropped you here?" He was gonna put out a net for Jeff, regardless of her answer. Just because he hadn't arrived when she did, didn't mean he wasn't here. If he'd been recollecting pieces of his life, Athena was gonna be part of that.

She shook her head.

"No fucking clue," she whispers. "None of this shit makes any sense."

Athena looks his way, her gaze somewhere between haunted and affronted. "First off it's total bullshit that you got all healed up and my ankle's still fucked. But Mathias is a bitch."

He sucked his teeth softly and nodded, turning them down another street and towards the Hospital that now loomed in front of them.

"She was gonna screw us all in one way or another on the way out. At least you remember me. That godforsaken town." His jaw worked softly as he pulled them into a spot and threw it into park. It chewed at him in the dark, all that he had lost.

"But we're gonna get you fixed up, buy you the biggest lunch your stomach can handle, and you're comin' out to Harlan with me, least until we can confirm if any of your people are here too. It's quieter out there and no one's within a mile 'a Arlo's house."

She shivers at the thought of ending up here and not knowing him or remembering. Just being lost, and having a stranger who looks like Jeff telling her she landed in another world.

Lunch. "Oh my god, fast food exists again."

She climbs out of the car along with him, resisting the urge to take his hand again, barely. "Arlo's house? Isn't he... like... there?"

All things considered, she would prefer not to meet... that guy.

It was hell. Lonely, Jim Beam soaked hell.

"We'll get whatever you want," he promised as he guided her in with a hand set to hover over her shoulder, his eyes ever sweeping on the horizon for someone he might need to fend off. "But the restaurants here are better than that crap food."

It would only take a protest for him to cave and get her whatever fast food struck her fancy. She deserved days of it after all that surviving. Once Raylan's appetite had come back in full force, he was sure he'd cleared out a few restaurants over a few days.

"No," Raylan assured with no emotion as they came up to the Nurse's station. "He's in Tramble Penitentiary." Lifting his chin at the nurse there, he started to explain what they were looking for. His niece got a little too rambunctious at a barbeque, fell into fire pit and got herself a little banged up. Collecting the paperwork, Raylan then led Athena over to sit down.

"Yer gonna havte help me with some of this," he said under his breath and out the side of his mouth.

Athena breathes out a slightly hysterical laugh, trying to focus on Raylan and the paperwork in spite of the thunder of people around them.

It doesn't take long to get a bed, once one of the nurses sees the bandage she improvised. The woman glares at Raylan for a moment until Athena snaps, "Hey, I didn't fucking tell him about it, okay?"

Even odds as to whether its the aggressiveness or the swearing that startles her more.

Behind the privacy curtain, perched on the edge of the exam bed, Athena grips the sheets and fixes wide eyes on Raylan again. "What about your work? Are they going to be okay with you just. Fucking off to Harlan for a week?"

She's not protesting the plan or the location, really. A little quiet, a little time to sort through her own head--its all she could ask for at the moment.

Simple easy things to help bring her focus back down and Raylan adjusted dates where necessary so it made more sense with a sweet of the eyes. He was glad they didn't have to wait long and was touched when Athena let him come back, regardless of if she was asked.

Raylan was happy to take the Nurse's blame, shoulders already lifting up in an uneven shrug with a lift of his hand, but Athena's snap has his eyes darting over to her with a proud curl of his smile. People didn't tend to stick up for him so boldly, not civvies, not people he didn't work with. So she was just as vicious with other people as she had been before, good. Meant her spirit wasn't broken. Meant she still loved him as he loved her. Even if those words in particular never got room to breathe again.

But the nurse accepted and left and Raylan curled his eyebrows back over to Athena.

"Art has been watchin' me like I'm about to shoot a puppy in the parking lot or somethin'. I've only been back a short time. I tell him I need the time-" Raylan nodded. "He'll give it to me. Makin' sure that you've got a few secure days is more important and frankly, I been doin' this for twenty years and I'm forced to take vacation. Trust me," he said, face curling around his smile. "Art'll be happy to get some of that reserved off time off my ticket."

She nods slowly. It made sense. It made sense that anyone who knew him would be worried. She can't imagine it's been anything like easy, being back. Just... back. Without even Tim seeming to know anything.

Athena holds back, briefly, still the embarrassed teenager, but finally holds out her hand, clearly wanting him to take it.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. "That you've got all this... shit to deal with now on top of handling like. The world."

Her hand got a glance before he unashamedly slipped his left into her hand. She wasn't his daughter but Raylan couldn't help but feel like this was a crash course, a semi dry run for the first time Willa broke something or stepped on a nail. He wasn't going to tell her to do this alone, not with what he knew of her history.

"The world," he started with a lift of his eyebrows, "Is somethin' I can handle. Bein' the only one rememberin' that.." His jaw worked as he found the right word for it- "Hell is worse. Least I ain't gotta worry about if you're in one piece or not; you're already taking stuff off my plate."

But the Doctor was pulling the curtain aside, Nurse in tow to give Raylan a generally disapproving look. It read as 'I see you're uneducated, no sense, hillbilly trash.' Raylan was utterly unbothered and lifted his eyebrows at the Doctor as he started to look at Athena.

Athena squeezes his hand a little tighter as the doctor peels back the bandage, teeth gritted, trying not to show that it hurts. Her ankle isn't pretty. It's rough, angry pink all around, with a couple places that look almost red. Blisters--large ones, several broken--mark her here and there. It's where the fluids soaking her bandage came from.

The doctor makes a small noise that's somewhere between sympathy and aggravation. "You're very lucky your uncle caught you hiding this. You're well on your way to an ugly infection."

Raylan stands up as the doc peels the bandage away, keen to get his own eye on it so he can track it as she heals up. He didn't let how bad it look transfer onto his face; he could tell she was in pain and scared.

He couldn't help himself. "The whole lotta us were havin' a lotta fun and she's a bit stubborn. This might impress how important it is to not," he said, glancing over to Athena with a warm smile and a wink before looking back. "How bad is it? Think she'll need anythin' more than antibiotics and some cream under bandages or somethin'?"

I.E. What supplies was he going to be stocking up on?

She smiles a little, when Raylan winks at her, but she doesn't let go of his hand.

"We'll get her a tetanus shot, a prescription for some antibiotics and an antibiotic cream. Normal lotions will increase the likelihood of infection, now that those blisters are broken. You'll want gauze bandages and medical tape to hold them in place, and the bandages should be changed twice a day, the burn cleaned and the antibacterial re-applied. The bandages need to be loose, but keep things covered. The nurse will show you how it should be done."

The doctor rattles it all off so quickly that Athena is left staring a little bit. "How do you just know all that shit?"

He raises an eyebrow, disapproving in the face of the curse. "That is what medical school is for."

Nodding at the instruction, Raylan was confident they could handle that. He glanced over at Athena's question, smiling a little himself at the Doctor's answer. Well, it was a fair one.

"That'll be fine, thank you," he said graciously. "How long of that before you think she'll heal, assumin' nothin' goes wrong?"

"Two to three weeks is typical for this kind of burn, as long as it's treated as directed."

Athena grimaces. "That's forever."

The doctor raises his eyebrows. "Trust me, it's not."

"Better than gettin' an infection. You don't wanna go on that ride, it ain't fun," Raylan said kindly to Athena, skipping the faraway threat of gangrene, before nodding at the Doctor again.

"We'll keep it clean and dressed." If the Doc was a good one, he'd give them a prescription of antibiotics that would cover that time. Raylan hoped, otherwise, they were gonna havta get creative.

The doctor straightens up, nodding to Raylan, who seems to have risen maybe a micron in the nurse's opinion.

"What pharmacy do you use?" The question is directed at both the patient and the presumed guardian.

"We use the one in Harlan but you'll be lucky to get them on the phone," he said with something of a self deprecating laugh about the state of Harlan to begin with. "We can take it to one here in Lexington, on paper, our way home and they can call in to verify. Least you'll be guaranteed a voice on the phone either way," he promised sincerely.

Why yes he was throwing some of that easy charm and good natured 'go with the flow' vibe on it, but he needed this to go smoothly.

That micron of approval from the nurse vanishes into another scowl. The doctor makes an impatient noise.

"God, I don't even know if we have paper prescriptions. Hang on, I'll check the desk--can you dress the wound?"

The last it directed to the nurse, who nods. She eyes Athena for a moment. "You don't sound like you're from Harlan."

Athena fixes her with a baleful look. "I'm here because my New York based parents are dead, but thanks for poking your fingers into my personal business."

Raylan's eyebrows rolled in the equation of a shrug; not all of Kentucky was as fancy as Lexington fancied themselves to be. Hoity toity assholes. The feeling was gifted to Athena with a pass of his eyes and somehow, they said it all before he was looking sweetly back at the Nurse.

"One of my sister's couldn't wait to get outta the holler but we talked her back with the promise of a good party. Maybe a little too good, considering," he granted pleasantly. "We're lookin' into talkin' them into moving back but there's somethin' about this place that must be keepin' them away."

Gee, wonder what that might be.

The nurse looks back and forth between Raylan and Athena, then clearly decides Raylan's story is the more credible. She cleans the burn with gentle soap and water, then shows them both how to wrap it. Athena squints through the whole process, trying--not particularly well--to act like it doesn't hurt.

The nurse very happily excuses herself. The doctor returns with the prescription as she's leaving.

"You're in luck." He holds up the little paper. "We had a prescription pad with exactly four slips left."

He was a good note taker in school and that hadn't gone anywhere; Raylan watched attentively, nodding again once she was done. Yes, defiantly doable.

The prescription was taken with a grateful bob of his head as he folded it and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket. It meant he had to let Athena's hand go, but once the note was tucked away, he set it back within her reach. "You might wanna consider orderin' more. Not everyone in the state is as lucky enough to live within reach of this particular hospital and your specialists. Do you have her discharge papers, or is she clear to walk out?"

There wasn't much of any room for argument with his tone or expression. He was about done with the attitude and general vibe of unhelpfulness they had gotten.

The amiable hostility in Raylan's tone sent the nurse hurrying for the discharge paperwork, and the doctor excusing himself for his next patient. Athena raised her eyebrows.

"You need to teach me that one."

Raylan sucked his teeth softly at the drawn curtain before turning his half annoyed expression down at her.

"What're they gonna do, take the information back? Hold you hostage?" He scoffed and sat back down. "We'll stop at a CVS for supplies before we leave town, but we'll get the prescription filled tomorrow in Harlan. In the mean time. What kinda fast food are you wantin'?"

By the time they'd figured that out, the nurse was back with the discharge papers and the wheelchair.

"Go ahead and take a seat," the nurse said, letting Raylan help Athena off the bed and into the chair. They were wheeled out to the sidewalk, where Athena was off loaded onto a bench so that Raylan could pull the car around.

"Alright, come on. We got a hellva drive ahead of us."

Athena feels intensely silly, being wheeled out when she can walk fine, but if it gets them out of there so be it. She plops onto the passenger seat, wincing slightly. Now that it's cleaned and properly tended to, her ankle is starting to sting again.

She sits there for several seconds, staring into space, and then looks over at him.

"Waffles. Bigass, chocolate chip waffles absofuckinglutely soaked in syrup."

Having been in and out of hospitals more times than he would like to admit, Raylan knew and understood the whys of the wheelchair and it wasn't worth arguing against. Not when that argument might bring them more scrutiny. While they had to come, he was glad to be back in the car.

"I know just the place."

With a quick stop at a CVS as promised and those bags tucked safely into his trunk, Raylan pulled them up to a clean but small mom and pop looking restaurant with tall windows and a tilting roof that gave it a cute look, attached to a motel that offered 'Low low rates!'

"Onn'a the best places in Lexington for big ass waffles," he said with a smile as he got out of the car. If Athena wanted all that, it was better to get it in her before they hit the road and frankly, Raylan preferred real food to fast food. There wasn't any of the latter in Harlan and Raylan didn't have the goods for big ass waffles at Arlo's. "If you don't eat it all, we can take it with us."

Athena stares at the building for a moment after getting out of the car, taking in the sight of people moving around inside. Not shadows. Not ghostly women in the woods or shapes in the water. No one familiar. Just people.

She can’t help some embarrassment when she takes Raylan’s hand again, eyes still on that front window and the careless life inside.

“This is so fucking weird,” she whispers.

Rushing her wasn't on the agenda and when she stops and stares, he pulls up beside her wordlessly to stare himself, glancing down when her fingers found his again. He squeezed them softly and turned back to look with her.

"Took me three weeks before I could eat with other people like this," he admitted. "Wait til you think about grocery shoppin' or goin' to school." The words were slipped out with a deep inhale and exhale that spoke to how weird he'd found it.

"One thing at a time."

Going to school. Her throat squeezed up at that. That's a long-haul plan. A 'we don't know how to fix this so we've got to keep living like we won't' plan.

She blinked. "Money is a thing again, huh."

She might need to get a job, something low commitment for pocket money. To help Raylan pay for his room or wherever the fuck they end up staying.

Athena gripped his hand a little tighter, looking up at him. "You're not going to put me in some foster care bullshit place, right? I'm like six months from that not being a thing anyway."

Hard stones to swallow, the responsibly of living when you weren't trying to just survive. Raylan had thought it would be easier to slip back into everything he'd known. It wasn't.

"Tends to be," he quipped softly.

The grip on his hand and the question drew him and his furrowed brow down towards her, body turning to face her slightly with a shift of his weight.

"No way in hell. You're either stayin' with me or with your people, if we can find 'em. Jeff or your Aunt Lenore. Someone we can trust." Raylan tugged her into a hug and wrapped his arms around her. "I ain't lettin' you go back out into the wildness like that."

A panic that had started building eases away again. She hugs him back, tightly. "Well good. Because I'd make you fucking regret it."

It's said with an attempt at good humor. She draws back enough to look at the restaurant, nerves squeezing at her again. "Could... can we get stuff to go? I don't... know if I'm ready for that yet."

The hospital was hard enough.

"I believe you," he huffed gently.

Raylan glanced at the windows and nodded down at her. "Do you want to stay in the car while I get it?"

God, she hates that she's getting teary over ordering fucking waffles.

"Yeah. Yes. Please."

"Alright darlin', it's okay," he assured, rubbing her shoulders. "C'mon. We'll set you in the car, you lock the doors. You can keep your eyes on me and I can keep mine on you," he continued, shifting to open the door and guide her back down into it. "Lock the doors," he instructed again as he closed the door.

Once he was sure she was secure, he headed inside with another glance at her over his shoulder, gut twisting in an instinctual 'Don't leave her alone, she'll get snatched' that he had to try and control as he ambled up to the counter.

Two waffles with chocolate chips on the side for later sprinkling with bacon on the side, along with a bacon cheeseburger, dressed and with fries. Raylan stayed where he was, eyes on the door and his car and the precious cargo inside until it was time to collect, where he added on one more thing. Bags and a large Styrofoam cup in his hand, Raylan came back to the car and slid in. The bag was set on her lap, cab instantly filling with delicious scents and Raylan tucked the cup into the cup holder before presenting her with a straw.

"The waffles will hold but chocolate milkshakes won't."

She almost goes in, a couple of times. When the wait gets long enough for her to get paranoid that he’s gotten hurt or disappeared. She doesn’t really exhale until he walks out again, and when he hands her the straw, she lights up.

“Holy fuck, milkshakes exist.”

Her enthusiasm was still infectious. Raylan grinned as he turned the engine over and started pulling them out of the parking lot.

"It's the least that I could get you for the ride you're about to suffer," he said with a laugh. "Takes two and a half hours to get out to Harlan county, if you obey the speed limit."

His smile curled a little further and once they were on the open road, she would know what he meant. Raylan's Crown Vic towncar was a newer version so there was some power under her hood, and he was no afraid to use it.

"Music is back too. One time offer for the radio," he said with a nod towards the dash unit.

For a wrenching moment, she realizes her phone and all the music on it is gone. Then she shakes it off, sucking down milkshake until she has to squint one eye shut against the brain freeze. “Hit me, cowboy. Though whatever you pick I guarantee I’m going to fuck with it.”

Edited (I can put orders in words) 2021-09-17 23:49 (UTC)

"All I'm gonna be puttin' on in this car is country and southern rock. Hope you like CCR and ZZ top."

He wasn't all country. Raylan kicked the radio on, gently blasting The Allman brothers.

He knew what he was getting into. He was sitting next to a Bard for fucks sake. You didn't just hand them music and expect them to not do anything with it.

“All you’re going to be putting on,” Athena says, highlighting that loophole. Still, when he picks a station, she listens for a little while as she sucks on the milkshake, relishing the sound of music from a real stereo, a song she doesn’t intimately know.

Eventually though, the milkshake is gone, and she can do more than hum. She doesn’t know every song, though she knows more than a few. Even so, she picks up the choruses quick and sings along with those if she doesn’t know the rest of the words, voice rising and falling in harmony with the radio. God, she can feel the Gift moving around her, the subtle sweep and pull of it, and she closes her eyes and sings and wants desperately to let loose. She also doesn’t want Raylan to crash.

Still, it’s starting to get dark, so she… compromises. The next song she knows, Athena twines her Gift through the words, lighting up the road ahead of them as bright as if Raylan had his high beams on. Only, yknow, without them, and the inconvenience of blinding other drivers.

"When you learn to drive, you can control the radio, how about that?" he retorted with a grin. He'd left it open for her to take control of the radio but she'd punted it back to him. That all being said, Athena was the only person in the world right now who could change it without reproach.

Raylan liked driving. He liked the open roads that took him wherever he was going and he'd driven this one enough times he could probably do it in his sleep. But there was a lot of empty road that let him zone out and relax a little, a crooked smile curling on his lips as Athena started to hum. He didn't know what the healing road for her would look like, but he knew it would involve her Gift.

When she starts singing, the effect of it all was unexpected and he swore softly as the road lit up, wide hazel eyes darting over to marvel at her without them crashing before he broke into a delighted deep laughter and shook his head.

"I'm gonna havta get used to seein' stuff like this, ain't I," he asked with a fond, endearing tone.

She grins in response and keeps singing rather than interrupt herself to answer. She holds last notes of the song a little longer than required, letting them—-and the light on the road—-fade out.

Then she says, “You bet your ass.”

The town lights were faint ahead of them, but they would be inside them in a few minutes, which Raylan always found a little magical and strange, like they were stepping into a whole other world.

Still grinning, Raylan pulled them into the little grocery he'd mentioned before. He could handle having to deal with that kinda show. "There's gonna be all of 4 people in there, but it might be a better idea if you stay here. As soon as people know you're about, they're gonna start askin' questions. Oh, and just in case - Know that the lie we told the hospital ain't gonna fly here. They know me, and my family, so you'll be just who you are. Though, we oughta think of a different last name for you to use, just in case."

Yes, he was very serious.

"It'll be another ten minutes before we're at the house."

Her stomach does an anxious little somersault as she remembers, oh yeah, this is where Raylan grew up. She's going to have to step carefully, and not just because they'll peg any lie she tells about who she is to Raylan. She doesn't want to go fucking up his life down here, even more than she doesn't want to fuck up things in Lexington.

She bites her lip. "It was Parker. Before my aunt went and officially adopted me. I was Athena Parker."

He didn't have a life down here, that was the difference. They could talk about that once they got to Arlo's.

Raylan nodded and looked out the window for a long second. "You don't have to wear it long and only in front'a them, okay? C'mon. Won't take us but a minute."

Athena takes a deep breath, nods, and climbs out of the car. This time she manages to resist taking Raylan's hand. Somehow she feels like that would only make things weirder down here in the long run.

Still, anyone with eyes would be able to see the caution she uses going inside, like a cat peeking its head into unfamiliar territory for the first time. This place reminds her of the Mathias general store, almost, and that thought makes her skin creep.

Raylan sauntered in without hesitation, letting Athena catch up to his long legs in a way he hadn't unless he had a purpose, lifting his chin at the cashier in a passing greeting as he picked up a basket and started towards the cold goods.

He'd been more than right; there were two other people in the store, including the cashier. Things were going quiet and fine, eggs and bacon, whipped cream and coffee but their trek towards the register was stopped short by the bell ringing in another customer.

"Raylan!"

Raylan looked over to the short, portly Constable that was already making his way over towards them, all excitement, and put on a smile.

"Heya Bob."

"Hey, you headin' back to Arlo's house? Ain't nothin' gone off in there that I know of, you know that motion sensor?"

Raylan was nodding hhis head. "Yeah Bob, I am. Thanks for lettin' me know. I'd hate to have to walk in on someone squattin'."

Bob adjusted his belt, chest puffed out proudly. "You know I'd never let that happen, Raylan." Finally, Bob's eyes fell on Athena. "And you got a friend with ya! Hi, pleasure to meet you, I'm Bob Sweeney, Harlan Constable," he started, sticking a hand out at her to shake. "Elected and everythin'. Well, no one else was runnin' so I got it by default but it still counts, I'm elected."

Raylan watched with amusement as the cashier ran up their things.

"Bob, this is Athena Parker. She's gonna be stayin' with me while we figure some stuff out."

Athena shakes his hand by virtue of not knowing whatthefuckelse to do, staring a little. Yeah, she's met some characters in her life--look at Jeff--but this guy is that turned up to eleven somehow.

"Uh, hi." A pause. "What does a constable do?"

Her hand was pumped just as enthusiastically, face delighted at the news and Bob was clearly pleased that Athena asked, dropping her hand so he could hook his thumb almost comically back into his belt.

"Kinda like the police, 'cept Harlan the town ain't large enough to call for a whole department, though the County's got police that tend to more intense things."

"Mainly cause they got more than one guy," Raylan said as he gathered their bags. "No offense Bob."

"Oh none taken, none taken," Bob assured too quickly. "Sides, they'd only cramp muh style." It came with an unnecessary and unhelpful lift and shuffle of the belt he'd been resting his thumbs on.

"'Course they would. Badass like yourself," Raylan replied with a faint, font squint of one eye. "But we gotta get goin' Bob. I'll see ya later," he said, guiding Athena towards the door with his off hand as he smiled at Bob.

"Yeah Raylan, Yeah, I'll see you later. Maybe I'll come by later tomorrow huh?" The question was tossed futily towards his shoulders as they headed out.

"I'll let you know Bob," he said, tipping his hat as they stepped out.

Edited 2021-09-18 22:57 (UTC)

Athena follows Raylan back to the car, feeling weirdly shellshocked by that exchange. Once the groceries are loaded and they're pulling back onto the road, she looks over at him.

"Is everyone here that... that?"

Raylan smirked and shook his head. "No. Nah, Bob is.. a unique character. He was a nerd in high school, and that.. enthusiasm fell over into law enforcement." He wasn't going to say that he was one of the few people who didn't mock or disparage Bob, but he was. Bob was a Lot but he was a good guy who was reliable.

"He's taken on watchin' Arlo's property when Arlo's gone and I'm in Lexington."

Property that Athena was about to get to see. Raylan pulled them off onto a small dirt road that ran about a half mile over and down a hill before the Givens house peeked itself out of the surrounding trees in the flash of his headlights. Raylan turned off the engine and stared at the house for a second before sucking his teeth and sweeping his eyes down and over to Athena.

"Try not to let it freak you out okay? I promise there ain't nothin' in there and if there is, this time I've got my gun."

He knew from personal experience how much like a Mathis house his was. More dark things to fit inside it's already groaning walls. But maybe that was just his perception of it.

It's so dark out here. So quiet. It is like Mathias, in a lot of ways. Puts her on edge a little. But when she listens, there's a breeze. There's the sound of crickets, and something she'd guess is probably an owl but she's too much of a city girl to be sure.

It's dark, and it's eerie, but it's alive.

"Is it okay if..." She hesitates, once again feeling stupid, feeling like she should be more grown up than this, more okay than this. "When I moved in with my aunt... she let me sleep on my mattress on the floor in her room. Would... Could I..."

"We'll pull one of the mattresses down to the living room. It'll be like a sleep over." Given with a smile, Raylan pulled himself out of the car and got the groceries from the back.

"Just follow me until we can get some lights on." It was better, less creepy with the lights on. He just hadn't been able to handle the silence and being alone, tormented and left with his memories and his heartache and had driven all the way back to Lexington a few nights, to sit in a booth of some diner to soak in the light and the life of other people. The lack of terror in the air.

Athena sticks close, taking one of the grocery bags to feel like some kind of useful. She's pretty sure, in her light-blind vision from the car, that she sees headstones to their left.

She's not positive they're there, but she shuts her eyes anyway, taking a handful of Raylan's shirt to guide her way until they're inside and the lights are on.

Somehow, it's not what she expected. She's not sure what she did expect. The place is a little battered, a lot worn, but it's just... a house. A regular, people-spent-lives here house. She loops one arm around Raylan's, leaning her head against his shoulder.

Raylan grew up here. It's weird to think about a tiny drawling cowboy, and she wonders for the first time what he was even like as a kid.

For a second she's not sure what to say, then: "I'll have you know that if there are any embarrassing photo albums anywhere in this building, I will find them."

Edited 2021-09-19 02:20 (UTC)

Athena had their food too; very important. Raylan wasn't sure if Athena had seen the headstones, but it was too macabre for him to warn her about now. He was more concerned with getting them in and getting those lights on.

That effort was stopped short once he'd kicked on the first few, finding himself with another Bard Barnacle that he embraced with a soft smile as Athena tucks herself against his shoulder. He wasn't sure how she was going to find the place. He wanted to see it through her eyes; eyes that hadn't seen Arlo screaming and ranting back and forth, eyes that hadn't seen the blood splatters that had long been covered up and painted over.

If walls could talk.. He'd burn this place down.

Instead, he squeezed her shoulders softly and huffed half a laugh. "If you wanna see me when I was about nine or ten, there's a picture on the nook between the kitchen and the dining room. Which is where we oughta head. Dunno about you but I'm hungry."

It was easier, somehow, to slip back into what he oughta be which was totally fine, with her here. She was someone to keep that face up for and despite them only having been here a few minutes, he already felt a little lighter in here. Squeezing her shoulders again, he stepped forwards and away from her, unloading onto the aforementioned dining room table.

She relaxes a little, perking up at the memory of promised waffles. She's also going to beeline for that picture. Athena picks it up almost reverently when she finds it, smiling at his tiny self. "You look like a noodle."

The picture was him in his little school baseball shirt, his mother, and Helen. Briefly, he wondered what Aunt Helen would make of the scrappy young woman who had barreled most unexpectedly into his life and her home. She'd like Athena, he thinks. Spine and spunk in the face of danger.

Stacking their boxes and the bags, Raylan headed into the kitchen proper with a passing smile at Athena as he passed by. Athena's waffles were popped into the microwave first, plated up on a older print plate that would speak to its age when she got to the bottom of it. While that warmed, Raylan put away the rest of the stuff.

""Hadn't grown into my shoulders yet. You're not gonna find much more than that though, I'm afraid. Aunt Helen fought with Arlo somethin' fierce to keep it up." Athena could guess as to why.

Athena smooths her thumb over the glass in the frame, smiling a little.

"I want a copy," she decides. Executive order. Athena gently sets the photo down and joins him in the kitchen, inhaling the scent of (re)hot waffles with a relish that most people save for things like cocaine. She waited until he'd sat himself down with his own food to attack hers--Lenore had managed to squish at least that much into her when it came to manners.

She pauses mid-waffle to look at him, a little uncertain. "So... what do we do? Now that we're here?"

He only hummed in response as he mounted her waffles with whipped cream and chocolate chip sprinkles on top before tending to his own food. He'd see about that. Raylan didn't really notice that Athena was waiting for him to dig in, but give it a few more meals and he would.

"You get to rest. Take the time to reset yourself and heal. It'll take a few days to run down Jeff and Lenore's names at least." If they were even here. He hadn't gotten to thinking about that far yet - What they would do if they proved to not be in the same world.

"And after Mathis.." he poked around with a fry for a second before looking up at her. "I had a pretty rough time when I came back. I don't want you to have to go through it alone."

Rest. She’s never been very good at that. Rest, in this quiet place, in the middle of nowhere, when she might be alone again.

Well. Mostly.

Not alone.

She gives Raylan a tentative little smile. “…Can I see it, where like. You went to school and shit like that?”

Lifting his eyebrows over his bite of food, shrugging as he cleared it, he nodded. "Sure, if you want. Not much to look at, compared to what you're used to. I can take you up in to some of the other hollers too, show you some of the mines, abandoned and otherwise."

She might not know it, but he had a story or three for nearly each Holler. But he'd also show her the slurry pits. For him, there was no escaping what the cost of coal was for Harlan.

Edited 2021-09-19 14:40 (UTC)

“Look, after Mathias, ‘what I’m used to’ isn’t what it used to be.”

She makes an amused little noise at her own accidental play on words. For another minute, she eats, wondering whether or not this is too fraught a question to ask.

“Um… Your guy, Boyd, he’s in Harlan somewhere too, right?”

He bobbed his head in concession. Mathis changed a lotta things.

"Yeah. Him and Ava and Winona.. Here's hopin' we don't have to see him," he sighed as he popped another fry into his mouth. "I don't plan on showin' you his bar, either. Before you ask."

She ducks her head, grinning a little. "Man, I bet I could even get away with buying myself a drink down here, too."

Raylan's eyebrows almost did a wave as he looked over at her, the arch starting at one side and, in a roll, ended with his other eyebrow raised.

"You want a drink, you can have a drink, here. Shame Mags Bennett isn't still alive; she had an Apple Pie Moonshine to die for. Worth a sip, even for the younger folk." Yeah, he bent a few rules.

The grin is no longer hidden, and it's aimed shamelessly his way. "It's not the drinking part, it's the getting it when I shouldn't be able to part."

He bobbed his head in confirmation as he speared a few more of his fries. "Outlaw rule number one: It don't count if you don't get caught." Raylan's eyes glittered as he tucked his fries into his mouth.

"'Sides, you deserve a little fun. A little.. Supervised rule breakin'. Won't hurt you, scientifically speakin'."

"Are you going to help? Is that the supervised part?" She puts a too-large bite of waffle in her mouth, chokes slightly, then manages to swallow.

Raylan snorted as she choked.

"Chew darlin', you got plenty of waffle to get through. And yes, that's the supervised part. There's some harmless fun to be had around and I'm not a Marshal all the time."

Only half a lie. He was a Marshal when he needed to be.

"But that'll be in a few days. We probably oughta get through one night at a time. Hope you don't mind old TV and popcorn."

“As long as it’s b-movie style garbage.”

Her smile goes a little quieter, watching his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry I took so long to show up.”

Edited 2021-10-01 00:00 (UTC)

"All old westerns are by that gauge," he said, smile curling as he cleared off the rest of his plate. TV was one of the things that had gotten him through some shit when he was a kid; they were predictable, most of the time, mostly all carrying the same tone under the 70's grade haze that films had around the edges of the (normally) Spanish countryside it was all shot in.

The edges of his smile fell a little before curling down with a little shake of his head as he pushes his last uneat fries around. The lapse in conversation, however brief, wasn't silent - the crickets were out and there was a breeze that rustled the trees, the sound carrying with the soft buzz of natural white noise.

"There's no controllin' that kinda thing, so there's no need to be sorry. I spent the first week an' a half thinking that I had fully lost my mind. Gone sideways in the head like Arlo has. Like.. maybe I'd made you and Mathis and Jeff and-" Malcolm, Doc, Neal, Klaus. The first two in that list broke his heart more than he could stand to say and he hadn't so much as said their names aloud since returning.

"But I decided that even my imagination couldn't be that creative and vivid. Hurt too much to think that it wasn't real so after a while.." Raylan shrugged. Maybe he'd succumbed. But this was Athena and Raylan wasn't going to sugarcoat or bottle up this.

"You're here now. Confirmation that I'm not. Hell darlin', it's like Christmas."

If her eyes are a little watery, it's definitely because of choking on that bite of waffle. For a second she looks for something to say, and she lands on, "Fuck it."

Softly said, but still. Athena gets up, circles the table, and hugs him tight again.

Raylan blinked a few times at her answer, catching onto her plan as soon as she stood up but the half waved gesture of dismissal was ignored as Athena wrapped around him. It might be stupid or weird that he was taking comfort from a person miles younger than he was, but that didn't stop the rush of relief that she was there, solid against him.

"I love you, Songbird. Never got around to sayin' it there, but somehow, you managed to wriggle in and hook me and I'm not gonna let you get away again without sayin' it to your face." Just in case. Just in case he woke up in the morning to an empty mattress beside the couch he'd end up sleeping on.

"I love you too," she mumbles, pressing her face against his shoulder while staying wrapped around him. "I would have thought I was nuts too if you hadn't been here. Like... Me, with the Gift, and a bunch of people who don't even know it's supposed to exist, and... I mean I could manage on my own, I've done it, but. I don't want to."

That last part is very quiet, almost ashamed.

"You don't gotta," he replied with a breath and a pat of her shoulder. It hurt too much somehow, beautifully, to say this all and look at it in its face and he wasn't able to do much more of it without breaking in a way he wasn't sure he could handle.

"Alright, c'mon. We're gonna soak somethin' at this rate. We gotta pick out yer mattress."

She gives a soggy little laugh and draws back, letting him lead the way--after snagging an un-syruped waffle to eat like a giant cookie while they're at it.

The old TV is comforting in a way that surprises her, though it shouldn't, given what she and Jeff always do when he's trying to make her feel better. She keeps up a steady commentary through the whole thing, teasing while still making it clear she's enjoying herself.

Eventually she crashes, unwillingly, and dreams about fire chasing her through tunnels blocked by gates. Athena gasps awake, still on the mattress, in a fresh change of clothes that aren't pajamas but were still better than what she arrived in. That was going to be a thing she needed. Clothes.

She curls up on the mattress for a moment, pulling the blanket over her head, but it's too late and too light out for her to go back to sleep. Instead she gets up as quietly as possible to explore the house.

It really had been kind of like a sleep out, if firearms were allowed; Raylan, stretched himself half upright in the corner of the couch, hands folded over his middle as he listened to Athena's critique of the movie. His tease back consisted of her just being jealous of the swagger, the horses, and the hats. The latter two they could get her, the first one she would have to work on herself.

Raylan lasted all of three minutes after the TV's static fuzz was turned off, ears perked towards her light breathing amid the soft noises of the night.

The gasp awake has Raylan waking up too, but he wasn't as high strung anymore. Getting out of Mathis had been the best thing for him and his head, and he might still be on the way, but on the way he was towards normal. His cracked eye slid shut as Athena decided she was done laying down and he was happy to play asleep to let her get up and around.

One he was sure she'd found her way out of his intended path, her quiet footfalls not so quiet in a house he knew the sounds of so well, he got up himself with a half breathed groan and went to start coffee. God only knows what she'd find - Arlo's anything, one of his guns or his uniform that was still kept in the closet. Boxes of his mothers clothes in the attic, maybe even the not so secret box that was in his old dresser drawer. There were a lot of little treasures to find throughout the house and no one to stop her walk through his history.

She's pretty sure Raylan would have warned her off any things she's not allowed to explore. She does indeed find Arlo's uniform and a gun that looks too much like it works for her to want to touch it. In the attic, she sees the boxes. Frances Givens written on the side. For a confused moment she wonders if Raylan had a brother or a great uncle he's never mentioned, but when she opens the boxes it's all women's clothing.

It's not hard to put two and two together. Carefully, respectfully, she folds things away and boxes them up again.

When she finds the little box in Raylan's dresser she's tempted to open it right there. Checking the dressers, the cabinets--it's habit by now from Mathias and from when she looted places she was able to get into while she was on the street. She smooths her fingers over the top of it, thinking of those boxes in the attic.

Finally, instead of opening it, she takes it downstairs with her to wait for Raylan to wake up. Or she plans to wait, anyway, but the couch is empty and she panics for a moment before hearing him in the kitchen. She pokes her head in, smelling the coffee. "Holy shit, is that something that isn't knock-off Folgers?"

There wasn't anything here he cared about her seeing. Most of it was trash, if he was asked, and all of it would be donated wholesale - from the pictures, their frames, down to the bedding and knickknacks. Everything that made this place feel even slightly the way it did now. Like a home, yes. But a home haunted for Raylan, not matter how peaceful the nights.

The smell of coffee wafted through the house, helping draw Athena back into the hopefully now familiar kitchen and its chintzy, old yellowed wallpaper. He was staring out a window at the barren fields and turned around with a grin.

"Maxwell house. Folgers is expensive." Not that he couldn't afford it but he kept his money by not spending it. "We got half and half and milk, unless you want it black," he said, waving a cup in her direction. His eyes glanced over the box in her hands but for now, he didn't say anything.

She wrinkles her nose. “I had thought better of you, sir.”

She sets the box on the table and starts to reach for a spare cup and the pot handle, but Athena grins slowly and steps back again. “Remember that day when I tried to move a cup and like. Exploded that house’s living room?”

Raylan chuckled and shrugged with his shoulders and the rolling lift of his eyebrows as he sipped at his cup. It didn't matter that he made decent cash now, some habits couldn't ever be shaken.

But at Athena's suggestion, his gaze narrowed on her before glancing over at the pot and cup.

"If you break 'em, I do not have a spare pot or cups beyond what's in here." Forewarning given, Raylan stepped back several feet, hands widening in a gesture of 'Go ahead'.

Athena cracks her knuckles, lighting up even further, though not literally. "I'm going to Mary Poppins the shit out of this bitch."

She considers for a moment, takes a deep breath, and starts singing Elton John's The Bitch is Back.

It seems appropriate.

She's not just moving the cup, though, and pouring the coffee with the kind of precision a barista would envy--she's manipulating her own voice with it, serving as her own back-up vocals in lieu of having any instruments.

There might be an Elton John-worthy lights show going on along with it.

Once she's added half-and-half just to show off, she winds the song down, floating the cup over to herself and finishing the last note as she plucks it from the air. Looking extremely self-satisfied.

'Mary Poppins the shit out of this bitch' got an amused curl of his features and as much as he trusted Athena, the last experience hadn't been great and he didn't know how it was supposed to work. Not really.

Until now. Raylan watched with an attentive critical eye, brow pinching faintly as the cup and pot started moving. It didn't look anything at all like Matilda, for example, but more like Harry Potter. (No, he hadn't read the books or watched the movies but it was hard to not have seen enough little bits of the source and listen to the fans that followed it to catch on to the general gist.)

By the time she's done, he's staring at her with his head tilted, hazels narrowed over the creeping curl of a smile he was trying to fight.

"Well damn, Mary. Didn't know you could do all that. Can you call birds and shit too, like Snow White? Might have some work for the squirrels." The house and land were in a state of creeping disrepair that needed to be addressed sometime in the next 15 years.

She takes a cheerful, satisfied slurp of coffee, makes a face both at the taste and at the heat, and then sighs happily. "I mean I could, yeah, actually? But it's really fuckin' hard, like... Say if I want to make myself float or some shit. No problem, I'm me, I'm casting the spell on myself, I want it to work. Tada."

She gestures out the window. "But like... another person? Or an animal? They've got a will of their own and if they don't want to be lifted off the ground I'm going to have a fuck of a time doing it. It's basically their will against mine, in a way."

If she looked at his face just right, she could probably see the gears turning. Raylan had to ask himself if it was something she got asked a lot - didn't she say that there were people like him around? People without the gift?

God forbid he re-enact some high school bullshit.

"That's something. A balance to it, of sorts. Let's keep it to inanimate objects and yourself for now." If it looked like he was gonna get into any shit while they were up here, he might decide to reiterate that point.

"What do ya wanna do today, songbird? Walk the property? Go for a ride?" She had him all day, her personal chauffeur.

Well, until his phone rang. He was hoping it wouldn't but it always did, eventually.

Athena hops backward up onto the counter, making a slight dismayed face as her coffee starts to slop over the cup's edges a little.

She whistles it back into the cup, just because she can.

"Fuck. I have no idea. I--oh. Um. Is there somewhere around here where I could get some clothes? Just like. Nothing fancy, but I'm going to start to smell if I keep switching between the little bit I've got. Kind of wasn't packed for a trip, if you get me."

Even that? Even wild coffee drops? Raylan whistled low and buried his face in another sip of his coffee. He was gonna have to watch her now; Little Miss Lightshow.

"Oh." Right. "Shit. Um. Corbin's probably the closest place to find somethin' like that. About thirty minutes from here. We can go after breakfast... Which we're also gonna get in Corbin, because it's the closest thing that serves something other than breakfast at breakfast time." Of course they sold the usual breakfast fare, but the restaurant didn't care much what time it was.

"Prepare yourself for more country than a whole country album," he warned with a grin."

She grins back, excited in spite of herself. This is Raylan’s home turf, the place he told her about that day in the Gull, painting a picture both vivid with life and dusty with tradition.

“That’s a good name, Corben. Like for a kid or—-” She sits sharply upright, this time not paying enough attention to save the coffee that slops over the edge of the cup. “Your kid! Is she… Are they…”

Athena gestures expansively. In the world yet.

Something in Raylan's face changed, lightening, making him look a little younger for a minute as he nodded and pulled out his phone, thumb moving to bring up a picture of one very tiny baby being held by a tired, but happy looking Winona.

"She was born a month premature, but she's alright. She and Winona both. They're in Florida though. Ain't gone to see her yet, but I'll get around to it," he said with a bob of his head and a duck of his face as the phone was taken back and tucked away.

"C'mon, lemme show you around the property while we finish our coffee and then we'll get goin', huh?"

All the better to not linger on how shit of a father he was already, not racing down to Florida to see his little girl.

Athena doesn't say anything at the declaration that he'll get around to it. She knows, she knows that Raylan is going to be a great dad, because he already was one. If he needs time to work out whateverthefuck is going on in his head before he makes the leap, she's not one to judge. Hell, Lenore had to be argued into taking her in, and look how that turned out.

She slides off the counter, more carefully this time so her coffee doesn't go everywhere. "Lead on, my good man."

Raylan only smiled and nodded towards the door, glad that she didn't argue one way or the other. There were some worries that would never stop, no matter how big or grown Willa got. It was the blessing and curse of parenting; that job was never done. Even Arlo felt that way, telling Raylan more than once how or what he should do and why, in all of his infinite wisdom. Raylan rarely listened.

Out the door they went and to the left, past a large tree that Raylan had never bothered to identify to face a large set of fields that wrapped around the house like an L. He gestured at it the dry, dusty fields, speckled only with a few wild weeds and a sagging red barn far off to the right against what reasonable people might assume was the property line, fenced.

"Everything the light touches... is my kingdom Simba," he teased with a smirk and a sidelong look. "We've got about 20 acers run up the foothill of the mountain. Used to be tobacco fields back in the day-" he squinted in the morning sun out over it all. "-But my granddaddy was a preacher and got his money other ways, so they fell fallow. Not much here except the rusted out tractor in the dilapidated barn.. and whatever else Arlo stuffed in there," he conceded easily. He didn't exactly keep track.

"A real HDTV project."

She grins crookedly at the Lion King reference, the expression fading a little as he talks. Athena studies the open land, marveling a little at that much space without a single house or building other than the barn.

"It's beautiful," she says, not joking, but still self-conscious in the statement. "It's... a lonely kind of beautiful."

Edited 2021-10-13 19:47 (UTC)

"I suppose," he said, otherwise interrupted by his cell phone ringing. He was clearly irritated by the noise, lips pinching into a thin line at the name that he saw on the screen. "Ava Crowder," he muttered, muting the call and slipping it back into his pocket with a lift of his eyebrows.

"If you ignore the graves in the front yard and just look at the sunrise... I'll grant they get some good ones here."

She glances at his phone, not asking who it is, but her relentless curiosity does wonder. When he mentions the graves, though, she looks that way. "I wasn't sure I saw them last night. I thought maybe I was just. Like. Freaked the fuck out. Who is it? That's there, I mean."

"My Granddaddy, Arlo's, my mother's, Helen's and my own. Not that I ever expect to use it," he said dryly behind another sip of his coffee. "There used to be- Goddamnit," he swore, head shaking again as he pulled his phone out.

"Gimme a sec," he said towards Athena with a lift of his eyebrows and hit answer. "Yes Ava?"

His lips tightened and he sighed out of his front nose. "Does it have to be now?"

Raylan glanced over at Athena. "Alright, gimme thirty to get there." The phone was disconnected and slid into his pocket with another sigh. "Turns out breakfast is gonna haveta wait. We're goin' for a ride."

Edited 2021-10-13 23:37 (UTC)

She can’t help relief when at the interruption. It’s unnerving, having those empty graves there, like dark promises or threats.

She slugs her coffee back, wincing slightly at the heat of it. “Where we going?”

"A hair salon."

Without further explanation, Raylan turned and headed back inside. After brushing his teeth, he slipped on the same shirt he'd worn the day before, slid into his boots.

"You need any time to get ready?"

She's sitting on the counter until he comes downstairs, but she hopes off and joins him near the door at the question. Athena spreads her arms wide and tilts her head back, as though showing off her faded, ill-fitting nineties clothes. "Bring on the paparazzi."

He snorted and pointed towards the front door, letting her lead the way towards the car and sliding into his seat.

Twenty minutes and some crazy dust later, they pull up in front of what looks like it ought to be oughta the poor version of Steel Magnolias. A dusky blue that was aged and starting to curl around the edges with a sign on the front that had seen better days.

Raylan peered out his windshield and then glanced over at Athena. "I'd tell you to stay here, but I got a feeling you'd ignore that. You gonna be okay? Ava's a little over the top, but she won't do any harm."

A little over the top code in itself to not show off to the woman. Raylan could only imagine the way it would be taken.

She gets it. She's not about to show off to anyone not Raylan, not unless some intimidation is required. But she's pretty sure Raylan can do the intimidating without her help.

She trails him into the building, taking everything in curiously. She's seen city-poor, what that means and what that looks like, and some of the same signs are here, but it's so different at the same time.

As Athena heads towards the stairs, Raylan lightly backhands her arm and jerks his head around to the side and led her along the weedy path, bits of plastic and trash half fastened down to the ground by the sprawling plant growth.

Raylan pulled out his phone. Confirming our appointment at 3pm. He glanced over at Athena. "Not all meetin's happen inside."

A few seconds later, a leggy cornsilk blonde stepped out of the battered screen door and Raylan lifted his chin at her.

"Raylan," she greeted, starting with a smile that fell into something a little more plastic and fragile as she spots Athena, though, to her credit, she warms it up as she recovers with a little laugh in her voice as she talks. "And friend, I see. I'm sorry, I wasn't expectin' to see anyone else." At least Ava was genuine, however fractionally closed she was.

Athena was an outsider in a way that maybe the girl had never experienced before. You didn't have to have magic to be eyeballed or isolated out of a community. No matter how polite and smiling that community might be while they're doing it.

Ava looked at Raylan in silent question. His eyebrows lifted faintly as he pulled her back onto point.

"You called me, Ava and I'm here. Why am I here?" His head and tone bobbed with the last bit, the sound of a tired, resigned man who wanted to know why he was working so early in the morning. And without breakfast no less.

Ava clucked in admonishment and continued off the steps, high heels clicking against the old wood. "Now what happened to your manners, Raylan?" She looked over at Athena. "He's never been very good at it," she said, nose wrinkling like she was sharing a bit of juicy, harmless gossip.

Athena feels it acutely, that social wall between them. She gets it, and it’s not even the first time she’s felt something like that from people, but her subconscious reflex has always been to throw up walls of her own. She nods politely to Ava when the woman greets her, and gives an equally polite smile when she says that about Raylan’s manners.

Before Lenore, Athena would have been a lot more up front about knowing she’s on the outside of a community she has no chance to join. A lot more.

It’s a close thing now, but this is one of Raylan’s people.

If she’s sticking a little closer to Raylan than she was a moment ago, it’s not because he’s firmly designated her people or something.

"Quiet thing, ain't she," Ava said with an awkward little chuckle as she looked back to Raylan.

The Marshal sighed and leveled an even gaze at her, hands propping on his crookedly tilted hips, subconsciously giving Athena something to put herself behind. "Ava Crowder, Athena Parker. Now why am I here?"

"Can I talk to you... alone?" Ava asked, gesturing to the side, half stepping that way, one leg crossing over the other.

Raylan didn't move. "Ava," he repeated patiently. "You said you were worried about somethin'. Now either it's worth my rushin' up here, or I start chargin' you for gas and time."

Ava sighed and pursed her lips a little bit, obviously a little uncomfortable but unwilling to let the opportunity go.

"It's Boyd. I think he's plannin' somethin'. I don't know what but he's been keepin' odd hours and none of his boys are tellin' me anything."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"I want you to find out what he's doing!" Wasn't that obvious?

"You gotta give me more than that Ava, you know how this works."

"He's collectin' guys at the bar, keep talkin' about how they're gonna come into a lotta cash. I think it's got somethin' to do with Lexington."

Raylan sighed deeply. He understood why this couldn't be a call but god he did not want to be in the middle of this if it was a domestic. Lexington suggested it wasn't. Lexington suggested this was about drugs. "Alright. Are you safe?"

“Not usually,” Athena says, honest and blunt, when Ava calls her quiet. She can only keep her sass to herself for so long.

Then she says Boyd, and Athena perks up like a dog who just heard the word “walk.”

“Boyd!” She looks up at Raylan from where she stands half-behind him. “That’s your guy. This is a good thing, right? I mean, like, in a… marshaly way.”

That’s about when she remembers Raylan asked the very important question of are you safe. Right.

Raylan couldn't help the faint quirk of his lip at Athena's reply - Get 'er.

Boyd. Raylan's quirked lips turned to a half pursed pull of them. Athena was far too excited about it all - he wasn't supposed to be working, he was supposed to be making sure she was able to get her shit together after Mathis's games.

But that was a pipe dream from the start, here in Harlan.

"Yeah. He doesn't .. suspect I might tell you." Ava's eyes dropped back to Athena for a moment, sympathetically. God had they all ever been that young, really? But any country wisdom that Ava might have had to offer, she kept to herself. It was clear she had about a million questions about why Raylan had a young girl with him, but everyone knew Raylan was, generally speaking, the safest person to be with.

"Keep it that way." Raylan wasn't interested in answering any of the questions he saw waiting for him. "This gonna happen soon?"

"In a week or so, I think."

"Find out, if you can."

"You.. need me to come by the house?" Her eyes darted to Athena again.

Athena bridled a little at Ava's look, but she managed to keep herself in check long enough for Raylan to distract her with another question. A week or so. Another forever away, but at least her ankle would supposedly be half-better by then.

At Ava's last question though, Athena outright scowled. "Are you afraid he's going to kill me with undercooked baked beans or do you think I'm too helpless to fend for myself? I'm guessing it's one or the other."

Raylan opened his mouth, half to stop Athena, half to stop Ava, but Ava beat him to the punch with a shake of her head.

"No darlin'," she said warmly with a lift of her eyebrows. "I think Raylan doesn't know the first goddamned thing about girls." The look she gave back to Raylan was 'trust me, I know.'

"I better get back in," she continued, wiping her hands on her dress. "I'll call you when I got somethin' more." She looked back at Athena. "Pleasure to meet you."

"He knows me," Athena countered stubbornly. She almost, almost didn't return the pleasantry, but as Ava started to leave she blurted out, "Good to meet you too. Um. Be careful."

She's not sure what Ava's relationship with Boyd is, but if she's informing on him to Raylan, it can't be great.

He knows me. In the moment, its so strange to think back on what they'd suffered, where they'd been for so many months. No friendly faces. No purpose beyond drawing another breath and protecting each other. Yeah, he knew her. But he wasn't going to correct Ava on it.

Let her think what she would. It tended to work out better for him in the long run.

Ava glanced back in acknowledgement before shutting the door behind the screen door and leaving them alone in the alleyway.

"She killed her first husband ya know. For beatin' her. Shot him right at the dinner table.." Raylan took a deep breath in. "Shit I'm hungry. C'mon songbird, let's get something in our stomachs."

Athena raised her eyebrows, looking back at the now-closed door to the salon with an impressed little huh.

"Good for her." No sarcasm whatsoever. But then she grins up at Raylan. "That was a weird transition. But yeah me too."

"It isn't any fried chicken, but it's about the next best thing you'll find here," he said, gesturing them back towards the street and eventually back into his car. She wouldn't get the joke, that he was hungry for fried chicken, but he amused himself anyway.

Twenty minutes later, they were sat at a table and having hot food set in front of them.

"Told you there's no taking this stuff away in styrofoam. It'd be an offense." The man was serious about his biscuits and gravy.

Athena didn't think she was all that hungry until they got into the little diner-style-restaurant. Then the smells hit, and... yeah, she's hungry.

"Man, I'm fine having it now." She is a biscuits and gravy virgin, but as the food gets set out she can very easily see herself becoming an adherent. "I never got to have it. Your fried chicken. You have to make some for me."

Raylan smiled softly over another bite of his biscuits. Good, that was a good sign. Appetite was always healthy. After his months in Mathis, he was only just starting to get back to the weight he'd come in at.

He lifted his eyebrows as he cleared his mouth, pinching them down as he thought about it. "Shit. You didn't, did you. Well," he continued, clearing his mouth with a cup of coffee. "We're gonna have to fix that. Just lemme know the day before you want it. Chicken's gotta wet brine."

He cut another bite. "I'm glad to see you eatin'. It took me a few days to find any appetite myself. Everything tasted too.. Unreal. Luxurious." Like a trap, if he were honest.

The Trust of his environment was something that was still a Work in Progress, but those first few days had been Raw.

"I want it," Athena declares helpfully. She pauses when he goes on, a bite half-way to her mouth. She almost puts it down at that, but finishes it instead. He's glad to see her eating. She's not handling this... wrong. It's okay to want to taste everything, taste how different it is. Even if now she feels a little strange that she didn't think twice about enjoying the food.

Raylan couldn't help the scoff of a smile behind his faint nod. "We'll pick up some on our way outta town for tomorrow nights dinner."

It was touching that she still wanted to try his food. It was the most basic thing he could provide beyond physical security and her enthusiasm made him feel down right domestic about it. It was a nice thought to think that things might be this way between him and Willa. Or him and Loretta, really.

"Corbin doesn't have a lot in the way of clothing department stores so it's just the second hand shop, but always seemed like they kept decent stuff. No holes or anything." Yes, Fashion icon, Raylan Givens has shared his opinion. He knew it was a little ridiculous, but he didn't know what a Teenage girl would be interested or okay with. No holes seemed to be a decent enough bar to him.

"I've had a helluvalot worse, trust me." She makes herself go back to eating, the instinct to have it while it's available kicking in again. Loftily, she adds, "It's about the attitude you imbue the clothes with, not the trendiness of the pop culture references on them."

"Mm, I will leave that opinion to the youth until denim and flannel with boots are widely accepted again. But I don't even know what pop culture is lookin' like these days. Nothin' more painful than an old man asking 'What's cool now days'."

He didn't mind a little light fun poking at himself.

Athena grins. "Fuck if I know."

The selection at the thrift store they go to is even more questionable than Athena expected, but she doesn't let that show. Just picks things that are practical, versatile, and on the low end of the cost spectrum. Socks and underwear have to come new, but a plastic package of Hanes isn't something she's going to complain about.

By the time all that is done, Athena feels weirdly tired. Maybe it's the newness of this place, maybe it's the existence of people in it, maybe it's the fact that she's had to practically swallow her tongue a few times to keep from casually swearing in front of a tiny old lady who could probably shoot her. No matter what it is, when she drops into the passenger side of Raylan's car after the errands are finished, she lets herself deflate there for a moment before trying to put her head on straight.

The thrift store wasn't painful; Raylan let Athena lead and wandered around behind her trying to not look as creepy as he felt walking through the Junior's sections. He knew he'd have to do this at some point with Willa, but he was forever hoping that Winona would see to that, considering her opinions. The local department store was worse and Raylan stands further off to the side and looked more like he was hoping the floor would crack open and eat him alive. But it was over and once he slides back into the car with a breath and an adjustment of his hat, he turns the car over and nods.

"Next time underclothes needs to happen, I'm handin' you a fifty and waitin' in the car." Giving her a fond crook of his smile, Raylan headed them back onto the road. They would only talk if she wanted to on the drive and he'd long given her the radio as long as she didn't put anything Pop on but no matter how they wile those few hours, when they pulled up to the Given's house, there was a beaten, rust bitten blue truck waiting.

Raylan frowns sharply at the car and glances over at Athena. "Stay here," he says, sliding out of his open door, gun already out of his holster and in his hand. Whether she obeys him or not, he keeps pace up to the front door which has been left wide open, giving them a clear view of the back of Boyd Crowder, all waistcoat and dark jeans. Raylan clucks a sigh and lowers his gun with a look back to wherever Athena was.

She teases him a little about the underwear awkwardness—she has to—but past that she goes a little quiet, listening to the music and trying not to think about anything.

He says stay and she gives him a withering look, popping out of her seatbelt and the car in his wake. The fact that he’s got his gun in hand makes her queasy with nerves and they much more determined to stay close, but she does at least stay a little behind and out of the way. She’s not getting between Raylan’s gun and whoever might deserve it.

Except Raylan sighs and lowers the weapon, which for some reason makes her even more irritated at whoeverthefuck decided to let themselves in to Raylan’s house.

“Hey fuckwad, you’re letting the bugs in. I mean the tiny ones, since you look like you’re making yourself comfortable.”

Raylan looks over with something of a soft bewilderment and shakes his head a little before holstering his weapon.

The 'bug', turned around and showed his face, all bright teeth and spikey hair, looking for all the world like he had been delivered the greatest gift God could provide.

"Well little lady, I'll admit I do find this house very comfortable. I'd give my regards to the good lady that decorated it-"

"Don't." Raylan's voice was heavy and sharp, thick with a promise that Boyd ceded to almost immediately with a broadening of his hands.

"But I was expected to show up now and then. Since your daddy is in lockup. He asked me to.. come by, check on the house every once and a while. I see you've got company though, and I must admit Raylan, I think she's a little young for good taste."

Athena’s glare promptly cranks up to eleven. “My dude, the fact that your brain went there first thing says more about you than I even wanted to know.”

She takes a step forward, even with Raylan now instead of behind. She’s desperately curious about the history behind what that guy said about Helen and Raylan’s response to it—but she realizes with an odd jolt that Helen isn’t there and Raylan hasn’t mentioned her living somewhere else.

That also says more than she likes.

“You’ve done your due diligence, sharkface. Fuck off.”

"Oohoo, Raylan you got yourself a feisty one."

Raylan just lifts his eyebrows a little. "Those hands of yours drift anywhere that ain't wide and empty and we won't have to get feisty."

Boyd just chuckles and ambles forward a few crooked steps that somehow saw him walking straight.

"No offense, but my tastes are, in fact, a little more refined? Then that-" Boyd continues, hands dropping to hook his thumbs in his pockets. It was the opposite of what Raylan had said but the men knew themselves well enough to know it was basically the same thing. The message was 'Don't reach for a gun'. "-And I would surely like to, as you so eloquently stated, 'fuck off' but since my friend here standin' beside you has somethin' he should probably hear, I'm gonna haveta politely decline. If you feel like callin' off your new attack pup, Raylan?"

Raylan, as evident by the shift of his weight, did not feel like doing any such thing.

Athena smirks, just a little. Then hums a low note quiet enough that only Raylan or someone standing as close as he is would be able to hear it.

The screen door swings forward and hits Boyd in the face.

Raylan recognizes that hum, the one that had preceded the worlds most suburban shrapnel - coffee mugs - and he smirks and lets her do whatever she wanted. Boyd deserved it on general principal and their psudo-friendship didn't include warning about Gifted people. Not when he was sure that Athena wouldn't kill him.

Boyd had no idea it was coming. His eyes widen for the half second it takes the door to be slammed into his face. Immediately, he was grateful as hell that it was the screen door and not the actual door. It didn't hurt, but it did confuse the ever living sense out of him.

"What the hell?!" He stumbled back a few feet and stared at Athena like she'd grown a third head.

Athena might have missed it, but Raylan saw the shift in Boyd's shoulders and in a blink, his gun was out of his holster.

"Better not."

Boyd froze for a half second, hand lowering back down.

"What the hell is she, Raylan?"

"A very talented teenager who I'm happy to continue to let humiliate you if you don't do as she asks."

"Y'all know that this is the front door, right?"

Athena takes a nervous step back as soon as Raylan's gun comes out, eyes wide. It's one thing to do a little subtle manipulation as an easy prank. She didn't think this guy would connect her smugness to the abnormal movement of the door.

Which is when it clicks for her who this has to be.

"Holy fuck, you're the guy." Her voice comes out tiny. She clears her throat, straightens up a little, very clearly trying to steel herself in that particular way that teenagers think is subtle and definitely isn't.

She still stays behind Raylan this time.

Boyd and Raylan both knew this house too well. Too many years of sitting on the porch or in the screened back dealing with Arlo - That screen door didn't just swing shut unless there was some gust of wind and Boyd hadn't felt any such thing. He didn't know how it was possible, but she was the only new variable.

"The guy?" Boyd asks, completely confused.

Raylan shifts his weight to the side to cover Athena as she postures, unconsciously trying to protect her from her proceived threat.

"Meet Boyd Crowder. Fastest talkin' crime lord in Harlan these days. He's not gonna hurt you. Not in front of me."

Athena scowls at Boyd from around the protective barrier of Raylan's... self. This is the guy. This is the guy keeping Raylan from being with his daughter, this is the guy dangerous enough, wound up with Raylan's life enough to be worth staying to sort out.

"Crowder is a stupid last name," is what she says.

"You're the one that's holdin' the gun," Boyd points out reasonably.

"I'm the one with the badge too," Raylan retorts You wanna talk to me, fine but you don't do it by breakin' into my house, I don't care how often Arlo let you in."

"Crowder is a fine name, by the way," he continues as he starts walking forwards. Raylan moves back with him, left hand carefully steering Athena in time to keep her where she was behind his shoulder.

"Shame it's got a rap sheet about as long as the county attached to it, huh. Shit Boyd, you coulda been a highflyin' accountant or something," Raylan clucks.

"Best not let anyone else find out what you got with you, Raylan, whatever she is."

"Thanks for the warning. Now get off my porch."

Unfortunately for Boyd—unfortunately for all of them, really—the Crowder has touched a nerve. It’s only Raylan’s corralling her that keeps Athena behind him.

“I’m a whoever not a whatever you viagra-sucking limpdick wannabe untrimmed hedge.”

A sound behind them, back toward the driveway, jerks her attention in that direction. There’s another guy getting out of a new vehicle—another two guys, both of them giving off a very hired thug vibe. One of them has a shotgun. Instinctively, Athena reaches out and grabs a handful of Raylan’s flannel.

Edited 2022-02-12 21:21 (UTC)

Raylan wants to remind Athena where they are. But even if he did, he knew it wouldn't be taken the way he means it to. She's too young to understand that some things just aren't worth the battle or argument and no amount of either would change things in Harlan. But that whole idea was set onto the back burner at the sounds of a vehicle driving up, the sounds to two doors opening and closing. The telltale sound of a shotgun shell being loaded was what craned Raylan's neck around as he pushed them back and to the side, aiming to get the wide fields behind them rather than the men approaching.

"Boyd, what the hell?"

"I told you I needed to talk to ya, Raylan. You shoulda listened."

Raylan's face turns dangerous, eyes darkening to match the low warning in his voice.

"And you, lil' lady," Boyd continued. "I dunno how you did what you did. But you're gonna haveta be slicker than that for me to not peg you as somethin'. I dunno what yet." He wags a finger at her. "But I'll find out."

For a second, she's scared. For a second she's absolutely terrified.

Then, suddenly, she's not.

She's very, very angry.

"I don't fucking think so," Athena hisses. She steps around Raylan, taking in the locations of the two men approaching and Boyd's stupid position with his stupid face on the stupid porch.

And then she sings, with a deep-throated, belted out passion that Raylan hasn't heard from her before. She's never been this angry around him before. This angry with a familiar weapon at her fingertips.

"Young blood, run like a river
Young blood, never get chained
Young blood, heaven need a sinner
You can't raise hell with a saint
Young blood, came to start a riot
Don't care what your old man say
Young blood, heaven hate a sinner
But we gonna raise hell anyway."

It's instant chaos. The vehicles Boyd and his goons came in start to rust immediately, brown-red patches spidering out and thickening all over, connecting and spreading as the tires burst and the seats inside start to rot.

The shotgun suffers much the same fate, as do the weapons their antagonists yank out of hiding almost the moment they have them in hand.

Then their belt buckles go. Then the rest of the metal fastenings on whatever they're wearing. Their boots.

And then the cloth itself, and she's not sorry, not one fucking bit.

Not a thing that Raylan owns sees a scratch.

Raylan tries to stop her for a half second, but the way she tears away from his grasp was enough to make him take pause. Athena was different in that she could defend herself in ways that didn't involve needing a firearm or, really, worrying too much about one in front of her. It didn't stop his stomach from dropping out as she surged ahead or as she started singing.

He'd seen her flex her Gift, but he hadn't seen her flex it like this. In fact, he doesn't think he's ever heard her so angry, or sing so.. wholeheartedly.

Raylan can only stand there dumbly, watching as Boyd's jewelry, the pocket watch in his waistcoat, the belt buckle at his waist rusting away, but he manages an amazed huff of a half laugh as Boyd's clothes start to vanish.

"What the hell?!?" Boyd exclaims, franticly pressing hands over everything in a failed attempt to keep them there. When he looks back up, there's half a note of terror in his eyes. "How-"

"I suggest y'all start runnin'," Raylan darkly supplies from over Athena's shoulders. "I'd hate to see what she can do once you're in the nude, huh?"

Boyd wasn't going to take that advice lightly and backed up a few steps before scrambling off the porch with a few frantic gestures at his men. "RUN, GO GO GO."

Raylan steps past Athena and off the porch to watch, head tilting to the side as his features lift in amusement. "Never thought I'd be so happy to see a naked ass in my life," he says quietly before looking over at Athena.

"Good job. You okay?"

Athena lets go of the Gift, finishing the last notes of the chorus without using her abilities before she stops singing.

Then she sits down on the porch steps, staring after the retreating, naked guys who were clearly going to hurt Raylan whether he listened to them or not.

"What?" She feels slightly dazed when she looks at him. Shakes herself out of it, parses what he said. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Uh... I think I lost my temper."

Edited 2022-02-20 02:02 (UTC)

There was no doubt in Raylan's mind that they'd come back. He'd have to hunt down Boyd tomorrow before the man could get too much fanatic ground underneath him; he could almost hear the scriptures about dealing with the devil now.

Raylan slides his piece back into his holster and moves to sit beside her with a heavy sigh, elbows propped on his knees as he looks over at her.

"You've gotta be careful with those. Tempers." He should know. "But you didn't harm 'em and that's what's important... Sure as hell a step up from blowin' up all the mugs in the house, huh." His lips curl softly, trying to let her know that he's not mad at her or scared of her, though maybe a reasonable person might be. He'd seen too much with her to be either of those things.

She’s scared to look at him, even though his tone hasn’t changed.

Then he makes the crack about the mugs and it surprises her into looking up. Seeing his expression without judgement, his tiny smile.

Athena shifts enough to press her face against his shoulder and grab on to him loosely with both hands.

“Guess I just. Got fucking sick of being scared,” she mumbles.

Edited 2022-02-20 18:17 (UTC)

With a little shift, Raylan lifted his arm, making room for her to tuck right under it so he could hug her properly if she would take it.

"One of these days, we're gonna find you a place where you can work on bein' sick of being disgustingly happy. I'm sorry that it won't be here.. No one oughta be raised in Harlan so.. I'll try to make your stay here as short as possible, I promise."

That was the only promise that he could make and keep. Keeping his promises to Athena were a paramount importance.

She settles against him, comforted by how solid and calm he is.

"Those guys are totally coming back, huh."

"They might, but not tonight," he assures softly with a short rub of his hand on her shoulder. "And if they come back tomorrow or the day after, we'll be ready for them. They ain't gonna rile up a mob, if that's something that you worry about. There aren't enough people that would believe that. Not here."

That does relax her a little bit, the fact that people won't mob up with Boyd and storm Raylan's house.

She chews her lip for a second, catching a bit of loose skin in her teeth and wincing. "Do you think he'll want to kill me or catch me more?"

"Oh catch, definitely. Boyd likes a show, and with everyone tellin' him that he's crazy with what he'll say, he'll look to turn it into a circus act, see if he can't pull in a profit off you before he comes around to killin' anyone."

Raylan looks down at her. He'd been knowing and chasing Boyd for too many years to not know what the man was going to do next. "I'm not gonna let that happen either, Athena. Not the catchin' or anything else. You're not somethin' to be shoved into a room and stared at like someone's at the zoo."

She scowls. "If he thinks he can control me for shit he has another thing coming."

The scowl fades a little as Raylan talks. She looks up at him sidelong, something really starting to register for the first time.

"I'm the only one with the Gift here," Athena says quietly. There's shock in her tone. A fresh new wave for a fresh new reason. "I'm literally the only person in the world with the Gift. Fuck."

Raylan huffed a smile. Boyd certainty did have another thing coming if he thought Athena would come quietly in the night or something and she'd done plenty tonight to prove it. But his expression sobered as she stared at him and even more as she came around to a conclusion he already knew.

He nods softly. "Unless Jeff shows up.. Yeah, darlin'. You are." His hand tightened on her. "At least as far as the wide world knows. I'm so sorry, 'Thena. You shouldn't have been dropped here.. Not.. not here." He took a deep breath, caving to the impulse to press a kiss into her hair.

"You're not alone. I know I'm.. You're not alone."

She presses her face against him, the way she would have in Mathias. The was she would if he were Jeff. Except he's not, he's Raylan, and she loves him, but a horrible, selfish part of her wishes that it was Jeff sitting with her right now instead.

"I'd rather be with you than someone else, if I have to be somewhere where no one knows about the Gift," she mumbles.

I know I'm not Jeff. He couldn't say it out loud, not fully, but he couldn't blame her if that's how she felt. Raylan had already stolen his face, as it were.

His other arm came around to hug her properly.

"I'm so sorry, honey. Maybe I'm wrong and they're.. just not Out yet. Maybe they think they're the only one too. Don't give up that hope... Why.. why don't we get the groceries in and get settled for the night, huh? I know it's weird to.. go back to the evenin' like nothin' happened but we can't linger in this moment too long. Ain't healthy to stop movin' like that."

He rubs his thumb across her shoulder. "It'll be alright. Somehow."

“I’ll be okay,” she says softly. She drags in a deep breath and straightens up. He’s right, about the dangers of staying still too long when there’s so much emotion hanging in the air. It’s a panicked smothering waiting to happen.

Athena helps him bring in the groceries, puts things away, showers and changes into properly clean new-old pajamas before returning to the kitchen. “How do you brine chicken anyway? I want to learn so I can impress and confuse Aunt Nory with my culinary acumen.”

He feels better in the kitchen, the ugliness of the porch left there with the other bullet holes and damage that the house had suffered. The simple work of feeding himself, of feeding Athena, was it's own comfort. One foot in front of the other, right?

Raylan chuckles at the statement following the question, lifting his eyebrows with a bob of his head as he starts peeling the plastic off the pack of chicken and dropping the pieces into a bowl.

"You ever heard of briney water? It just means heavily salted, so brining is soaking meat in heavily salted water. Salt and some spices if you want your meat to taste like your breading. Always use the same spices in your flour that you do your brine, so it'll all taste the same. Your Aunt Nory used to cook for you? What was your favorite dish?"

Athena snorts. “God no, Nory can’t cook for shit. Except for spaghetti. She does make killer spaghetti.”

She peers into the bowl. “What kind of spices do you use?”

"Cayanne.. Lawry's - It's a seasoning salt that does the salting work," he explains as he grabs the spice containers to do just that, dumping more than might seem strictly necessary.

"Don't ask me for amounts, I eyeball everythin'. You're gonna help me fry it, right? It's mostly waitin' anyway. Fried chicken is the easiest thing in the world, if I'm honest. Just takes time."

“Hell yeah, bring on the teenage recklessness and boiling oil.”

She ticks herself up under his arm as soon as he’s not using both hands, studying the amounts of spices like that will help her remember what to use next time. “And hey easy isn’t easy when it comes to stuff like this, you know? Have to get the timing right and all that.”

Raylan chuckles as he finishes, popping the clear glass lid on the pot. Once he wiped his hands, he found himself with an adorable growth and squeezed a hand around her shoulder before draping it there.

"Just long enough for a TV movie and a bowl of cereal to tide you over until then." Or to tide him over, to be honest. "Only place where timin' matters is the pre-heatin' time for the oil and how long they cook. Can't be eatin' raw chicken. C'mon," he says, turning her and tugging her towards the living room. "Let's find somethin' to watch on this shitty tv. I could use the noise and the meat needs the time to brine. From 2 hours to 24, if you can manage it. 24's better, really. Gets into all the fibers. It's science, really."

Athena keeps up a commentary on what they watch practically until she falls asleep sitting on the couch, snuggling in against Raylan and pretending to be unconscious. She lets him move her to the mattress like she's a ten year old who's properly asleep instead of a nearly-eighteen-year-old who's faking it.

It doesn't take long for her to actually fall asleep after that, though.

She wakes up earlier than she wants to at the sound of the front door opening. Athena scrambles to her feet, not sure what she's on the alert for but knowing there's something.

...It's Raylan. Raylan, going somewhere, with car keys in his hand.

She stares for a second, then gives an affronted, "What the fuck?"

The fact that she was here still blew his mind; the fact that she trusted him enough to curl up against him like a cat that wanted his heat blew his mind and how goddamned sweet it was tugged at his heartstrings as he posited her into the matress he'd given up on thinking would be moved any time soon. It was a good thing the couch was comfortable and doubly so that he had no problem sleeping fully dressed.

But he didn't really ever sleep long when he wasn't in bed and comfortable, and 6 AM was an easy hour when it felt like you hadn't really slept at all.

He really had been thinking that he was silent enough to get by - there was three notes strewn along the kitchen, in hopeful estimates of where she might look first come sunrise, but the start of sound from behind him and the obvious question had him wincing as he stops and turning around in the door.

"Was hopin' to let you sleep in. You need it," he explains with a soft little smile.

While that was true, it was far from the whole truth.

She scowls. “Fuck that. I’ll nap later. Where are we going?”

She casts around for her tennis shoes, pulling them on unevenly as she seesaws over to him.

Raylan sighs out his nose, key holding hand propping on his hips as he watches her.

"To Boyd's. Before he gets too much sunlight under him to be trouble. It's not gonna be pretty, Athena, and it's early. You should probably stay here, considerin' what you did to him last time you saw him."

“That’s exactly why I should go with you!” She glares up at him. “What if he gets ideas or something and… I don’t know, sends people here while you’re gone?”

"Then I'll run into them on the way; there ain't but two ways into the driveway. And if someone does come in, you go out the back and into the woods until I come back. Boyd can't be left to settle into his ideas, I have ta go talk to him before he gets his hairs too far up. You bein' there.. Honey, I wish it was simple enough of us talkin' him into understandin'. It's shit and I know it, but I also know him. Before he was what he is now, he hated the blacks and hated the jews and they're just .."

He gestures. He was going to say 'they're just people' but he worried that Athena might take him for saying she wasn't somehow.

"No one deserves that shit. Not the blacks or the Jews or the Muslims or you. What happens if you come and his guys surround the car? Puttin' you on his terf is dangerous, darlin', that's all."

She doesn’t really have a counter argument for that. Athena bites her lip, feeling her throat tightening up, her eyes starting to burn, and she tries to swallow it down.

“…I don’t want to be by myself,” she finally whispers.

Raylan watched her crumble and cursed the way his chest seemed to cave into itself in guilt that he ever thought about leaving her, no matter how good his reasons were.

A deep breath was taken in and out of his nose.

"What about Ava? Would you be okay stayin' with her? She'll keep you safe; she knows how to handle a gun and Boyd or his men."

She doesn’t want to. She wants to stay with Raylan, she wants to stay with someone familiar, but she makes herself nod. Athena looks down so he won’t see her face. “Yeah, I’m. I’m okay with that.”

He didn't need to see her face to see the drop of her shoulders.

"'Thena. You know I'm only tryin' to keep you safe, right? I.. I don't want to put you into a postion where you gotta defend yourself against... Against shitkickers that I'm used to. They're stupid and they don't understand shit and you've--"

He gestured at her with the comment but his hand fell back at his side as he fought to urge to step forward and collect her into his arms.

"Ava is good folk. I promise." He turns halfway, his body's edge pointed towards the door. "It's either her or you tuckin' into the backseat under a blanket in a place where godknows what'll happen."

Athena looks up abruptly. “Option two. Door number two. Whatever the game show reference is, that’s the one I want.”

"Athena," he implores with a bob of his head, a rare enough occurance on it's own. "You-" He sighs again and rubs at his forehead.

"You've already been through a lot. These idiots, they're.. They're not worth the trouble that they'll bring you. Let me.. sort it out. Where they can't use you against me, where they can't disable me by threatenin' you."

That takes the wind out of her sails, even though it’s also weirdly comforting to know that he cares enough for it to be a risk. Of course he does, she scolds herself, but it’s one thing to know and another to know.

Still: he’s planted the seed.

Which means as soon as she has a moment at Ava’s, she’s sneaking into Raylan’s trunk.

So, to buy the time she’ll need there: Athena glares at the ground, not feeling a quarter of the anger or resentment she’s pretending at. “Fine. You can take me to Ava’s place.”

In the Village, Raylan would have throw himself onto the fire if it would save Athena and that hadn't changed with the change of scenery. He still remembers tucking a very drunk young girl under his arm and making sure she got home safely. He remembers finding her coming out of the tunnels, terrified and panicky. It was everything for him to keep her away from more of the same or worse.

So he's relieved when she agrees, no matter the amount of dissatisfaction he was witnessing. She could be dissatisfied. She would at least be alive to do so.

"Thank you. Now that you're up, you.. wanna brush your teeth or anythin' before you go?" Personally, he always had to piss when he first got up and Ava's house was about 15 minutes away. If they weren't going to sneak out, he could at least make sure Athena was comfortable as she could be.

If she knew what he was thinking, she might even stay at Ava's. Keep herself out of harm's way.

Maybe. If she could handle the idea of him facing Boyd and those people on his own.

As it is, she (sullenly) brushes her teeth and (sullenly) brings her backpack with the most important of her belongings. There aren't many, but she's too far back into the feral attitude of being ready to move at a moment's notice to leave them behind.

She leans her forehead against the window as Raylan drives, letting the glass cool her skin. "...What're you going to tell him, anyway?"

He was glad to see her take the offer and the time to sort her morning business, resisting the urge to start and have a cup of coffee while he waited but she didn't take long and they were in the car quickly.

It was a cool, overcast morning, one that didn't bode well in the too open areas they were driving through.

"I'd tell him to get outta town if I thought he would listen. But I'll be tellin' him that anything he might do or conceive to passin'ly consider in seriousness will answer to me." He glances over. "It means I'd put my badge and service weapon down, put my skills to use."

Raylan was often accused of being a good man. Not a soft man, but a good one. Except when he was not.

Athena stares at him, wide-eyed. “Y…”

It’s not the fact that he would do what he’s implying, really, though that’s a little scary. It’s the fact that he’d do it for her.

Athena bites her lip, closes her eyes, then groans in frustration at her own stupid unwillingness to disobey these days when someone says something like that.

“…I was going to hide in the trunk.”

She lifts her head away from the window to look at him. “When we got to Ava’s. I was going to pretend to go to the bathroom and then hide in the trunk so I could come with you.”

He was driving so he had to keep his eyes on the road, but he glances over at the groan and the sigh that came with her words, eyebrows lifting a little. He nods slowly and as she finishes, huffs a breath and a smile of approval.

"Never let anyone tell you that you wouldn't fit in here." The whole no other Gifted people here being an aside.

"I know you're scared to let me outta your sight, darlin'. Worried that somethin' might happen to me? But I've been dealin' with Boyd since we were in Elementary. Some of the rules for us are... Well.. Different."

She nods slowly, trying to accept that, knowing it's probably true, but hating it just the same.

Raylan pulls up into Ava's driveway, slows, and Athena's stomach clenches as the front door swings open and Boyd saunters out--clothed once again--in the lead of several armed men.

"Uh. Fuck."

Raylan's expression turned dark as Boyd saunters out and he cuts the car off with a thinning of his lips.

"You can open the door and step out but don't step out from behind the door itself. If I tell you to move or do somethin', you do it." There was no ask if she understood, just Raylan sliding out of his car, right hand sliding up to rest on the butt of his gun, jacket folding behind him as he popped the snap closure.

"Boyd!" He greeted, stepping around his own car door and ambling up in front of the car. "I was just comin' to see you. Guess you saved me a drive. We should have a Talk."

Athena does exactly what Raylan says this time, standing behind the open door of the car and trying not to shrink in on herself when Boyd and the rest of them turn glares and weapons her direction. A couple of them look afraid. A couple look plain old hateful. She can’t tell what Boyd thinks, and that makes her skin crawl.

“Raylan,” Boyd says amiably, his gaze still steady on Athena’s face. “Surely I would be mistaken if I presumed to think you’d leave that thing alone with Ava while the two of us had a Talk.”

Athena tenses at the thing part, but doesn’t speak up this time.

"You call that child a Thing again and we're gonna have more than the few issues we got now," he assured, somehow in a singsongy manner that sounded light to the ear and yet was dripping with warning.

"Ava knows what it is to suffer the cruel hand of a Bowman. And I know she wouldn't inflict harm onto a young woman looking for refuge. I trust Ava to be a good and sound person, however questionable her tastes. She in the house?"

Had Boyd left her alive? There was no real telling.

"I'd like to see her."

The teenager in Athena wants to protest Raylan calling her a child. The scared kid in her feels warmed and protected by his declaration. Boyd keeps watching her for another long moment before slowly turning his attention to Raylan.

"Your concern is touching, but unwarranted. And unnecessary."

The way Boyd says it makes Athena very aware of the fact that Boyd is being both insulting and sarcastic, but she has no idea over what.

Boyd half-turns his head to call over his shoulder, his eyes still on the town car and its passengers. "Ava?"

Edited 2022-06-19 00:49 (UTC)

Mmhmm. Boyd could say that all he wanted but they both knew Raylan didn't trust him as far as he could throw the man. His eyes dart towards the house door as Ava comes out, looking like sunshine in her summer dress and lightly curled hair.

"Yes Boyd?" She asks, eyes falling on Athena, darting over to Raylan and back again as she comes down the steps to join them all.

"I promise Athena, I won't let anythin' happen to you. I've got some fresh baked cookies, if you're interested?" The ask came with a thumb over her shoulder towards the house. "While the menfolk talk."

Raylan looked over at Athena and nodded. "If you hear shots fired, you get low and find your way towards the back door okay?"

Athena doesn't like this. She doesn't like it at all. She doesn't want to walk past Boyd, she doesn't want to go into that house without Raylan.

Still, she bites her lip and nods at Raylan's directions. She might not be able to make herself run when it comes right down to it, if something goes wrong, but she'll try for now. She follows Ava inside uneasily--and gets a little thrill as two of the men who were there for what she did move away when she gets close. Good. They should be scared.

Boyd doesn't move, though. He just watches. Watches her edge up the stairs, meets her eyes when they're level. His smile is small and somehow terrifying and Athena sticks closer to Ava the rest of the way into the house.

As soon as they're out of sight, Boyd turns his attention back to Raylan. "You came here for a reason. A babysitter?"

"Good girl," he says with a little nod, eyes moving off Boyd only long enough to meet hers with another reassuring nod. Ava would protect her; he had no doubt about that. If he projected enough confidence, maybe it would let her borrow some.

It was tense while the women went inside, but Raylan could breathe a little easier with them more secure from the situation.

He lifts his chin as he starts.

"I've come to make sure you don't make another stupid mistake like you did last night. I know you've been cookin' up plans. You're gonna trash 'em, right now. Now you know y'all had what was comin', rollin' up to the house like that," he admonishes, head tilting a little to the side.

"Don't be a sour loser, Boyd. Let it be."

Boyd regards him with cold impassivity. “What is she, Raylan? How is it she can do what she did, and what else is waiting beneath that teenage veneer?”

"She's somethin' we're not, that's all. A young girl tryin' to survive in a messed up world more likely to hunt her than not. I know you and your daddy never much got into pigs, but go on - ask Limehouse what happens when you push a pig into a corner and make it defend itself?"

Not that Athena was a pig, but pig could eat a man if he wasn't careful and Athena had the potential to be a Maneater.

"Science ain't caught up to her yet, that's all."

There’s a different kind of something starting in his eyes now. Less hostile. Somehow even more calculating.

Also, most dangerously, fascinated. “People talk, Raylan. Even some of my people, a drink or two too deep. Maybe folks won’t believe them, but they’ll be curious. Particularly if you keep that girl around.”

"You let me worry about them. She's been in the county for less than 48 hours, Boyd; I'm tryin' to find her people. I don't particularly give a shit what you think about who I've got under my roof, but you go a-huntin' or set your boys to a whisper campaign about it, we're gonna find ourselves with a big damn problem."

Boyd knew how unflinching and unrelenting Raylan could be. Raylan liked to think that Boyd respected it, in his own way.

"And my badge ain't gonna be in the way." He wasn't kidding about laying down his job to get something done - he'd done it before, he'd do it again.

Don't make him do that, Boyd.

Boyd's smile slides in like a knife and he spreads his hands, benevolent. "All's I'm saying is, if she's here for the duration, she could do worse than being under the protection of Boyd Crowder and his people."

Inside, sitting at the kitchen table with Ava, Athena fidgets and resists the urge to run back outside. She can still hear the murmur of voices, but they're calm voices, so that's... more something than not. Even if Raylan is the master of threatening with the gentleness of a feather.

She looks at Ava. "He's okay, right? You think he's okay? Do you have a gun or... something...? We can help."

"I wouldn't, little lady." A soft voice comes from a corner before Ava can answer, and a man steps out, gun raised. It's not pointed at Athena. It's pointed at the blonde woman. Athena freezes. The stranger smiles.

"Good girl. Now, see that little stack of cloth napkins on the table? You’re going to roll one of those up and put it in your mouth. Then you’re gonna tie another one about your head to keep it there. Then I'm gonna move this gun from her to you, and we're gonna take a little walk to the front porch."

The man looks at Ava. "If you think I won't shoot this girl to keep you in line, you don't know me half so well as I thought, Ava Crowder."

He smiles at Athena. “Her, though, I wouldn’t have shot. Boyd would kill me. Up.”

Boyd is in the middle of speaking as the front door opens and Athena—gagged, hands behind her head—gets pushed out onto the porch. Whatever Boyd was going to say, he stops, raising his eyebrows.

Every other man pulls their weapons, and most of them get fixed on Raylan.

“Well,” Boyd says, tone as soft as ever. “An unexpected piece has been placed back on the board. Thank you, Carl.”

Edited 2023-07-03 17:29 (UTC)

Raylan was seething, a million sharp words clattering behind the vice grip of his jaw, painfully aware of where every man was standing and working out his odds of how many he could shoot before being gunned down himself.

"She can do a hellva lot better too, Boyd, now-"

That's when Carl comes out with a gun to Athena's head and Raylan's vision goes red. To hell with the odds, he pulls his gun and starts firing. First is poor Carl who doesn't get but half a sound out of warning before Raylan is blowing his head off and Boyd's next, getting shot in his other shoulder as Raylan darts forward in his crouched stride. The men on either side of the porch start firing, and Raylan pops the closest, gets shot in the arm himself and swings around to put down the offending gunmen.

"Get back inside Athena, right now, right now," he commands, one hand locked around her arm as he hauls her unceremoniously to her feet and into the door. The front door is shut and locked behind them, and Raylan strides into the kitchen, gun still raised and turning on the first face he sees. Ava.

"Who else is in the house, Ava?"

"I-I don't know Raylan, I swear it."

The look he gave her could have melted stone. "Athena, you get under that table and don't move an inch until I give you the all clear. Ava, you go with her and I swear to god, anythin' happens to this girl, I will put you right next to your daddy in that graveyard."

There's something warm and wet on her face, something thick that has pointy bits in it. Her ears ring with the sounds of guns going off, and she's on all fours, and then Raylan has her arm and he's dragging her inside and the door is closed, and there's a guy with a hole in his head on the other side.

Athena hasn't recovered by the time they're in the kitchen. She looks at him for a moment, uncomprehending, before her brain cycles up enough to realize what Raylan is going to do.

"No--there's too many, Raylan, I know you're good, I'm sure you could take any of them alone, but there's at least a half-dozen waiting for you and you just... just killed one of theirs."

She grabs a fistful of his shirt tight enough to make her knuckles hurt. "Don't you fucking dare go out there and get killed."

Her grab at him was the only thing that stopped him from continuing to walk away and he lowers the gun for a second to settle a hand over the wrist of the hand gripping his shirt. He knew she loved him. She knew she only wanted to keep him safe and that it didn't matter what else happened.

Except not being safe was the only way to keep them both safe.

"Athena. I need you get under that table because I am comin' back and I need to know that you're in a safe spot. Ava will keep you safe." Ava would keep her safe to keep herself safe, if nothing else. "But I need you to go now and I need you to be quiet. Go," he says, pulling her hand off him. "Go."

He knew it was scary. She had to hold on until he could calm her down without keeping an eye out for the bullet coming for both of them.

She wants to argue. She wants to ignore his instructions. But her limbs are locked up with a feral kind of terror and then he’s out of reach and Ava is dragging Athena down under the table as shots and cries ring out outside.

It feels like it goes on forever. Forever.

The voice that calls out makes Athena’s stomach drop through the floor and into the molten center of the earth.

It’s Boyd.

“Olly olly oxenfree, Athena. I would say I’ve got something that belongs to you, but I’m pretty sure he belonged to me first.”

Tim was asleep, face first in a pillow when the phone rang. Instinct saw him reaching over to grab up the landline before he was conscious enough to recall that this was Raylan’s phone, not his own.

“What,” he mumbled into the receiver, expecting to hear Art’s voice.

“Tim?”

That was not Art’s voice. The sharp exclamation of his name uttered with just the right lift of tone to make it sound imperious could belong to none other than Winona whateverherlastnamewasthisyear. Tim pulled the received from his ear and glared at the handset. Why the fuck was Winona calling him …

“Shit.”

“My sentiments exactly,” she responded. “Raylan there?”

Tim lay quiet for a moment and let his brain get online. Because he was not in Kentucky, he was in Miami. Specifically, he was in Raylan Givens’ small beach somewhat-adjacent bungalow, having arrived around four in the morning after an all-night drive down from Lexington. Raylan had not been home, but Tim had been aware of the fact and simply helped himself to the spare key the older marshal kept tucked away in a fake rock.

“No.” Tim finally responded and before she could jump on him, he explained. “He’s still in Mississippi on that manhunt.”

“Then why are you…”

“Winona, did you need something?” Tim was sitting up now blinking with great offense at the sun pouring in the window from the east. He and Winona tolerated each other. Because it was a complicated thing when you were both sleeping with the same man, off and on. Winona and Raylan were a goddamn cycle; dating, fucking, talking marriage, getting tired of each other’s shit, breaking up, rinse, lather, and repeat. Tim had no idea why he’d decided to get on this particular roundabout. Crawling into Raylan’s bed when Winona was off marrying some other asshole, who would eventually bore her and then she’d come back to Raylan. At which point Tim would crawl out of Raylan’s bed until the cycle started all over again.

It was fucked up and confusing as hell, but it was also the closest thing to a stable relationship Tim had in his life.

“Willa’s daycare provider just called, she’s sick and has to close the daycare early,”

Tim picked up his watch and looked at the time. Just a little after ten in the morning. The could not sleep after 6:30am only worked when he didn’t fall asleep until after 6:30am.

“Winona,” Tim began to caution, but she rode right over him.

“I’m in court all day on this murder trial and Brody is out on the boat,” at least she had the grace to sound as unhappy with what she was about to suggest as Tim knew he was going to be. “Tim…”

“Yeah, alright. Same place I assume?”

“Yes. I have a call in to Brody, as soon as the boat gets back this afternoon, he’ll come pick her up.”

“Tell him to bring ID,” it was a low jab, the blatant suggestion that he couldn’t keep track of who she was married to/dating/etc, but he was tired and exceptionally cranky.

“Fuck you, Tim.” Winona hung up.

Tim looked at the handset, couldn’t think of a witty comeback so he just flipped it over towards Raylan’s side of the bed. Taking another deep breath, he pried himself out of the comfortable bed, glad he’d stayed awake long enough to shower just a few hours earlier.

Willa Givens was the one subject upon which the adults in her life made an above and beyond effort to be civil and functional. Tim would never bad mouth or smart ass at Winona in front of Willa and Winona never disparaged him to her daughter. For Willa her mother, father, the man her father sometimes had ‘sleep overs’ with and the men in her mother’s life were all there to support and shower her with affection. There was no back biting or subtle sabotage when it came to Willa. Tim’s name was on the list of emergency contacts with the daycare, he had a copy of Willa’s insurance card in his wallet, and he was cleared to pick her up from the daycare.

Back in the Tahoe (because fuck if he was putting these kinds of miles on her personal car) Tim swung by a local convenience store for coffee, juice, an apple, and some string cheese. He then made his way to the home daycare provider, located up near Oleta River State park. Watching as a young mother herded her pair of children to a shiny mini-van, Tim climbed the steps and waved at the exhausted looking teenage girl behind the screen.

“Hey.” He greeted her. She was the daycare provider’s daughter and worked as an assistant with her mom. Nice enough kid but looking overwhelmed and pleased to see him.

“Hi Mr. Gutterson,” she never remembered his title and Tim had no reason to make hay about it. “Willa’s the last one here.” The unspoken question about why he was here lingered in the air as she stepped back, and Tim just shrugged and pulled open the door.

“Communication snafu,” he explained, and no sooner had he cleared the threshold than a happy squeal spit the air and his legs were cannonballed into. “Why the hell did we teach you to walk,” he groused down at shiny dark curls, the same color as her father’s. Willa laughed without remorse and proceeded to wrap her arms and legs around his lower calf, sitting perched on the top of his boot.

Tim rolled his eyes, which did not dissuade his new attachment and might have gotten a small giggle out of the teenage girl who was walking over with Willa’ Little Mermaid knapsack.

“There are some diapers and a packed lunch in there, but I just changed her. She should be ready for her nap soon.” she offered as Tim stared balefully at the glittering pink and aqua bookbag. He finally accepted his fate and reached to take the straps, slinging it over one shoulder before leaning down to collect Willa. She transferred agreeably to his arms, especially as this brought her within range of his nose, which had been a fascination for her since the first time she got close enough to grab it.

“Hope your mom feels better,” he made the polite noises, though his drawl was a little more nasal than usual due to the small fingers trying to smoother him as he headed out the door.

“ ‘im, ‘im, ‘im!’ “the twenty-two-month-old crowed with glee.

“Still having problems with the letter T hhmmm?” He drew his head back, retrieving his nose as he looked into hazel eyes. Yeah, no matter what Art liked to believe, Willa was the spitting image of Raylan, just with feminine features that were going to devastate boys (or girls) in about twelve years.

“T-ah, T-ah,” he sounded out the T and watched as Willa’s little face scrunched up. The child made a couple of attempts, before giving up and grabbing his nose again. By which time he had arrived at the back passenger side door of the Tahoe, which he pulled open and set Willa down.

….

On the goddamn bench seat devoid of goddamn car seat.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, smacking his hand on the door frame.

“Fuck!” came a cheerful little voice and Tim peered down from overtop his sunglasses at the child.

“Really? Can’t manage T but F you’ve already got mastered?”

“Fuck!” She repeated, mostly because she knew she had gotten a reaction out of him, and just like her daddy she did love to stir the shit.

“Remind me to be back in Kentucky before you say that in front of your mother,” he remarked, drumming his fingers against the roof of the truck, and considering his severely limited options.

As Tim stared off to the side pondering his next move, Willa decided he was being boring and started to head for the front seat. She neatly crawled over the console and landed in the driver seat, grabbing at the steering wheel. It moved!!! This was great fun and she twisted and turned it about before discovering that if she smacked the pretty little symbol in the center, the big car made a pathetic little honk noise!

It was the honk that shook Tim out of his combination of self-pity and attempted planning as he looked towards the happy child who was beating on the horn, making gradually louder and louder honks.

“Could you stop that?”

HONNKKK!!

Groaning, Tim pushed himself upright, grabbed the stupid little pink and aqua backpack and then closed the door. He headed next around to the driver side door and pulled it open to extract his coffee, apple, string cheese, juice, and child. Will was not pleased at being taking away from her toy and gave an imperious howl.

Tim gave her a jiggle on his hip as he carried her around to the back of the Tahoe. “Quit yer fussing child. I’ve got your favorite chew toy back here.”

Opening the back gate, Tim reached in and rummaged about before he set Willa down on the carpet.

“First, little change of attire,” he said blandly. She was dressed in a sweet as a picture little yellow frock, complete with lace and pale pink tights. Tim knew that if the dress, tights, let alone the white leather shoes got dirty Winona would have a fit. So, he took the only logical course of action. He stripped the child down to her diaper and then re-dressed her in one of his black t-shirts. It swamped the child, as did his marshal ballcap, which he fitted onto her head as a sunshade, because he did not have any sunscreen.

“There, now I don’t have to worry about you becoming a shrimp,” he decided as he packed the little bookbag, slung it over Willa’s shoulder, so he could grab another large canvas bag to throw over his own shoulder. At the sight of the bag, Willa squealed with absolute delight and he felt her tiny fingers reaching for the adjustment buckle as she pulled the shoulder strap towards her mouth.

“I’ll be so glad when you’re done teething,” he groused, closing the Tahoe, and locked it behind them.

With Willa on his hip gnawing contentedly and drooling down his shoulder, Tim hiked them both up a couple of blocks and over to the large park. He paused long enough to send a text, outlining his intention and location to the child’s parents, then headed on into the park proper. It did not take long for him to come upon the wholesome scene of a children’s’ playground, full of … children.

“You sure you wouldn’t rather go to a strip club?” He asked Willa, who scrunched up her face, teeth still locked on drool-soaked canvas. “Yeah, you’re right. It’d just be the back-up dancers at work this hour.”

A gasp off to his left had Tim glancing in the direction of a horrified looking grandmother sitting at a picnic table. He considered whether there was any chance of walking his comment back. Accepted there was not and so he just smiled.

“Ma’am,” he said politely before moving on. The playground was a mixture of dirt, sand, and artificial rubber type material. It had some dips and valleys that had mud and water collected in them. Willa made happy noises as Tim stopped and lowered her into one with mud. He knew for a fact that Winona did not allow for playing in the mud, and while Tim held fast to rules of discipline and supported Willa’s parents in that regard, he was also here to broaden her horizons.

“No throwing,” he said in a stern voice as he left her kneeling in the mud and walked over to claim a nice shade tree as ‘home base’. He set down the little backpack, as well as the large canvas back he had brought from the truck, then sat himself down and crossed his arms, watching as sharp as a hawk while looking half asleep.

Willa played for a time in the mud before she got caught up with a couple other little ankle biters and they ran around squealing at decibels only bats could understand. At one point, Willa decided she was going to make her way up the slide from the bottom to the top. She made it about a third of the way before sliding back down and landing on her well-padded bottom. She looked over at Tim with a calculating expression of whether to cry.

“Don’t even,” he drawled out. “Get your ass up that slide,” he pointed towards the top.

Once again Tim had to ignore a few indignant glares from soccer moms and nannies. However, he did indulge in shooting them all a smug smirk when Willa, resolutely and stubbornly, made her way up the slide to the top. It took her a couple of missteps, but she never once looked to Tim again, head down she was determined and triumphant!

And then kinda a little stuck.

Tim unfolded himself from the tree trunk and walked over to the structure where his shoulders were about level with the platform Willa stood on. She climbed nimbly onto his shoulders, muddy, sandy fingers digging into his hair for grip as he refused to grab her small legs. They walked over to the tree and here Tim reached back to pluck her off her perch, lowering both child and himself safely to the ground.

“Lunch,” he announced, reaching into her backpack for the wipes he knew were within. Cleaning up her hands and her face, he also traded out the wet diaper for a dry one. The pair then sat under the tree and shared a lunch of string cheese, apple slices, crackers, and grapes. Tim figured Brody must have packed the damn grapes, because they were whole, and he sat there, carefully cutting them in half and then quarters before letting Willa eat them.

With a full belly, dry diaper, warm weather having dried the t-shirt, Ms. Willa Givens was well and truly ready for her nap. Tim carefully packed up their trash, then moved the long canvas bag into position along his left side. He settled Willa down atop the bag, letting her tangle her little fingers in the shoulder strap, thumb heading into her mouth as she curled up with her back against his side and fell asleep. Her bed, one of her favorite beds, was the padded canvas gun case where Tim kept sniper rifle.

Resting his left hand against her chest -makeshift baby monitor- Tim set his right on his hip within quick reach of his service pistol. He also closed his eyes, letting himself drift into a shallow state of sleep that he had perfected in the Rangers. It was mostly restful but if anyone was foolish in how they approached the pair, Tim was in position to shoot a body.

Tim was sitting at the kitchen table cleaning his sniper rifle, one ear cocked for the sound of the school bus. From the moment he heard its distinctive rumble, he then counted down how long it took to get from the curb to the front door and he exhaled a breath when the door slammed shut. It would have been nicer if the door had closed politely, but this was one of those ‘work in progress’ situations.

Thump!

“Willa Givens,” Tim drawled out the child’s name, waited a moment and then nodded when the backpack, that had been haphazardly dumped on the entry way floor, was picked up and set on the shelf under the coats. He glanced up when six-year-old Willa Givens came skipping into the kitchen, looking too adorable to be Winona’s daughter and too tidy to be Raylan’s daughter.

“Hello, Tim!” She chirped with delight, crawling up onto one of the kitchen chairs and settling with her knees in the seat so she could get enough height to have her elbows on the table. It was not ladylike in the least, but the sniper left her too it.

“How was school?” He dutifully inquired and then sat quietly as Willa was off to the races in relaying her day. She was still at the point of her school career where school was fun!

As she talked, Tim cleaned. The first time Winona had caught him cleaning his weapons on the kitchen table with Willa in her booster seat making a mess of a banana, she had gone off the deep end. The explosion had started Willa crying, brought Raylan dashing down the stairs -the older marshal had been asleep after a three-day stakeout- and made a hell of a scene. Usually, Tim gave ground to Winona in matters like these, apologized profusely and made a note to never repeat the behavior, but this time he held his ground.

His argument, when he finally got a word in edgewise, was that pretending guns did not exist in her father’s house would only lead to curiosity in time and the risk of unsafe behavior out of ignorance. He held firm that Willa would learn gun safety, gun discipline and most of all that guns were boring because she would see them, know about them, and they would cease to hold any sort of mysterious appeal. It had taken some discussion with Art Mullen before Winona had accepted that Tim’s logic was sound and relented.

Tim’s approach had proven out. Willa sat close to all the bits and pieces of the big sniper rifle, but she did not try to touch any of them, and she ignored them with the air of boring adult things. There were still multiple gun and rifle safes in the house, but they were of no interest to the child. She knew what was in there, she knew they were off limits, but she also knew that if she asked her father or Tim would talk to her honestly about them. Curiosity satisfied.

“…oh! I need cupcakes for the bake sale tomorrow!” Willa’s chirp on this last sentence drew the younger marshal out of the mental wanderings he’d been traveling while the child rattled off about swing set etiquette and he paused and blinked.

“Come again?”

“I signed up for cupcakes for the bake sale and the sale is tomorrow?”

“When?”

“Tomorrow,” duh, Tim pay attention.

“No, no. I mean when did you sign up?”

“Two weeks ago!”

Tim turned his head and looked at the calendar that they tried to keep updated with the various comings and goings of the household. Tim and Willa were mostly successful; things were still hit or miss with Raylan.

“It’s not on the calendar.” Point point.

“I told Daddy.”

Fuck. Daddy was currently on a prisoner transport detail from Florida to California. Tim rubbed his fingers over his eyes, immediately regretting that action as he got gun oil in his eyes. Ow ow ow ow! “How many cupcakes are we in for?”

“Three dozen,” Willa sounded so pleased that Tim swallowed his groan of dismay.

“Alright,” he said reaching to swiftly reassembled the cleaned rifle. “Let me put this away and change, then we’ll go down to the store and pick up some cupcakes.”

Silence.

Lingering silence.

Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me Tim glanced up from where he was deftly snapping gun parts together and hit the full force of woeful hazel eyes.

Not just woeful hazel eyes. Large, woeful hazel eyes with a hint of shine in them that went along with the perfect moue of sadness that Willa had perfected from her mother. On Winona it was just a bitchy, pouty look. On Willa it brought grown men to their knees.

“What.” He stated, already suspecting where this was going and feeling dread crawl down his spine.

“Becky was boasting about how her mom was going to bake cakes, and Amber said her mom was going to do a hundred dozen cookies, and Elsie said her mom was making fudge and …”

“Enough,” Tim said, raising his hand. “What has your Daddy told you about wanting to do what everybody else does?”

“That it’s stupid and I wouldn’t jump off a bridge if everybody else did,” Willa repeated the words dutifully. And continued to look at Tim woefully.

“Exactly. We do not measure ourselves against the accomplishment of others, only against…” he was reciting Raylan’s words and watching as one single, solitary tear escaped and tracked down Willa’s cheek. “Fuck.”

Tim hung his head and put the now assembled rifle back into its tactical bag and pushed up from the table.

“What flavors are you thinking for these three dozen cupcakes?” He asked as he headed towards the main bedroom where the gun locker was stashed. Willa gave a whoop of delight and scrambled after him.

“Chocolate,” as if that were a given. “And Funfetti, and salted caramel, and grasshopper, and Red velvet, and…”

In the end Tim did put his foot down and held the line at three flavors. Army Ranger and child had stood in the middle of the baking supplies aisle for a good twenty minutes debating this fact and debating which flavors would make the cut. In the end they agreed on Red Velvet (since that was just hyped-up chocolate), Key Lime (they were in FL after all) and Salted Caramel with Sea Salt! With the mission accepted Tim Gutterson did not do anything by halves. They walked past the premade cake/cupcake mix, snorted with derision at the canned frostings and proceeded to the raw ingredients.

When they were elbow deep in measuring out flour, the kitchen slowly becoming a disaster area, Tim decided that this was not the worst set of circumstances in the world. Raylan was out on the job, but Winona had fucked off on an impromptu vacation with her latest to salvage the relationship. Tim knew it wasn’t going to work, Willa knew it wasn’t going to work and baking cupcakes was a good distraction. Military discipline came to the fore and Tim made the project into a learning experience as well as a baking one. He challenged Willa on converting measurements, stretching her exposure to mathematics as they scratch made the cupcakes through the evening and all the way up to bedtime.

Willa needed a bath, an act the young lady was capable of on her own, Tim needed a bath -there was frosting in his hair and he had flour down the back of his shirt- and the kitchen needed a deep clean. These last two would happen once the child was in bed and asleep.

“Tim?” Willa began as she climbed into her bed and began to settle down in her nest of stuffed animals. “Do you think it would be okay to save one of each cupcake for Daddy?”

Tim was over by the window, making sure it was locked and the lock bar was in place. Raylan had enough enemies that a couple extra layers of protection were not unwarranted.

“Maybe not save,” Tim said as he pulled the curtains. “But how about we buy him one of each kind?”

Willa smiled. “That’d be good!” She had successfully shifted all her stuffies around and slithered under her blankets, practically disappearing into the collection of fuzzy faces. Tim sighed and walked over to move a few to different locations.

“I swear you are going to smoother yourself, child.” He groused as he picked up a lime green frog that he was absolutely certain had not been there the last time Willa had stayed with them. He held it up and looked at her with raised eyebrows. Willa grinned and reached for the frog.

“This is Tolstoy,” she announced. Winona’s current was an English professor at one of the local colleges who liked to boast about his reading accomplishments. Given that he tended to rattle off the big names in literature, Tim suspected the man had gotten his PhD from the bottom of a box of Cracker Jacks and did not know Tolstoy from Dostoyevsky. Regardless Willa had picked up on naming her stuffed animals after famous authors, in the never-ending effort to please her mother and try to keep one of her ‘step-fathers’ happy.

Tim was reminded once again that he wanted to discuss suing Winona for primary custody of the child. For now, he gave his patented look of resignation, which made Willa giggle as she watched him expectantly. Tim exhaled and introduced himself to the stuffed animal.

“Hello, Tolstoy.” He shook one of the frog’s little arms and then dropped the stuffy on Willa’s face, making the child giggle harder as she gathered it close and rolled onto her side to get comfortable for sleep.

“Will Daddy be home in the morning?” She asked hopefully.

Tim hunkered down beside the bed, he did not want to leave flour all over her sheets, and he did a mental calculation of Raylan’s travel plans. In the end he had to shake his head.

“I don’t know, Willa.” He gave the honest answer and reached to take a lock of her hair and tickle her nose with it. She grinned, though he could tell his answer made her sad, but she also accepted the answer with good grace. Tim considered the situation for a moment and then he smiled knowingly and let go of her hair. “How about ice cream for breakfast?” He didn’t doubt that Willa wanted her father, but he also knew that Willa enjoyed the mornings when Raylan snuck her ice cream for breakfast.

Willa grinned. She lifted her hand and kissed her fingers before reaching out to touch the side of Tim’s cheek. Tim groaned and fell back. “Girl, cooties!” He exclaimed writhing around on the floor, while Willa laughed. His wriggling took him towards the door, so that when he climbed to his feet, he was close enough to turn off the light.

“Goodnight, Tim!”

“You have reached Tim’s answering service. Tim can’t come to the phone right now, he’s been felled by girl cooties,” the sniper responded as he turned off the light and closed the door on another set of giggles.

It was Memorial Day weekend. Raylan had Willa for the weekend, but it was time for the hand-off to Winona and her current beau a younger man named Tyler.

They had agreed to meet at the annual Miami Memorial Day festival down on the boardwalk and when they had arrived Winona came bearing paperwork that she needed to discuss with Raylan. Without a word Tim had collected Willa and the two made themselves scarce so that the child’s parents could talk without upsetting small ears.

At some point Tim had put Willa up on his shoulders so she could have a good view of all the festivities going on around them, particularly the parade. All around them were families, men and women in uniform celebrating the day. Willa had her fingers curled in his hair but was otherwise a quiet passenger as they walked along. It wasn’t until they were standing and watching more of the parade go by that she leaned down and pressed her head against his.

“What does that sign say over there?”

“Hmm?”

She pointed and Tim felt his lips twist into an amused smirk. Leave it to Raylan Given’s daughter to home in on ice cream.

“It says ‘free large ice cream to in uniform military personnel’.”

“Oh.”

Willa went quiet for a bit one arm leaning on the top of Tim’s head and he knew she was watching various families going up to the vendor and getting the free ice cream. He knew the question was coming and turned to walk them away from the noise of the parade, over to a low retaining wall where they could walk in the shade and a bit of quiet. Willa didn’t protest the change of scenery and rode along quietly for quite a bit longer than Tim had anticipated.

Girl really was chewing on her thoughts. Just like her daddy.

“Why aren’t you wearing your uniform?”

And there was question Tim had been waiting for most of the day. He walked a little further until they came upon an area that had been sectioned off for people who wanted to sit and have quiet picnics, yet still be part of the celebration. Here Tim lowered himself, silently prompting Willa to get off his shoulders and on to the retaining wall. This put her a little more even with him when he stepped up beside her so they could talk quietly.

“It’s a personal choice,” he began. “Memorial Day is celebrated a lot of different ways. For some people it’s the start of summer, for others just a long weekend. Some people approach it to show respect to the men and women of the armed forces. That’s why you see signs like that one for the ice cream and it doesn’t have to be all one or the other.”

As he spoke Tim’s eyes scanned the picnic people until he spotted what he sought. Leaning close to Willa’s shoulder, he didn’t point (that would be rude) but verbally directed her gaze.

“See the people over by that big tree to the left? The man with the three children and the couple that look like grandparents?”

Willa put on her serious searching face, the one that made her look like her father when he was after a hillbilly in the wild. It took her a minute or so but then she perked up.

“The people on the green blanket with the red cooler?”

“Good spotting.”

Willa beamed at the praise and then tilted her head, long dark hair falling over her shoulders as her expression turned curious.

“What about them?”

“Do you see the flag just behind the man’s shoulder? On the flag rod?”

“The one with the gold star?”

“Yes.” Tim confirmed and he moved to pick Willa up in his arms, putting her on his hip. She was almost too big for this, probably six more months before he’d have to stop holding her this way so he was going to enjoy it while he could.

“That gold star means they lost an immediate family member in service combat,” he explained as he started to walk them back to where Raylan and Winona were hopefully wrapping up their conversation. “I suspect that man is a widower and lost his wife, the children their mother and the older couple probably their daughter. Men and women like her, those who fell in service to their country and in service to the welfare of those of us -like me- who survived? They’re the ones I want to honor on Memorial Day.”

Willa had her arms around Tim’s neck, her head on his shoulder, but he could feel her lips pulled into a little frown as she processed his words. At one point she turned her head back towards the park in a pensive manner.

“But why does that mean you can’t wear your uniform?”

“I can, Willa.” He corrected. “I choose not to because I don’t believe that Memorial Day should be about me. I am here to celebrate the day because of the sacrifices made by the men and women and their families when they didn’t come back. For me, the day is about them, not me getting free ice cream.”

Willa was quiet the rest of the trip back to her folks, wriggling as they got within eyesight of Raylan, Winona, and a handsome young blonde man in a Reservist Uniform. Tyler was maybe close to turning twenty-six, an IT specialist who was attached to the US Coast Guard Reserve, a man who had paid for his college career with service time. Tim could respect that; he had no issue with Tyler and honestly enjoyed watching Raylan rumble and growl over Winona having gone out and getting herself a boy toy. Tyler was good with Willa and that was enough for Tim.

“Hey Tyler!” The little girl in question piped up as she ran over and threw her arms around his waist. The young man smiled warmly and reached down to give her a hug. He was nervous about picking her up and Raylan’s glaring at him wasn’t encouraging the familiarity.

“Hey pipsqueak! You enjoying the festival?” Tyler looked up at Tim as the sniper stepped up beside Raylan and the two men gave each other a small nod. They might not have much in common, but they were both in the position of partners to the Raylan and Winona rodeo. That made for a common bond.

“I am! Tim took me to see…” and Willa was off to the races mentioning everything they had done together and the parade. Oddly, Willa did not mention the park or the families having a picnic. Tim wasn’t too surprised; it was a heavy subject for a child to process.

“Sounds like you and Tim have hit up most of the best activities,” Tyler said reaching out a hand for Willa to take and one for Winona. “How about we go find some ice cream hmmm? We can get an extra large with sprinkles for free!”

Willa smiled and was ready to skip off with her mother and her mother’s boyfriend.

“Can we get three small ones instead? There’s someones I want to share it with!”

The three had moved out of hearing range so Tim didn’t get a chance to learn what response came to this request. He pushed his hands into his pockets and smirked at Raylan. “I’m just gonna apologize now for the phone call you’ll be getting tonight after she goes to sleep.”

Finally, they are here. That wet dream of an impossible life - two lives, in one farmhouse - . That somehow coherent sequence of a sharp inhale awakening, the realisation of being in that precarious big spoon position and not wanting to shake up the drawer, the five-minutes-more yearning to stay, headbutting a shoulder because real men don't nuzzle, inevitably shifting to warm feet on cool floorboards, the bite of cold water on his cheeks and in his mouth, the hiss-spurt-clicking of a still-warming-up coffee machine that fills the cool air with the promise of a quiet but decent morning even though nothing is supposed to make sense in a dream.

But this isn't a dream. Just-- too much whiskey last night. Empty bottles that clink guiltily on the porch when Henry steps out to clear away the evidence while the coffee mug is slowly filling up. They'll be having daughters over a little later, small fragments of their old and battered hearts to fill child seats and breathe life into the house with the pitter-patter of little feet and shrill laughter. Can't have them see the damaged sides of the men who hung the moon and all the stars up in the sky.

The smell-sizzle-sputter of bacon and eggs slither and waft in through the ajar bedroom door, attempting to lure the hungover deadweight out of bed if the coffee didn't work enough of its enchantment magic.

It was colder here than in Kentucky. The kind of persistent cold that made Raylan sleep harder, made him curl more insistently into the bed and threatened him with the day by stealing what bits of lingering body heat they'd stoked together under the blanket. He'd hummed softly in his sleep, in soft protest of Henry leaving, but slipped back under into proper darkness until the sounds and smells of this dream pulled him back up to greet the chill of the morning.

He had to lay there for a few minutes after stretching out, to soak in the fact that he was here at all, that his bed smelled like the gunoil and smoke musk that followed Henry's musk underneath the wafting smell of breakfast. The stupid smile it left on his face stayed as he finally talked himself out of bed and into his jeans, an undershirt and a flannel. He might have accidently grabbed one of Henry's but it didn't much matter.

"Mornin' you," he greeted, voice still rough and deep from sleep as he beelined for the coffee pot, eyeing Henry and breakfast sidelong with that same stupid little smile. "Smells good."

It didn't get as cold here as it could in Purgatory, and it'll get much warmer once the sun's up properly bearing down on them all, but it's still cold enough for now to make this rickety old man feel his bones creak as he takes a few steps here and there to plate breakfast up. They have had to instate rules about fooling around in the kitchen after getting distracted and nearly burning the place down (twice), which means he's not going to instigate any touching. He does note Raylan's oversized shirt and the lack of bloodshot eyes though, and he can't help but flash a warm smile in return.

"Morning. I see you are rather chipper... And you seem to have pilfered my shirt." They have very similar... well, everything, but wardrobes count among that everything. "You are not looking as hung over as I was expecting. I was going to offer to pick up the girls, let you get your nanna nap-- sorry, 'beauty sleep' in," he teases.

A rule that Raylan often had to be reminded of but right now, the draw of coffee and food to his otherwise empty stomach overrode everything else. He could corner Henry for a good morning kiss afterwards, before he got his hands into the dishes. It was only fair - if one of them cooked, the other picked up the dishes and they shared the domestics with few quips about who's work it was.

Glancing down at the over shirt, Raylan grinned and shrugged his shoulder as he padded over to the table to set his cup and himself down. "No 'mount of hours of beauty sleep will get me lookin' as young as you so I figured I might as well get up," he teased back. "It looked cold too, figured I could warm it up. After all that moonshine, I think my liver is a champion of processin'. Don't know that whiskey's gonna get ahead of it without a concentrated effort," he chuckled as Henry set the plates down. After a small thank you, Raylan picked up his fork and dug in.

"'Sides, I'd hate to see the Wynona's take advantage of you bein' by yourself to complain. They might eat you alive and then I wouldn't get to see my girl." He knew that Doc could handle the women but Raylan felt like it was something he shouldn't have to do alone if Winona was there too. They'd put a few bumps in the ladies view of what life was going to be like and that always made for interesting times.

"Oh, if I never had to touch a drop of wretched moonshine again for the rest of my days I would be grateful," Doc can't help but comment with a sigh. They had to make do with what they had and they didn't have much, nor was there anyone with the expertise to do any better, but god, it had been foul. They were lucky that the homemade drain cleaner hadn't done any permanent damage.

"Wouldn't mind a fridge that topped itself up, though." If they didn't have cars it would have been a hell of a trek they would have had to make for eggs and milk. Maybe they should revisit that joke of an idea of raising some chickens...

"Funny you should say that. The only one that's been taking advantage of me lately is you," good old Henry points out. He would never say such a thing to the womenfolk, of course, and Raylan is right. Wynonna and Winona have no time for his bullshit and they seem to always be in a ravenous mood. They would devour either one of the cowboys if they can get them alone, chew them up and spit them out without hesitation. For better or worse, Doc is too polite to call them out on it.

"She's been asking very crude questions." He doesn't specify which 'Wynona' that came from. In all likelihood, they both have, but John Henry is so avoidant of the topic and that G word that he's pretty sure that Raylan is getting the brunt of the awkward questions.

"Amen to that." Raylan had begged off moonshine once he'd gotten out of the coal mines; drinking it put him back there, even in Mathis. Another dangerous day topped off with dangerous drink and no idea what the following day would bring them. To say he was glad to be rid of it all would be an understatement.

"Mm, the drive into town is healthy for us both but we are on a farm. We might.. wanna consider usin' it as such, least for some of our own food supplies. Start a vegetable garden or somethin'." Just throwing that out there, having forgotten entirely about the chickens joke. It'd be something they could both tend to and it wouldn't suffer too badly if Doc was left on his own for a few days while Raylan went to do a job.

Raylan could only grin at the wholly correct accusation of taking advantage of Henry in the best way behind another bite of food, eyebrows lifting questioningly at the last statement with an unraveling hum of acknowledgement. Doc might be too polite, but Raylan wasn't and he didn't get as shifty about it as Doc did when it was brought up on its face. "I was hopin' those would have stopped by now. We'll deal with it next time it happens, remind them where their business lies."

Carefully though, so that the could get away with their daughters largely unscathed.

"I know we shook their lives up a little bit, movin' out here together like some sappy western romance or somethin'.. But they gotta accept it for what it is." Eventually. "Until the girls are a bit older, I'm more interested in keepin' the peace."

It was no secret that Raylan worried about Winona taking full custody, condemning his life choices, and trying to keep Willa away from him. For as hurt and surprised as Winona was that the man she didn't want anymore didn't want her, it would seem to everyone else, that she wasn't ready to cut Raylan out just yet.

"Can't say I know much about growing anything, but I suppose it's worth a try." Yeah, Doc's just going to show up one day with three chickens, a cardboard box of winter vegetable seedlings, and a stray pup he didn't have the heart to leave behind, and then they'll just have to deal with that regardless of what they know about chickens or seedlings.

"It's alright. I-- they. Deserve a straight answer." Which they're not getting from John Henry, even if they're getting something out of Raylan. Doc didn't know how Winona felt about this, suffice to say she doesn't seem pleased every time one or both of the hats show up. Wynonna is banking on the fact that Doc Holliday doesn't do roots and stagnation and white picket fence (not that they have one here - it's deliberately as wide open country as they can make it. Which might have to change once the chickens show up...) fantasies, and that he'll come back to her once he's done taking the long way around, when the time is right.

She isn't completely wrong, in that regard, but she didn't want to leave her divine demon-slaying mission behind and move on with him, and she was at home in Purgatory, and she got real nasty around Raylan, and Doc never much liked ultimatums to begin with. He loves her, deeply, and he always will no matter how hurtful and vitriolic she can get, but there are times he doesn't like her very much. He suspects Raylan feels the same about Winona.

"Living together isn't easy. A bit of distance... it's not such a terrible idea," he drawls. This might be a little too much distance, and 'sappy western romance' were not the choice words used by either of the womenfolk, but the boys are both one phone call away and all the assorted women in their lives know it. Besides, they can't argue that the girls aren't getting a healthy dose of mother nature out here.

"I didn't think I'd see you again, after," Doc muses quietly while he works away at the eggs. It's not as if they'd exchanged numbers, and neither of them were supposed to be in Montana. It's a big state to be running into each other, too. But Doc is an unwavering believer in kismet.

"I'll scope out some good spots later." With Doc's agreement, it was bound to happen, either by the gunslinger or the Marshal. Raylan had been ruminating on how to make their little slice of land more productive and through that, more personal, more theirs. More 'Home'. He had no doubts or questions about the choices that had led him here and while he was very much a 'home is where you lay your head' kinda guy to survive his job, something that looked like roots was good.

Hazel eyes lifted over to look at Doc, the firmness of his unspoken opinion on the ladies in his eyes softening to something sweeter, lips curling a little as he stabbed into his breakfast again.

"Guess that's why you're supposed to never say never. Then again, I doubt anyone could have guessed that I'd run across you just workin' a case." His job was the only reason Raylan traveled, but the job took him far and wide enough that he'd ended up on the Canada/Montana border, chasing after a mobster. Instead of finding John Henry at a bar, Raylan had found him wild eyed and gun heavy in the woods.

"And they only deserve so much. It ain't hard to understand and Wynonna likes drawin' blood. Both of 'em, only difference is the depth of the cuts." The redhead liked it deep and gushing; she wanted immediate results. The blonde would much rather try and kill them with a thousand shallow, well placed cuts, to strip pieces off Raylan when she could manage it. He took it all in a passive manner, unbothered and sometimes sharply sarcastic when Wynonna went to far. There was nothing either of them could say that he hadn't heard worse. "They both made their choices," he continued a little more quietly, matching Doc's ending tone. "And we made ours."

If either of the women called, both of them would do what they had to. What they were doing here didn't undo the promises that they had both made.

"'Sides. They like havin' the time to themselves without the girls, and we both know it. The value of silence," he said with a grin. Their normally quiet home was always just a little too loud but in the best way when they had their daughters. Alice was about seven months older than Willa, but the girls were fast friends and lowkey terror on their fathers.

Raylan wouldn't have it any other way. Well, maybe with a 8am wake up time and not six thirty, but that was the way of small children.

They're all learning how to... best put up with each other, make this arrangement work. Doc isn't a stranger to complications. Complications have been a running theme throughout his life. He can't help if Wynonna or Winona are used to having all of what they want. He can only work on what he wants, how many pieces he's willing to cut himself into and give out (always too many - somehow all the little slices add up to over 100%, and yet he is relentless and tireless about trying to keep the peace and nudge everyone in his circle a little bit closer to happiness), and how much shit he's willing to put up with before he calls it quits. Thankfully, he's had some very good life lessons on patience. He used to chase down what he wanted a little too hard. It's taken him a long time to learn to let 'em come instead.

"Well I wouldn't argue that we mind giving them back from time to time, but I do enjoy having them around for the most part," Doc muses with a little smile. He really is too old to be running after those pint-sized danger-seeking missiles. They scare the shit out of him in expected and unexpected ways, but he just hates hearing one of his names being screamed out at the top of those little lungs after one or both of the girls have been gone out of his sight just that little bit too long. It isn't for lack of love or wilful neglect that Doc isn't watching them like a hawk 24/7, he just thinks Wynonna is overprotective and maybe he's overcompensating the other way a little bit, giving a little independence far too early, but if Raylan wasn't around to mind them they'll probably have both perished in a ditch out back somewhere a long time ago.

"Wynonna doesn't much like the idea of me teaching Alice to shoot." Doc hardly ever brings up anything between them to Raylan. It's not really fair on Raylan, and Doc isn't looking to be vindicated here - Wyatt would have been more than happy for Doc to put a gun in his children's hands back in the day, so he honestly doesn't see the fuss - but he does value Raylan's opinion. One does not get through this wretched life without learning how to shoot, family curses ended or otherwise. This is their way, the life they have always known.

"I don't know, how to be a-- anything, if I couldn't shoot. I would like to at least leave this behind." Maybe it's not the right kind of thing to leave behind, but he doesn't have anything else to impart.

The ladies liked stripping off pieces of them, some thin slices, some not so thin but for all of what both Raylan and Doc were used to, the up side to this was that they didn't have to suffer those wounds alone. Neither of them had to really talk about how their ex's affected them; it only took a retelling for the other to parse out how deep it went. But Henry had more patience for taking their bullshit now than Raylan did. The Marshal had given them their time to get to grips with it.

Smirking into his rapidly emptying plate, Raylan kept to himself how fucking cute Henry was with the girls. There was a warmth and lightness to the man's face that Raylan had rarely seen outside the glances and gazes he got behind closed doors, sometimes even when Henry thought he didn't notice. No, it was easy to see that those little girls had wrapped themselves securely around the gunslinger's heart. Raylan wouldn't have it any other way - the girls were going to be a little wild underneath their mother's attempts to 'manners' the cheekiest bits of their fathers out of them but he'd knew and had seen what Winona's manners and stiffness turned out.

There was no taking the country out of their girls.

His eyebrows lifted a little at the tell, head bobbing to one side before smiling crookedly. "Considerin' how many nasty things that go bump in the night, I'm honestly surprised to hear that. I mean, I know her daddy was kinda an asshole about teachin' her and the reasons why but.. Can't have the daughter of gunslingers not carryin' on that legacy. I'm sure the sting of what she was saddled with will ease in a few decades."

Raylan paused, watching his partner with a serious, however soft, expression. It was almost a little sad that Doc hadn't been able to build anything over the past hundred fifty years but they were scraping together what they could to hand over in what years were left.

"You could always fall back on dentistry," he said, lips curling. "You're leavin' behind more than your guns and a hat. Hell, look how far the Earp line's gotten, and now you got a Holliday? That little girl loves you. Nothing better you could leave in the world behind ya.

.. Though we might have to consider paddin' the corners again if either of them keep up this clumsy phase they're in."

Anyone can understand that Wynonna wants the curse ending with her. Doc isn't disputing that. Nor is anyone saying that Wynonna won't be around to protect anyone. This is just a life skill, that's all. One that had been vital to his own survival, and he is certain would be vital to others', too. Being prepared never hurt, and Doc doesn't see it as any different from anyone else offering to teach Alice to drive, when she's old enough, or passing down grandma's recipes.

Of course, not everyone sees it that way. Wynonna is being idealistic about the world Alice is going to grow up in. Maybe he's being a little... old-fashioned, to put it kindly? That has been said many times, about all manner of things, that it's starting to lose its meaning on him.

"I'd like to think she should know sommin' about shooting straight just so she can look after herself if I'm not around anymore. Not sure how dentistry is goin' to help much, especially given how far we've come, but I'll take that under advisement..." Doc muses with a small smile. He knows Raylan is teasing.

"Lord are they accident-prone." He's lagging behind on polishing off his own plate, but he's taking his time this morning, and Raylan is keeping his mouth busy - with conversation, of course. "They've got hands, and feet, and eyes," he comments exasperatedly. They seem fully capable of using these appendages and senses, and yet. "One of these days, one or both of 'em are going to crack their heads open and we'll get the blame for it." A blame he would just silently accept as being his fault, the way he takes the blame for everything else without complaint, so long as the girls come out of it fine and don't get in trouble themselves.

"Maybe this house isn't so kid-friendly," he concedes, glancing around a bit, and slightly over his shoulder. No doubt, part of the reason the girls like it here, apart from spending time with the old geezers, is how said old geezers just let them run a little wild - within reason. Childproofing the place completely might take some fun - and important life lessons - out of it.

There was a lot to be said for 'old-fashioned'. Those decrying it for something more Modern, something Kinder, didn't really understand the way of the world when things were hard. They were wrapped in coddle cloth of entitlements that didn't often survive their 'modern' when it was thrown out into the real, raw world. Old-fashioned very often kept people safer and better off in a situation.

"You remember the time that Alice came over with that fat ol' bruise on her little head that went all goose egg. Wynonna trying to cover it with that silly lookin' cat hear hat." He refused to call it a pussy hat, especially when one of the girls were wearing it. Either way, he snorted softly as he said it, leaning back in his chair with his cup of coffee ready to join the emptiness of his place. Both their exes liked sliding blame onto them, but Raylan would only allow it to go so far before speaking up in Henry's defense. He only spoke up on his own when Winona pushed the closed mouth man into saying something - and then it all came out.

"Nah, Alice'll be alright. Her mama doesn't need to know everything, but once they get a little older, that'll be easier. Right now, I think they got a few more years of independence to get through. Arlo was putting a gun in my hand at 8/9 years old, but as long as you're not askin' her to practice on rabbits.." Raylan shrugged a little. "Between you and me, more people in this country need basic gun safety classes - our girls are gonna be well ahead of that. Montana ain't Kentucky but.. They're not that far apart in ideology." Their fathers wouldn't always be there to protect them.

"A few sharp corners aside, both the Wynonia's know this is the safest place in the world for those girls. Doubly so since the motel room I got in town is my work registered address. There's something to say for the security that a small town grants 'em. Wouldn't be surprised if one of them eventually asks to hide out here for one reason or another."

Henry was right; the girls had a freedom here that they wouldn't find anywhere else, but Raylan wanted his kids dirty and exploring, out there testing themselves and learning about the practical world. God only knew when it would serve them. Raylan's upbringing had served him fantastically well; he could only hope to pass that on.

"She would have made Alice wear that abomination even if her head was perfectly fine and level on her shoulders," Doc bemoans. The only reason he didn't say nothing was because Alice didn't seem to mind the hat. He has never said nothing about Wynonna's penchant for waist-baring mesh and fishnets either, but Lord is it unladylike.

He should probably take a page out of Raylan's book. Say something when it needs to be said, instead of leaving bad sentiments to fester. He doesn't much like the way Winona talks to Raylan either, even if he tries not to interfere in their affairs. The ladies likely find his politeness and willingness to let them have their way easy to take advantage of. But even Doc Holliday's patience has its limits.

"I don't think Arlo is a good example of anything." While he hates to speak ill of anyone and would rather not say very much at all, he would make exception for a select group of individuals. Nevertheless, Doc is quite enjoying seeing Raylan with the girls doing very unArlo things. The Arlo way is easy, but life is hard on everybody. Nobody gets a free pass on how badly they treat others.

"This door is always gonna be open for 'em," he agrees after he finally catches up and finishes his food. The grumpy old men will definitely try to be around, even if they can't promise an eternity of this. They'll still chip in when it is needed, help each other out, be a shoulder to cry on and be that bedrock of support if any of the girls need it. Even the exes, vicious as they can be.

"Well. Almost always," Henry corrects himself with a tilt of his head and a twitch of a smile, tongue swiping over his upper lip. They probably shouldn't be all that interested in what unbiblical activities the boys are doing behind closed doors.

"Don't think we wanna be explaining this to them just yet." Not because he can't admit some truths about what they're doing together but children can be cruel to each other sometimes. There's no need to get a headstart on making things complicated for the girls. They've got enough going on as it is.

Raylan chuckled under his breath. They never talked politics; Raylan hadn't even asked if Henry had any interested in voting and he could guess at Wynonna's, but as volatile as that had ever been, current atmosphere aside, that kind of nonsense didn't belong here. This place was for more important, basic to life and happiness and well rounded individuals, things. It was Raylan's goal in life to be as different from Arlo in fatherhood as possible.

That meant a lot of dirt, a few critters and a few bruises.

If either of the Women came up to check it out for more than five minutes where they nitpicked anything they could see, they'd realize that. But then they'd find a way to stain the air somehow. He didn't mind them coming over, if they needed to; he was just against them lingering too long in his secure space. It wasn't that he was concerned about the stability of what he had with Henry, only that he didn't want to give Them the chance to dig and pick.

Head bobbing in concession, Raylan collected Henry's plate with a warm smile to the man and ran a hand across his shoulders as he stepped away back towards the sink.

"I think we'll hit a Few Important Questions once they get a little older. Right now, we're just their daddies and since we hang the sun and moon, I think that's good enough." It was everything, according to his tone. There was always something more heartfelt about his tone when he talked about the girls.

"And honestly, I mean. They're growin' up in a different world. One that's already.. well, more inclined than the one you remember. More inclined than the one I remember, really." Dishes washed and set to the side, Raylan leaned against the counter and started drying his hands.

"We gonna argue about who's driving to get them today?" The girls loved both their cars and the way they drove, but it was more amusing to hear the men argue about who drove more to their liking. Raylan was sure it was Henry's car, but that's what you get when you drive a sexy little red number like that.

You know, Doc can't remember ever having that birds and the bees talk. Not that he's only here to have sex with Raylan, but it's bound to come up at some stage when anything else about their relationship comes up. It wasn't as big of a thing in his day. Children were just smaller, weaker adults until they grew into a more useful size. Nobody had really tried to preserve what preposterous notions of innocence that John Henry would have had at three or four feet tall - certainly not like the way they're trying to with their girls.

He's not going to shirk responsibility from that, but hopefully they're a few years away yet. It's far too soon for either Raylan or Doc to be issuing thinly-veiled death threats at uncouth little boys trying to take their girls out until it's inappropriately late in the evening.

"I think it's a better world for them. They will have more opportunities." There was only so much Alice could have gotten out of life had she been born in the Frontier. What nostalgia Doc or anyone else might have about the 'good old days' is just seeing that old world through rose-tinted lenses. Life was hard, and perilous, and indiscriminately merciless. He would gladly trade some of that old world charm for what they can give their girls today. Hopefully a good and fulfilling, long life they can enjoy with whomever they see fit.

"If I recall correctly, you were trying to drink us dry last night. I thought I should drive, give you a couple more hours of rest." They're probably drinking less than when they're with the ladies, which is saying something, but while they don't make a habit out of commenting on each other's excesses - some things are still a man's private business to deal with - the occasional little flareup of concern does bleed through from carrying passed out cowboys into bed and tucking them in and extra servings of eggs and coffee in the morning into words from time to time.

"I promise to go no faster than the number in the circular road sign," Doc adds dryly. Look, he taught himself to drive. Nobody explained that the signage wasn't the slowest he's supposed to go. Although why you would harness the power of three hundred horses into a small little engine and then force it to go slow is beyond him.

They were a handful of years away from needing to clean their guns on the porch in a veiled threat that ever young man instinctively recognized and thank god for that. It would pass faster for them than the girls, but that would only serve to harden their resolve to protect them in the last bastions of their innocence before some bit of the harshness of life broke into their little farm/homestead paradise.

"They will," Raylan agreed as he finished the washing up of the dishes, drying his hands with a cant of his hips towards the counter, eyebrows lifted in an amused look as Henry tried to boot Raylan off the passenger manifest so strongly. The girl's future would be there later, so Raylan tried to focus on the now.

"Me thinks you doth protest too much. You worried about how much I'm drinking?" It was sweet to say the least. Henry had always paid attention to the things that everyone else overlooked, marking his casual drinking down to just a part of his ~aesthetic~, something to be accepted and unquestioned. "I'll stay here if you really want me too," he promised with no condescension. "There's always somethin' to clean up and tuck away before the girls visit."

But Raylan smirked at Henry's promise to obey the speed limit. "You can't get pulled over with a Marshal's daughter in your backseat."

Between Raylan and Doc it would be stiff competition to see which one of them could get the most number of self-styled 'bad boys' shitting their pants running for the hills - and without so much as even uttering one word. No doubt the girls would get sick of the old men and their protective streaks, but one day he hopes they'll come to understand just how much they mean to them, and forgive their bark being much louder than their bite.

"I never said anything about your drinking," the old cowboy points out, turning his hands up towards the ceiling and giving Raylan one of those 'I 'unno what you're talking about, son' shrugs. He hasn't yet had to hold up Raylan's hair and rub his back while he's bent over the toilet throwing his supper up, but he would be surprised if he had to one day. They're too seasoned drinkers to put each other through that kind of mess.

Doc is rather appreciative of Raylan backing down from what could have been an ugly fight this time around, nonetheless. He honestly wouldn't have minded the Marshal riding shotgun, but sticking around to childproof the place a little more is probably a better use of their time than them both bickering in the front seats.

"You can drop 'em off while I get started on cleanup," he offers as a sort of compromise. Raylan doesn't drink much when the baby girls are around and Doc... well. He tries to cut back as much as Raylan does, to varying degrees of success. The tiny double trouble tag team is almost as hard work as Wynonna and Winona, and he can't help winding down the night with a drink in hand and a cigarillo between his fingers to reward himself for a hard fought day won.

"You're probably more popular with them anyway, playing that shark song that drives me up the wall." He would not claim to be a man of refined taste, but the shark 'song' does not music make, and it's banned from defiling that sacred space inside Charlene.

A long standing tradition shouldn't be ignored, not after all the rules they'd bent, social and mortal alike. Raylan was looking forwards to it; to sort the riffraff out from those budding young souls that might be worth taking the chance on letting them have a little room to move. He was also very glad that that was many many years away. Raylan wasn't done enjoying this young, innocent phase, when they were too busy getting dirty and learning what not to touch and where not to go.

"Mmhmm." He'd just ignore Henry just talking about him drinking the place dry. It was true that Henry hadn't ever had to help Raylan out of a drunk spot, but that was because Raylan was a full grown man who knew how to handle his liquor, as they both did.

Washtowel tossed to the side, Raylan leaned on the counter, one hand propping on his hip as he bobbed his head in agreement. "Sounds good. And I only play that song to distract them from leavin' here. We only play it a couple of times." The things he did for their children. The things they both did for them.

"When do you plan on leavin'?" If Henry was planning on sprinting out right now, he wanted a kiss, goddamnit.

There was no shame in that now, in wanting to show his affection, his care in such a way. There was no one here to judge them or chastise them or tell them that men didn't kiss men goodbye, even if that's what they did with the ladies.

"A couple of times is a couple of times too many," he protests gruffly. Why can't the girls like proper music? Why can't Raylan introduce the girls to some proper music? Henry still has years to go to catch up with the modern catalogue of offerings and sift through the hot garbage from the hidden gems. Raylan surely has no such excuse.

"Soon. Fifteen minutes. Just a quick round, tidying up." He won't keep the girls waiting. It's not that he doesn't trust Raylan to childproof the place, but four eyes are better than two - he always misses an empty bottle or a box of 9mms that Raylan picks up on, and sometimes vice versa - and that'll leave him with a few minutes to freshen up in the bathroom and get dressed. It won't be nearly long enough for a kiss to become something more... involved, but they can at least take their time with it.

"There anything you need me dropping off or picking up along the way?" he asks as he moves to get up and wipe the table down. This whole place is going to be in a mess once the girls start charging in and running on through like two hurricanes in a little shoebox. Right now it's almost looking as pristine as it's going to be for the next couple of days.

Oh, he had and would continue to try to get them into something, anything with more sense than that damned song, but some music was magic for taming the wild beasts that were toddlers. Along with a bribe or two to help ease his way to control over his radio again. Those he didn't tell anyone about, if he could help it. It was going to bite him in the ass eventually, especially as the girl's vocabulary expanded out.

Nodding a little with a half cocked smile that he couldn't quite get rid of, Raylan shook his head at the question.

"Nah, I made sure I brought home some supplies last night-" The whiskey, the weird 'healthy' rice crisp things that Willa liked and Alice still hadn't decided on, and some fresh fruit. The Cheerios stayed stocked though, Raylan liked it for late night snacks or a hasty breakfast. "But you might stop for a bottle of juice, that's the only thing I forgot."

He glanced towards the living room. "I'll pull out their toys while you're gone and make sure the barn is locked up. But I'm lockin' the noise makers in the barn first. I give 'em baby shark, that's about all they're gonna get without me losing my mind," he said with a laugh.

"Sure." A bottle of juice will end up turning into a half dozen things because the girls got carried away and Doc indulges them too much (he might draw the line at Baby Shark but there's a lot of lines he doesn't draw which he probably ought to be drawing before they get as far as the earworm hellspawn of a 'song'), but he won't let them dally in the store for too long. He knows Raylan is eager to see them and he'll want to whisk them away back to the house before it starts to get dark, which seems to be creeping upon them earlier and earlier with each passing day.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do now," he says by way of farewell once twelve of his fifteen minutes are up and he's done everything he's needed to, right up to slipping into his coat and donning on his hat. He's not yet come home to a disaster but that's happened before with Wynonna, and he's not going to take any chances with his errant Marshal.

The last three minutes he will spend on the porch with his last cigarillo for what was likely going to be the rest of the day, looking out over the parked cars and the stretch of flat land around them, a smattering of interspersed trees casting long shadows towards and over the house, and then he'll be off.

That was the way it ought be and as cheesy as it was, it really did warm Raylan's heart how equally they'd accepted the girls. They weren't related, but they were still half growing up as sisters and while it wasn't a yard of little Givens, it was more than he could have ever expected. That being said, yes - Raylan got antsy when he thought they'd been gone too long, hand too eager to twitch towards his phone to make sure they were okay.

He trusted Henry. He didn't trust everyone else out there.

"And leave you out of all the fun?" Raylan teased in return. There was an impulse to go over, to touch him, to wish him a softer kind of farewell, but their ease and comfort in that waxed and waned on any given day. Raylan knew it didn't mean anything, and he couldn't help marking it regardless.

"Drive safe," he called before the door shut. He trusted Henry. He would still worry in a way he couldn't help until him and the girls were home and safe. Back behind the walls and security of their guns.

The girls were quite a handful, and while Doc's never glad to see them go, he isn't complaining about the fact that he has Wynonna to share the load with. She doesn't mind so much when Alice turns up with a couple of bruises and a scratch she's particularly proud of - actually she gets irritable when Alice shows up looking more immaculate than when she left - but it's a different story with Winona. Doc takes the tirade in his stride, letting her blow off all that steam with his head inclined staving off the itch for a smoke, but he can't help but feel like there's a lot of pent up thoughts and feelings that she should really be talking to Raylan about - in a calm and controlled manner - instead of taking it out on whichever cowboy happens to be dropping little Willa off.

He's taken a lot worse from Wynonna, but it's a relief to get back, in a way that a man who has always been on the go can't honestly say he's intimately familiar with. The car rumbles to a quiet stop in front of the house, intrusive headlights that would have flooded through the glass windows having been cut off further up the gravelled-over driveway. That cigarillo he's been craving is in his mouth before he even ascends up those three little steps onto the porch. He doesn't want Raylan coming out the house and finding him a tired and defeated heap slumped in the chair, having been chewed out and screeched at by one of the bittersweet loves of his life, so he opts to stay leaning against the wooden pillar, feet crossed at the ankles, a thin wispy trail of smoke slithering from the silhouette of hat and hip-holstered revolver and boots up towards the stars.

Ain't nothing in this world that makes anyone feel old and weary like a venomous bite from a lover scorned. Lord knows he has invoked those furies, time and time again. Maybe, in some strange way, shaking off the restlessness and settling down in a place like this would be the least 'old and weary' thing to do.

There were a lot of perks to having the Ladies to trade off duties with. Not that Raylan was complaining about the time he got to spend with the girls but even all the chaos of a gunfight could not stand up to the stamina of Alice and Willa. It might also not be a complete lie to say that Raylan was possibly avoiding seeing his ex-wife. It was clearly where she got her stamina from - He'd gotten a call from her not too long ago and she'd given him an earful and then some.

So when he sees the wash of headlights and the familiar rumble of the engine, he gives Henry a few minutes to reacclimate to the nightsky without the screams of little girls in his ears before walking out a glass of whiskey and one of his own to match. Strolling up to stand next to him, Raylan holds up one of them and considers the stars.

"Figured you might need this. Thanks for drivin' them back in, the case that caught me on your way out was a nasty one." Not that he had any jobs that ended in sunshine and rainbows. "Not too many tears I hope? I'm sure the girls were dry eyed," he teases.

"Oh, the girls were fine," he reassures with a smile that hides all manner of sins cast over his shoulder as he reaches over to pluck the proffered glass of whiskey from Raylan's grasp, holding it down against the railing while he finishes his smoke. Doc might have been the one in tears if he had been any less thick-skinned, but thankfully he's had years of practice trying to pass trials by fire.

"This place out here's the real world we're livin' in. No one comes outta life without a few scrapes and bruises," Doc drawls. He would have told Winona as much if she'd half a mind to listen, but she just had a gatling gun to unload and he didn't bother shooting back.

"Missing them already?" he asks with a raised eyebrow and a playful little lopsided smile as he takes his last puff and flicks what's left of his cigarillo onto the wooden floorboard, swivelling the ball of his foot over it to put it out. The time is fast approaching where they won't try to crawl in between their dads when heaven's floodgates open up and it's thundering a hell of a storm outside, and when said old men can't pick them up anymore.

"You wouldn't've wanted them around while you're working a case, anyway. Some of those demons follow you all the way home." Wyatt got the same way when he was embroiled in some case he was hellbent on resolving, and it's sometimes the same with Wynonna. Doc's moved on long ago, not wanting to be stuck in a literal purgatory of chasing proverbial and literal demons around the same way the Earps seem to define their purpose in life. But he has the patience of a saint, especially when it comes to dealing with Marshals who are wont to go off on their benders.

Raylan is sure that Henry would say that even if the girls had tried to talk him into robbing a bank. There was some very sweet bias there that was hard to miss here on their little homestead but it hadn't ever been for the faint of heart. He couldn't have chosen a better person to tackle it with.

"Winona gave you an earful, huh?" He huffs a breath. "Don't worry, she called to file her complaints. It's her mother's fault really. Nothin' but a rose colored glass bell that she raised her daughters in. Pray you never meet Gloria."

He looks over sidelong, lips curled up in an amused smirk. "They've gotta go back to their mothers so that I can miss 'em," he admits. "Give me a few more hours of silence and then ask me that again. But you're right about the rest. Besides, it'd be terribly unfair to leave you here to hold our side of the pillow and fort wars all on your own against such vicious numbers."

When the girls got going, normally after a few demands to ride around on one set of shoulders or a back to ride like 'the horsies', it was more taxing than 4 day long stakeouts or those brief, violent gunfights.

"Gotta admit, at least my demons are just assholes in fancy cars who can't handle the cold. More paperwork but at least they're a little borin'."

Hey if he'd robbed a bank, Raylan would have surely heard about it. "No, no. She was alright," Doc lies easily, cracking a small smile at Raylan. He's not sure he can handle being double-teamed by Winona and-- Gloria? Was it? But he'd hate to give off the impression that he can't hold down the fort on his own. He can handle being poked full of holes at and women who try to push his buttons all the time from all directions. Most of the time he's able to take things in his stride. Unless they're Wynonna and know exactly where to get him and how hard to twist the knife.

"Bright side is, you wouldn't have to worry about them so." Which would not stop either of the cowboys from worrying about those little girls, even when the day eventually comes when they're not so little anymore. But between their mothers and their fathers, they'll be able to hold their own just fine. They'd give anyone hell before Raylan or Doc even showed up to finish the job, cauterise those wounds and clean up the mess neat and clean like they always do.

"Well if you wanna swap one day, be my guest." Although Doc's not much good with paperwork. Raylan don't make 'boring' sound like it's enough action for him although frankly, Doc prefers things the way they are. There's enough going on in their lives that they don't really need to be worrying about real demons on top of the proverbial ones.

"This asshole gon' be an all nighter or will you be crawling into bed sometime?" Doc will likely be passed out sooner than he would admit - the girls wore him down, the ladies gave him shit, it was an early morning with a pretty long drive to stretch out the day even longer, and now he's chugging whiskey like the bottle's long past its shelf life, so he's not long for the land of the wide-awake-and-living. It's just a shame they can't really properly sit down and reward each other for a job done proper on the first night, but they're long past that honeymoon phase and well into the grumpy old men stage, and they're maybe a little too at ease around each other that they leave each other comfortable hanging all the time because they're already thinking what the other didn't bother to finish saying, while everyone else is on a different wavelength and struggling to keep up.

The days were long for Maggie, even longer now that she found her self starting her life over again, New town, new bar to sit at peeling the lable off a long neck bottle. It was easier to be out than it was moving more boxes into the apartment above the tattoo shop that soon enough would be her business.

She looked out of place with her flame red hair and heavily tattooed body. Her style of dress was even different from the other patrons. She'd been sitting at the bar for a good 20 minutes, watching the beads of sweat build on the bottom of the bottle of beer, that was about the time that one of the more drunk men in the bar stumbled up to her.

He was acting way to familiar bringing his hands up touching her hair, Maggie appeared to be trying to ignore the man up til he was putting his hand on her thigh. It was then that she shoved him rather hard back and away from her, but drunk and rejected didn't ever look good on some folks and so the man swung back.

All sorts of people got into bars - Raylan was used to seeing a wide and varied sort of folk but he was polite enough to mind his own business and the two fingers of whiskey that he had been nursing for 15 minutes after slamming down two to start. He was here for a little peace; okay, fine and some time to think over Winona and her most recent act of fucking insanity. He'd asked her that explicitly, more than once.

The whiskey helped, but it didn't erase the world around him like a porch did. He was still very much aware and present in the moment, even as he drifted into his own thoughts. So the ruckus stirring up a few stools down from him drew his attention, as much as everyone else in the bar.

He hadn't paid attention enough to know what started it all but what mattered was the energy of it. She was upset, had shoved him. He swung. Regardless of if it hits, Raylan is moving before he thinks about it, snatching the man back by his collar and punching him in the face as the man falls. But Raylan's grip doesn't loosen in the fabric and the man rolls to his side, giving up a weak protest, a push of his hands under a flurry of slurred curse words, but Raylan paid him no mind and drags him from the bar with a long stride and enough power to get it done without much practical or effective argument.

Once the guy was out on the sidewalk, Raylan pointed a finger at him. "Come in again, and I'll break your nose."

With that, he turns and walks back into the bar, attention focused on the tattooed redhead.

"You okay?"

She took a bit of knuckles to her lip before Raylan stepped in. Maggie could feel the bite of split skin and taste copper in her mouth, yet she seemed to be shocked that anyone had come to her aid. though everything happened so fast up until Raylan had dragged the guy out of the bar Maggie was watching with a parted lip owlish expression.

What the fuck just happened? That was the question bubbling around her mind. the trash taken out and the man with a cowboy hat heading back her way, she finally did find a second to close her mouth.

" Yeah." she said bringing her thumb up to wipe away any blood that might be on her face. "Thanks." she added offering a smile. It was then she tapped the bar to get the bar tenders attention. " Hey Hey, this sexy mother fucker here drinks on me tonight." she said grinning wildly.

He steadfastly ignored the eyes of everyone else that had moved to pin on him as he strode back in. Anyone who had heard his threat was chilled - it was cool and low and dripped with promise to fulfill if the guy was stupid enough.

"Ah," he sounds, expression turning a bit sheepish as he shakes his head slightly. "Maybe just one or two." The half grin he gives her is turned to the bartender as he slides Raylan's abandoned glass over and refills it back to it's two finger depth.

"Some ice in a towel too, if ya don't mind." Hazel eyes fall back onto her. "It'll keep the swellin' and the bruisin' down a bit. I imagine you get a lotta guys like that; cocky and thinkin' they deserve your attention without havin' any idea what fuckin' manners looks like. Sorry to say there's more like that around here than I'd like. Some people just weren't raised right."

Raised right meant respecting women and not being a rapey dick about it when a woman told you to piss off.

" Atta boy." she said clapping his shoulder as he accepted the offering of drinks. the words he spoke next earned a long look from her. Almost as if no one had ever spoken to her like that before. Maybe that was it. There still may be a little hope yet that not all of humanity was a giant bag of dicks after all.

She lofted her eye brows as if mildly impressed. " Welp, people are people. And most of em are shit bags no matter how they were raised." she said lifting her freshly filled shot glass towards him. " Aint the first time I got popped in the face, won't be the last I am sure."

Huffing a chuckle at the clap on his shoulder, he takes a sip of his whiskey, bearing his teeth a little a he swallows it down. Leaning onto the bar on his elbow, he turns his attention back onto her briefly before the bartender returned with the towel full of ice. Raylan takes it and pauses to lift his glass with a bob of his head.

"Here's hopin' tonight is otherwise 'pop free'." His glass is lifted a little, and he takes another drink because he did, oddly, sort of believe in the superstitions around cheering and not taking a drink, but it was followed by the towel of ice being held out to her.

"We don't get many tattoo'd redheads out here; where you comin' from?" No body who looked like her came from here; he'd know.

There was a sheepish grin and a light shrug. " Nights still young. no promises." she said lifting her own long neck bottle off the bar. " Doesn't seem to be a whole lot of tattoo'd anything around here, red head or other wise. Part of why I landed here." she said.

" New Jersey." she said taking a drink from the bottle and pointing her finger at him. " and don't you go calling me a Yankee, I know that's southern talk for asshole." Technically she wasn't even from there, but the question was where she came in from. " You must be from around here?"

He bobs his head in agreement and settles down properly on his barstool.

"Landed, not passin' through? And trust me, the Yankee days are over. Though we do still employ the term carpet bagger if we smell some bullshit. But never to your face. Sothern talk and all."

That was to say, Southern Politeness.

"Born and raised in Kentucky, though I'm here for work. I don't live here." How long does he have to live in the state to say he lived here?

She laughed around the towel with the ice she was holding to her lip, before setting the towel on the bar top to take another drink from her beer. " In direct approach to calling it like it is." she said.

Her shoulder lifted and fell " Haven't decided if it's going to stick or if I'll move along sooner or later. I was born in a little Irish town called Kinsale." she said setting the bottle on the bar top and waving for another. " Ah, what's on the plate for your work?" she asked shifting her eyes to look to him her tongue poking out to poke at the damage to her lip as if trying to minds eye how bad it was.

"When we feel the need ta," he drawls with an easy smirk, teeth peeking through his lips for it.

"Irish, huh?" Add that onto the list of things that Kentucky just didn't see much.. Nevermind that some of the lowlands were settled by Irish folk in the early, early 1900's. 'McCreedy' didn't come from nowhere. "Hang around long enough and I can guess what the answer will be."

Run, run for any hills that weren't here.

"My work? Eh, you know. Chasin' down fugitives; stoppin' shitkicker on shitkicker crime when it tends towards blowin' up meth labs in the woods. That kinda stuff."

" Guilty as charged." she said putting her hands up. " My mom couldn't stay there after my dad took off. I never even met em. ut she landed us in Texas."

she nodded " so, you're DEA huh?" she took a guess but didn't seem bothered by his job at all.

"Not a bad landin' pad, Texas. Even if they are annoyin' as hell with that 'Everythin's bigger there' bullshit. It's not, by the by. Pretty country though."

He'd grant Texas that and not much else. Sorry Texas.

'DEA' made him chuckle and shake his head. "No. Deputy US Marshal Service. We don't care about the meth so much as the bombin' that took place with it. DEA doesn't much like us steppin' on their toes and drug infractions are a State level thing, not Federal." He hoped his badge wasn't going to scare her off. A lot of people shut down when they hear that he's a Federal Agent.

There was a chuckle from her, " Well, 32oz is still 32oz, but.." she said bringing a finger up " There is something to be said about those steers and cows down there." she said.

" Oh, impressive." she said before looking at him. " I heard DEA has a bunch of sticks right up their asses anyway, and you..." she leaned over very blatantly looking at his ass. " Clearly have an ass, a right nice one if I might say. By the jeans you got on I can't see any sticks either."

"Even if we're only talkin' about steak," he laughs.

The laugh was conducive to leaving a smile on his face, one that stretched a little further under a lift of his eyebrows as she looks him over. His ass wasn't something he got a lot of looks over - he worried he didn't have one enough for anyone to bother noticing. Quite flattering to have a woman like Maggie doing it.

"Nah, sticks tend to get in the way of drawin' my gun.. and havin' a good time when I can afford the hours for it. You gotten much chance to see what Lexington got to offer or you more focused on..." He lifts his chin a little. "What do you do for work?"

A small smile still played over her lips as she straightened up on the bar stool. " Seen a few gas stations and motels, that's about it." she paused looking to him again " Also you." she said tapping her empty bottle on the bar top and holding it up to signal for another.

" Tattoos." she said answering his question about work. " Dabble in a little art for decorations murals things like that but inking up skin is where the cash flow is best."

Mid-morning frost hadn't yet turned to sludge and mud on the edge of the dirt track leading in between the trees and overgrown, more-wilderness-than-lawn encroaching insidiously into the driveway when the low growl of an old engine and the crunching of gravel under new tyres rumbles into silence in front of the old family home.

Uninvited holiday guests are rarely a treat, but when the cowboy emerges from behind a thrown-open car door, brim of an old black hat shielding his eyes from the sunlight, there appears to be a bottle with a festive red and green ribbon tied around the base of its neck intended to make the unplanned visit a little easier to swallow. If it happens to be a little early to start drinking - at least, according to proper gentlemen following proper decorum - thankfully, there happens to be none within a hundred miles of this place.

Narrowed eyes make a quick, casual study of the town car that he's pulled up right next to and all the little oddities peppered around the vicinity. It's no small miracle that a place like this can survive any manner of natural and unnatural disasters. By the time those boots chew stones and crisp bark up to the porch, two steps of floorboards creaking under his weight, half a cigarillo had been smoked away. With any luck it'll be all gone by the time the marshal answers those cold knuckles summoning him over to his front door.

"Pardon the intrusion," Doc drawls, tilting his head just enough to make eye contact. He always sounds like he's teasing, but in a good-natured, disarming and playful rather than a cruel or needling way. "But I heard on the wind that you took a bullet for Christmas. That's awful kind of you, standing there letting 'em get one in for a change. Brought you some get well whiskey."

Raylan hated catching a bullet. The pain was annoying, the itch of healing skin drove him mad and not being able to draw like he normally does makes every hair on the back of his neck stiffen in warning. Art had warned him about barging in and his cover had been more lean than he thought. Honest mistake - only a flesh wound. A flesh wound that put him out of service for at least a month. Raylan bet he could get back into the field in three weeks though. Just long enough to miss the whole 'Christmas schtick' that the office and every other sane, jolly person was celebrating.

There was work that needed to be done on the house in Harlan anyway. With Arlo and Helen gone, Raylan really could use the free time to finish up or, in some cases, start a few projects, depending on the reach they demanded. But the country was still the country and his bat was kept next to the door, loaded shotgun companion with it to match the set leaned in the kitchen. He never paid any mind to the driveway facing windows but he heard the car pull up.

Anyone from the office would have called first, made sure he was still even at the house - so it wasn't them. Which left him with the most likely option - someone saw his car posted up in the driveway and ran down the road to tell someone else. The car had left. Someone had been dropped off. Someone didn't mean to leave. He was real short on ideas now, and the shotgun was collected silently on his way towards the door-

That was until he saw the hat, the familiar smoking stick. Doc hadn't been anywhere on his lists.

His door opens, the shotgun set gently to the side as he looks Doc up and down, stunned. Goddamn. He didn't look a fraction different standing in his door than Raylan had imagined.

"Yeah, figured it was about time they got one on the scoreboard." He steps back, opening the door further. The house was still decorated as it always had been, aside from the faint ghost of drywall in the air, accompanied with the smell of fresh wood and a cold fire. God it was good to see him. "Don't just stand out there, come in, have some with me and tell me how bad that cab fare was gettin' you all the way out here. How long'd it take you to get here?"

He should be resting up, not running around the house doing errands. Especially not projects that involve heavy lifting and hard work, straining himself like that. He's out of his mind if he thinks he can get back into the fray within 3 weeks, let alone if he don't spend that 3 weeks putting his feet up and tending to his wound properly.

"Cryin' shame they didn't get one in the face," Doc teases with a sigh. He closes the door behind himself and walks in, taking a quick look around the place just to be sure that he's not interrupting anything. It's the time of year where he might be interrupting things, or so he's been told on numerous occasions. He needs to undispense with the formalities, call ahead, make an appointment, and not on certain days that are unofficially designated for family. He would have heeded said decorum too, but even with Raylan on speed dial, he struggles to work the phone.

"Looks like I got you alone," he muses as he steps in further to leave the get well whiskey on the countertop. "The fare was exorbitant, as a matter of fact. But everything's exorbitant these days. I am older than paper money, you know." Food and lodging and all manner of things used to cost a few coins. Now everything's in the hundreds, thousands, money you can't even see in a plastic card, on your phone. It's hard to keep up.

"I ain't complaining. Would've taken me weeks on a horse. And probably cost more staying at inns along the way." Of course, there would have been gambling, and women, and other entertainment along the way that might have offset some of the cost, but would have definitely significantly slowed him down.

"That said, I wouldn't mind if I could stay and help out, unless you're expecting anyone else," Doc offers. He wouldn't overstay his welcome, but if there's no one else coming, he would much rather stick around until Raylan's recovered some more. "Terrible business, being alone and out of action in a big old house, cleaning your own blood up." Even though his smile reaches his eyes, there's an unmistakeable tinge of sadness in his voice.

Sitting still for his health has never his strong suit. Ask him to stake out for four days in a clown car, he would, without argument. Tell him to sit down and take it easy? Never.

Raylan smiles crookedly at the dark humor, eyebrows bobbing in a 'what are ya gonna do' kind of way as he turns and leads Henry in towards the living room where he stops to let Henry hit up the Kitchen countertop connection to free his hands. His hands prop lazily on crookedly set hips and he was full of questions, per usual. But it sounded an awful lot like Doc might mean for this to be a longer than what the formalities might call a 'sufficient' visit and time was just about the most valuable thing to him right now. He should feel worse about how pleased he was to hear that. He doesn't.

"I'm not sure we got 'inns' anymore. Just shitty motels that'll give you a rash if you're not careful. But no, there's no one else here and no one expected to show up." Not that it ever really stopped them.

"Plenty'a room, work, and blood to go around to another set of hands. Though it's terrible manners for me to be puttin' a guest to work, the sooner I get this place properly serviceable again, the sooner I can sell it for a decent price.. How is it you heard about my gettin' shot? You got some older than dirt secret on American hills and how to listen through 'em?"

He don’t got nowhere else to be so either Raylan is in luck or he’s down and out of it, depending on how unwanted this particular guest is. Though, he’s gotta say, he don’t feel like much of a guest, much as he hasn’t set foot in and around this house or left much of his mark on anything in a hundred miles of this vicinity. Comfortable company, familiar habits, minimal small talk, more interest in rolling his sleeves up and working on shit to get done - he’s just another hired hand who happened to hire himself and invite himself over.

“Shitty motels would have done me just fine too. But nobody takes money or the exchange of a day’s work anymore. Hell, nobody even takes a man on his word anymore. This country’s really gone to shits.” Not that he’s done an honest day’s work in a long time, but. Doc wouldn’t have believed a day would come where people would rather take a hard-backed playing card over cold, hard cash. But here they are.

“I called by your office - the cumbersome, legal way, mind - and flirted with the front desk.” Shameless, indisputably, but efficient, as men in hats are wont to be. And Doc has that old world southern man your man could smell like, drawl like and shoot like quality going for him on top of the hat. Before long there was talk about not needing to send flowers and they’d heard it wasn’t so bad and OK Corral jokes and the Givens’s family home address scrawled out on a bizarre piece of yellow paper that’s inexplicably sticky only on one part of one side.

“I am no guest, and I would insist on getting my hands dirty with haste - especially if it means you would take it easy on yourself. ‘tis the holidays after all and you, good sir, are meant to be on a Holliday.” The dad jokes get better every year, without a shadow of a doubt.

She walks out of the airport and into the damp heat of Miami, making a face as the humidity settles over her like a blanket. Her hair is even shorter than it was when she ended up in Mathias, certainly shorter than when Raylan saw her off at the beginning of the school year.

It only takes a few seconds of scanning for a taxi to spot Raylan, lounging against the side of the inevitable town car. She lights up, shedding the dignity she's managed to gather at the ripe old age of almost-21 and running the short length from the doors to Raylan's side. She throws herself into a hug.

"I told you I could get home on my own, you motherfucker."

He'd been waiting an hour and a half. Security had already rolled up and told him that he couldn't part there, but all it took was a flash of his badge and a small white lie - "Waiting for my partner with a prisoner transport," was his excuse - and they left him alone. That didn't mean they weren't keeping an eye on him, several yards away.

Raylan breaks into a grin as he spots Athena in the crowd and waits for the inevitable moment - that break of sunshine across her face as she spots him in return. His whole chest swells as she runs and throws herself at him, securely caught by his still strong arms.

"Like hell I'm trustin' you to a taxi after not gettin' to see you for so long, kiddo. Can't trust those assholes to get you anywhere in a reasonable amount of time." He pulls back enough to see her face, hands squeezing her again. God he'd missed her. She looked well. Happy, if only happy to see him. "It's good to see you darlin'."

He pats her on the back and turns to amble towards the back of the car, already fishing out his keys so he could open the trunk.

"Was your flight okay?"

Edited 2023-06-28 00:53 (UTC)

She grins, hauling her bag around and hefting it into the trunk almost before he has it all the way open. She can manage that herself, thank you very much.

...Even if it is pretty heavy.

"I mean, it was a flight. There was a guy behind me who kept kicking my chair but I hummed him into having to spend the latter half of it in the bathroom. Well, I hummed his food into being moldy, which, y'know, was easier. Only a little!"

She is entirely innocent and does not abuse her Gift at all ever.

Raylan gives her a Look, but it was undermined by the curl at the edges of his lips.

"Well so long as it was only a little.. though it would be a shame if he couldn't look at chicken ala parm or whatever they're servin'." The trunk is shut. "Get in. I'll take you for some fast food if you're hungry, a slushie or somethin'-" Like she was 16 all over again. "-and then we can go home. You'll be proud to know," he continues, ambling around the car towards his driver side door. "Shit's actually surviving in my back yard this year. Got one whole half of a tomato plant and a fern that's clinin' to life like there's nothin' left."

As they get in though, the security guards come up to their windows and Raylan gives them a look as he rolls his window down.

"Prisoner transport, Marshal?"

Raylan lifts his eyebrows over an innocent look. "Straight from collage into my livin' room. If you'll excuse us." He doesn't wait before starting to pull away from the guard giving him a Look in return.

"I have no idea what it actually was, only what they said it was supposed to be."

She bounces a little on the seat, testing it out, the same way she has with every car he's gotten from work since she came here. Some things don't change, whether you're a teenager or twenty-one. Little habits are habits, like it or not. "Ooh, this one is new."

When the guard comes over, Athena bites her lip to try and hide her grin, but it doesn't work very well.

As Raylan pulls out, she turns every available air vent in her direction, putting her face near the ones in front of her. "God I will never complain about Boston being too cold ever again. Until next time."

Wasn't that the way with airline foods? He didn't eat it unless he was on an international flight that was going to take more than 10 hours. He'd rather starve and wait, thank you very much.

He can't help but laugh as she leans into the air vent on the freshly approved seats - it was new, actually - and rolls up his window the rest of the way before turning up the AC a little. They'd freeze in 15 minutes, but it was Miami; they'd warm back up.

God he'd missed her energy.

"It's only a little bit of snow and minus 8 degrees weather. Builds character." His grin is already waiting for the disapproving look over she might give him. "I'd tell you to come back in the winter but I know better." He'd tried it before.

"Foods better down here anyway. Boston is up its own ass just because of history and their baseball. Though I suppose their schools must be alright; taste enough to let a top student like you in."

"Beer's better up there though." The not sorry about it is heavily implied. "Tequila's better here."

She grins at him, the perpetual kid needling authority. She's barely 21, close enough for Raylan to argue her into submission over the throwing of a birthday party when she got home.

Oh. Speaking of which.

"So um, I know you said you've got Willa while I'm here, but does that mean we're also going to have Winona?"

Raylan scoffs at the assertion and shakes his head. "Tequila is better in Mexico," he corrects. "Miami gets all the cocktail awards though and I don't know that Boston has got shit that holds up to some of the things they're throwin' together."

And it wasn't like Raylan was going to be going to bars with her. If she wanted to drink, he'd much rather she do it at home.

He glances over. "I scheduled it durin' a day where the court docket is full. She won't be comin', I promise. Willa's stayin' over for the weekend though, so we won't be seein' Winona until Monday. Hopefully."

Athena had heard actual proper yelling matches between Raylan and Winona before, about Willa, about Athena, about him leaving or coming back. They managed to make it work for Willa's sake but now that Willa was well into being a teenager herself, some of the façade had started to peel away.

"She's excited to see you, you know. Willa is." Athena was the big sister she'd always wanted, and she hung the moon in Willa's eyes.

Athena's pretty sure Winona still hasn't and will never forgive that she accidentally taught a much younger Willa the word cunt, and that it was an accident only because Athena had been calling Winona one at the time.

"Oh good, maybe when I force life updates out of Willa she'll tell me something I can talk to Winona civilly about before then." Athena grins, just as excited to see her little sister. She bounces in her seat again.

"I've got a surprise for you too. By the way. I thought I'd give it to you when we did presents."

She hadn't. Cunt was the strongest word to Southern Culture, the worst thing you could call a person. Willa knowing it much less using it had all of Winona's family shuddering in their graves or their kitchens.

"I doubt it, but you'll let me know if that changes." He was well aware how little wiggle room Athena gave Winona after seeing how his ex-wife really treated him. It made his heart swell, this protective urge from her.

"Oh really? Should I be scared?" He was so happy to see her again. His apartment didn't feel right if it didn't have the girls in it, giggling about something, sweetly plotting something that was surely going to be his demise in one way or another.

She starts to say no, then contemplates that for a moment longer. "Well, you might be. But I don't think you'll be upset."

It takes about two more seconds before she's rolling her eyes at herself and grinning at him and digging an unmarked white envelope out of the side pocket of her backpack. She holds it up.

"It's in here, and before you even say it, no, it's not a winning lottery ticket, or a trip to Aruba, or anything like that, dork."

After over a year, they told her—told them both—that they found Jeff Calhoun. Told them both he’d said some strange things about time limits and getting things back to where they were supposed to be, said he needed her to get to him in Virginia, as soon as possible. Not to bring anything but what she’d arrived carrying.

They said they didn’t know what he meant, but that he said to thank Raylan, and to say he was sorry he couldn’t come. That things were fragile, that there couldn’t be too much interference.

So she cried, and she went, and she vanished.

Which is why it makes no sense for Athena Carrigan to be on Raylan’s computer screen, seven years after that point. A young woman now—mid twenties—but the same round face, dimples, cherubic aura. It’s why the stare at the camera—feral in a dangerous way, cold like she never was—is even more alarming.

The APB says very little about why they want her. Just that she’s armed and considered extremely dangerous, and it’s very ill-advised to approach.

She’s in Detroit, the bulletin says. Or at least that’s her last recently known.

Edited 2023-06-29 05:11 (UTC)

The day that they'd been told that Jeff had been found was a stark and sad one for Raylan. There was no world in which he would ever try to keep Athena from the chaotic Californian, or get in the way of the connection and bond that she had with his face twin. Frankly put, Jeff was there first. He had to respect that. So it was bittersweet to hold her while she wept, to assure her that no matter what happened, he would always be waiting in the wings if she needed something.

Even if she was a million worlds away.

And then Raylan had to get on with his life. It was hard, lonely, and he took what solace he could in Loretta and Willa, in trying to help as many people that crossed his path as he could. He thought about Athena and Jeff often, hoping they were someplace good. Someplace safe.

So when Athena's face comes up on his screen looking the way she does, with the APB that comes with it, his heart chills and stomach sinks. Something Happened. Suddenly, none of his other cases mattered. The APB said she was last in Detroit and Raylan could go there, but his gut told him if she was running, she was going to run to a place she thought was safe. Arlo's house. Except it wasn't Arlo's house anymore; Raylan had signed it over to the mountian folk in reperations for everything Arlo had done. He didn't know if anyone was living there or not, but if there was, they needed to be warned. Athena with a bad mood or attitude under her, whatever the cause of that look on her face was, wasn't something to be messed with. He knew that all too well.

He catches the soonest flight he can and flies himself to Lexington where he rents a car and finds himself a motel for the night. The next morning, he stops at the Marshal's office and finds himself in Chief Deputy Rachel's office, smiling crookedly at the well positioned woman. He wanted to let her know that he was here to check in on something. He mentions Athena and Rachel's face softens a little at the mention of the APB.

"You need any help Raylan, you give us a call, okay?" He said he would.

After that, he heads out to Harlan, swearing internally at being made to come back here, half eaten with worry about Athena and half amped up in the concern that he'd find her and god knows what state she'd be in.

Athena doesn't know if she hoped Raylan would come or that he wouldn't. To Arlo's house, that's what it always was to him. Arlo's house. A part of her thought of it as their house, she remembers that. It's why she picks it. She doesn't think her handlers will risk putting her picture out into the world, and Harlan is the last place those idiots would think to look for her. She made it clear enough to them that Raylan Givens was dead to her, Jeff Calhoun was dead to her, her old world was dead to her.

There had been a little while in the middle where she even believed it.

When Athena comes up on the house, their house, Arlo's house, there are other people inside. It's getting down toward dark, and she crouches, and watches, and drifts her eyes shut and starts humming under her breath. Their thoughts touch hers as lightly as whispers, innocuous little things by innocuous people, people she knows won't take well to someone breaking into their house. People who don't deserve what she can do to them when threatened. She focuses, still humming deep in her throat, gently turning their thoughts toward the need to get out of the house, building it up and up until it's a near-panicked necessity. They're gone less than five minutes after she lets the spell set. Start to finish, it takes about fifteen minutes total.

She slips inside, grateful to see that the place is well-tended. The personal items are different, the furniture moved, but the space is maintained. That's something.

She sets about securing the doors and windows, upstairs and down, before she starts hunting a change of clothes. From outside, there's nothing much to see. The lights are all off, and she makes sure she keeps her called-up illumination just barely big enough to move around. But she hasn't been on the outside in a while. She's rusty. And just for a moment, there's a glimmer of light that passes by an unshuttered window.

All his brain did was run through scenarios as he drove down, relishing the length of the drive for it. A million what ifs manifested themselves, each with their own myriad of resolutions. What if she didn't remember him? What if she didn't care? What if some.. weird alien thing had taken over her mind or some sickness that was only catchable and carriable by those with the Gift, what if Jeff was with her. What if he wasn't.

More than enough to fill the two and half hour drive that was meant to take 3 hours and fifteen minutes for folks that didn't speed. He'd never forget the directions to Arlo's house, no matter how long he'd been gone or what had changed - the long dirt driveway up to the house he was torn on feeling about it still being standing, was as well known as the back of his hand.

The house was dark, he noted as he turns off the car and slides out. He hopes that's because it's empty and not anything else dark and nefarious that his mind could think of. Athena, his Athena, she would have called him if she was back. Reached out, let him know, something. The fact that she didn't was worrisome. What if she was in trouble? What if she wasn't here at all and he was dead wrong?

He puts his hand on his gun and carefully, silently side steps his way up towards the front door, peering into the windows from the porch. The house looked clean enough. Lived in. Fairing better than a lot of unkept houses in Harlan. Maybe Mary had taken up residence. Attempted to enjoy some of the lowland life.

Could be that they were asleep inside. Could be that he should knock. He doesn't, and quietly twists the knob, leaning his weight oh so slightly into the door. Were they stupid enough to leave it unlocked? Yes, for some reason. Good though, that he wouldn't have to go around and try the back kitchen door. He slips in and closes it behind him just as softly, the faintest click of latch in latch the only sound that comes from it.

He knew every creak, every whine, every groan of Arlo's house. All he had to do was listen and be ready.

It’s silent, and empty, and for a moment that’s all it is. Then a board upstairs in what was Raylan’s room gives a soft little squeak from overhead.

Athena curses it, knowing someone is downstairs the same way she always knows when a foreign entity has entered her space. Experience. Training. It’s not one of the new residents, she’s confident of that. The spell she set on them will last at least a day, longer for the weaker-willed ones. And they're too quiet. Too careful.

So who? Her handlers? They can’t possibly have gotten here so fast.

Athena takes a deep breath and starts humming softly to herself, her focus on making a sound in the kitchen. A soft movement. A sign of habitation. Something to get this foreign body in a more favorable position. Distracted, so she can start to ease her way down the steps, still humming quieter and quieter as she moves.

She does the same thing she did with the previous residents, reaching out with her Gift to tease the loosest threads of mental energy into her grip, get an idea of who she's dealing with. They have a gun, that's what registers first. The predator readiness, the hand on the familiar grip of the weapon. She's not singing strongly enough or putting enough force behind things to garner much more than that, but she doesn't need to yet.

Athena told Raylan once, a long time ago, that it was hard to impose a spell on an unwilling, living creature. She's learned since then how much easier it can be if they don't know you're trying. Note by note, she endeavors to thread calm into the veins of the person below her. The sense that they're coming home, that this is their house, that there's no reason to be on edge. Calm, relaxation, sleepiness. Reasons to take their hand off the gun.

Edited 2023-07-02 18:34 (UTC)

His stalking pauses at the creak, eyes sweeping up to the ceiling. Someone was upstairs. That's where he starts heading, ears almost aching with how it felt like he was stretching them. He didn't hear the humming but there was a clatter and a shuffle in the kitchen that sounded more like someone trying to go out the back door.

That's where he heads, but once he hits the linoleum and sees it empty, he takes a deep breath and hooks his thumb over the butt of it anyway as he looks around. They had only been here for about a year and a half, Athena and him, but he had hoped, had thought, that they were good days. He didn't know if he was relieved that Athena wasn't here or if he should be prepared for when she showed up. He could be completely wrong - it was only a year and a half. A drop in the very large bucket of time that was Life.

Maybe he should have started in Detroit. Maybe he was sentimental and stupid. Something itched in the back of his head - hadn't he been doing something? Did he check the upstairs yet?

Edited 2023-07-04 00:02 (UTC)

She feels the spark of competition in his psyche, but she’s already made it to the bottom of the stairs and has a clear shot of him in the kitchen. She has one gun in hand, one holstered, both stolen.

The guy in the kitchen is wearing a cowboy hat.

There’s no way. No way. How could he have known? Had her handlers called him, warned him, told him to check?

It can’t be him.

“Hands up,” Athena says, her voice calm and cold and undoubtably familiar. It hasn’t gotten less feminine or more intimidating since the last time they spoke.

“Weapon on the floor, hands up, as soon as I see they’re empty I want them laced together against the back of your head. Capiche? I’m going to turn on the light provided you’re about to do as I say.”

Raylan looks over his shoulder in the dark. How had he not heard her coming down? There was no question it was Athena - he'd know her voice anywhere. With a long, tense pause, he decides to let this play out on her terms and lifts his hands slowly, letting the faint backlight of the windows and the moon expose the move as his fingers stay relaxed, loose.

They get laced behind his head as he turns the rest of the way around to face her. Speaking was out of the question, it would give him away in a heartbeat and he wanted to see the surprise on her face. Or at least, he hoped it would be surprise. Seven years was a long time for a person. So much could happen and Athena had already been through a lot.

There was no telling how this was going to go, really.

His silence makes her uneasy. She fumbles for the light switch, remembering where it is from instinct more than clear recollection.

The overheads snap on.

Athena’s eyes go very, very wide.

The muzzle of her weapon doesn’t dip. She doesn’t throw herself at him in a hug. Beyond the change in the way she looks at him—horror replacing the scowl—she doesn’t seem to react at all.

“What the fuck are you doing here.” Her voice also gives her away, dropping into soft panic.

Her tone, in combination with the horror on his face, didn't tell him much other than she really didn't expect him to be the one standing in front of her. These were clearly brand new waters and thankfully, Raylan had always respected her and her power, and what she could do with it.

These bards, he swears.

His expression doesn't change. Serious, solemn, unafraid and confident. What the hell was she doing on that side of the line.

"You know, it's funny. I asked myself that same question when your name came across my computer screen at work." He takes an ambling couple of steps forward. "The Law thinks you're in Detroit, but after seven years, I had a hunch you might come visit home. Someone should be here to meet ya. Welcome you back.."

Athena takes a step back for every step forward he takes. When he says how he knew, how he found out, she tightens her overall grip on the weapon without tightening her finger on the trigger. Her finger isn't even on the trigger, now, seeing who it is. It's resting alongside the trigger, just the way he taught her.

"You have to leave." It's cold, but there's a sliver of desperation underneath. "You have to leave now. They'll kill you."

"Now, you know me better than that Athena. Why don't you put that gun down, and tell me what the hell is goin' on. Where's Jeff? I thought you two were gettin' back to your world, why are you back here? Why are you scared?"

He'd keep his easy pace, sure she wasn't going to shoot him but still trying to get her in arms length so he could take the pistol from her.

She keeps backing up, her focus flicking between his face and his hands. Into the living room, slowly across it. Insistently staying out of reach.

"I swear to god Raylan, I will shoot you if you don't stop walking." Her voice breaks a little, but there's iron underneath. "I'm not scared for me."

But it's been a long time since she was in this house, and other people have been there since. She trips a little on furniture that isn't part of her mental map, and her back hits the wall. The gun still stays up.

He stops for a second as her back hits that wall. It changed things oh so subtly. Athena really only had two choices now, and he didn't plan on getting shot today.

"Who are you scared for, darlin'? Because it's not me if you've got a barrel pointed in my direction with intent." He uses what he knows of the power of his voice, the soft calmness that could be a million things to those who didn't know him, and specifically him trying to understand to those that did. His next steps forward are careful and measured.

"Let me help you protect whoever you're worried about. Let me help you, Athena. That's all I've ever wanted to do." His hand comes down and grips the top of the gun and pushes it away from him as he reaches in to pull her against him with his other hand.

She resists him pressing down on the gun for a moment, but not much of one. Athena tenses as he pulls her close, the hug feeling foreign. Briefly like a threat, before the familiarity of it settles around her shoulders. Jerkily, like a puppet who hasn't been oiled in a while, she lifts her arm to wrap it around him. Then she thumbs the safety onto the gun and drops it, the loose grip turning into a desperate cling.

"Fuck," she whispers. Athena presses her face against his chest. "Fuck. Fuck."

She shifts her arms to hang on tighter, her tone staying even in spite of her body language. "Jeff was never there. I don't know how, but someone found out what I am."

The resistance, the stiffness, it didn't deter him but as Athena wraps an arm around him and seems to take it all, he's able to breathe a sigh of relief to himself. The last thing he wanted to do was fight her. He feels the gun go slack and he slides his hugging hand down to around her shoulders as she presses her face into him.

"I gotcha, it's okay," he murmurs without thinking. It wasn't okay - nothing was okay, but they had to start somewhere. He grips her back as he hears that, head dipping to almost press a kiss into her hair.

"I'm so sorry, Athena. I shoulda checked, I should have.. should have made sure." He should have done his fucking job better. But being pissed off at himself and the situation didn't help right now. There was time enough for that later.

"We need to get you somewhere safe. What happened to the folks that are livin' here?"

It's like being seventeen again. His voice, his arms around her, it's okay with such gentle firmness that she even believes it for a moment. A handful of seconds where she can pretend she's not the person the past seven years made.

"You couldn't have proved it. Or stopped it. They faked his voice. They..." She stops, bites her lip, decides to save that revelation for later. For somewhere safe, wherever the fuck that might be. "It was the government, Raylan. Whatever you could have found, they would have faked something to make it seem real."

At that question, though, she gathers herself, finally loosening her hold on him and moving to pick up her gun if he lets go. Not that she'll make him if he doesn't.

"I... sang them out. Made them think leaving for twenty-four hours or so was a really good idea. They'll be back in a day or two. You finally sold it, huh?"

He would have known. He was sure that he would have known. He should have laid eyes on Jeff himself. He'd failed her with his lack of due diligence. The lack of demand. She loosens the hug and he does too. The gun is a bit of an internal wrestle and he holds onto it for it as it all dances over the subtle edges of his features but in the end, he chooses to trust her and lets it go. Chooses to trust that she won't use it on him.

"Signed it over to relatives up the mountain to repay all of Arlo's thefts and sins." He looks around as he steps back, hand propping on his gun. "They're keepin' it up well."

He looks back to her, expression serious. God he'd missed her. Thought about if she was okay and happy and safe where ever she was. And here she is, making him ask some really hard questions.

"Tell me what's goin' on, Athena. Tell me what you're doin' here and what's next." So that he can help, so that he can keep her safe. So he can do his job.

Athena at seventeen would have looked away, or down, or curled in on herself a little at the knowledge that she's about to say a lot of things he isn't going to like. Athena at twenty-four studies Raylan's face, her brows knit and her expression going grim, and nods quietly.

"...Mind if I see if they have any coffee? You got here before I had a chance to do anything but clear the house."

It was amazing what a cup of coffee could do for someone's soul after a rough night and by virtue of her being here now, it had clearly been a rough night. He knew to trust her magic and its power, and she can't have been here long. They could stay for a cup of coffee if it meant he could decide if he was taking her to a motel or further off the map than the old Given's homestead.

Raylan turns with a step back, gesturing towards the kitchen down the path his moved body had cleared.

Edited 2023-07-20 23:26 (UTC)

She pauses as she passes him, not out of wariness, but there’s so much in her expression. Longing, anxiety, uncertainty. Under it all a little bit of fear.

I guess I got sick of being scared, she’d said once. Or something like it. He’d said some day they’d make sure she would be sick of being happy, or something like that. She remembers that conversation. Vaguely. Like a dream or something she rehearsed in a mirror.

Still, looking him in the face this close, it’s impossible not to remember the way she felt around him when she was younger, too. Safe.

Safe.

“Jesus,” her voice is teasing, but it’s lost its relentlessly perky edge. “You’re going white above your ears, old man.”

It hurt him to see all that on her face. He should have done better. He'd promised her happiness. And here she was, some 7 years older and he could still see little bits and pieces of the little girl (teenager) that he had wrapped up without question once they landed back into his reality. She was still in there somewhere, maybe hiding in a smile or a groan over the unhealthy fast food that Athena had relished in so much.

He can't help but smile a little at the comment. "At least half of these are because of you so I hope you're ready to own that." When'd she get so grown?

It gets a smile. A tiny, brief pull of a smile, a very Raylan kind of smile, but one big enough to show her dimples. "Good. I hope Willa gave you the rest."

She looks around more carefully this time as they go back to the kitchen, noting the changes, what's stayed the same. Athena has no impulse to show off her Gift, but she remembers doing that here, when she realized it came back to her. She traces her fingertips slowly across the countertop, memories drifting to the surface and making her feel strange.

But the coffee maker is the same coffee maker. And it works. And the beans are still pre-ground in an industrial sized jar. She smiles as she makes it up, another one of those brief little ghost expressions. "God, this is fucking... weird."

She looks over her shoulder at Raylan. "I didn't think they'd put out any kind of BOLO on me. They've kept things so quiet until now, they have to be planning something."

She falls asleep on the plane...

...And jolts awake on a bed in the middle of what she’s pretty sure is a confusingly well equipped and kind of seedy motel room.

She sits up sharply, her skull pounding, and actually lifts her hands to grab at her head like that will do anything.

The fuck?

Did her parents pick her up and they went to a motel instead of home? Where’s her backpack? Where’s her suitcase? Where’s her mom?

Willa scoots to the edge of the tidily made bed, gets to her feet and has to put out a hand to balance as the world spins.

“Mom..?” Nothing. She tries one door, finds the bathroom, and finds the exit on her second attempt. Not to a motel front or a hallway, but to a landing with stairs heading down. She eyeballs it suspiciously. “Ok, we’re going into Silent Hill territory.”

Still, she descends, tense and nervous and with no idea why.

Edited 2023-08-03 15:29 (UTC)

It was midday in Raylan's morning, he had no reason to lounge in bed when Lindsey wasn't around, and he was pouring over an empty legal pad that, no matter how hard he tried, wasn't reflecting all the words he was supposed to already have worked out. Why Dickie Bennett shouldn't be released from Jail.

'It would be less of a pain in the ass' wasn't a very good reason, no matter how true it was.

He knew he was alone in the bar. He knew Lindsey wouldn't be in for a few hours, nor would the truck and this weeks deliveries. So when he heard the creak of the stairs, he was thoroughly confused. Raylan slides off his barstool, hand sliding back to the gun at the small of his back, readying himself for something if necessary.

The idea of readiness fell back a little at the sight of the girl, blonde hair and blue eyes oddly familiar, something Raylan ascribed to the number of blonde haired, blue eyed girls that he had seen over his life. His features pinch, eyes locked steady on her as soon as she came into his view and his ears tilt towards the upstairs.

"Lotta work to get into them windows up there," he says in way of greeting, in way of asking. Did she have a partner? He'd say she was young for a life of robbing places but age never stopped anything.

Willa's eyes go wide, but she immediately has to squint again to steady her vision and make sure she's seeing him right. She's still feeling dizzy and confused, and... "What happened to your hair?"

Did he dye it? He said he'd never dye it. Not that insecure, he'd said. Too much to keep up. Impractical.

Willa squeezes her eyes shut and then opens them wider, blinking a few times.

...Still her dad, still weird looking hair. She puts a hand to her head and groans a little. "Are we in Detroit? What happened to the plane?"

His brow manages to furrow more, head pulling back a fraction as he tries to understand anything that she just said. His hair? Detroit? What plane.

"I.. don't know that I can answer any of those questions at this exact juncture in time, but I'm sure we can look into.. either of those-" he says, two fingers of his free hand gesturing out vaguely in front of him.

"-But let's start with a name and why, exactly, you're comin' from my upstairs apartment."

'Apartment' was a generous term but he was starting small.

"That's not your apartment."

She comes down the last two steps and starts to lose her balance, catching herself against the wall. She has to hold still a second for the dizziness to fade. ...Her name? "Willa."

Duh. "Dad, what's going on?"

What? What in the actual hell was going on here. Was this a scam? If so, it was a monumentally bad one. Mental patient? Possibly; he needed to be gentle.

"As it's where I'm stayin' that kinda means it is."

But then she says her name. Calls him Dad, and the confusion gets ten times deeper. He can't help but frown in his confusion.

"Dad?" He glances around like someone else might pop up out of no where and claim the title. "My daughter is about six months old, I don't-"

Her vision's clearing up at least. Still a little vertigo, but she's not as disoriented. Willa wrinkles her nose, finally realizing where exactly they are.

"Wait, is this a bar? Why are you sleeping above a bar?"

"Because I'm relivin' the hell of the collage experience as a 43 year old man-" Because some ugly shit had gone down at his motel and he thought he'd change it up. Maybe his luck would be better here.

Maybe there'd be less blood spilt here.

"-How are you Willa?" It was a strange question and even he didn't know what the answer was going to be but there was something here that felt... Outside, somehow. Outside the realm of his norm.

"What's your full name? Who's your mother? When you were born and where do I come from?" All easily found but again, starting small.

"Dad..." Her already pitchy voice goes softer. He's scaring her. This whole thing is scaring her. "Fifteen. Willa Frances Givens, Winona Hawkins, December 10th 2013, Harlan County?"

His eyes narrow. All of the answers were correct, but a clever soul that did their homework could find that information out. The only thing that didn't add up was the 'fifteen' part of the answer. He felt like he should ask her more. He didn't even know where to begin.

Raylan points to a seat at the bar.

"Come have a seat." He wasn't convinced. "If all this is true, how are you here. How are you fifteen when my daughter is only just 6 months." Make it make sense.

She doesn't quite slink over, but she is cowed enough to listen without arguing. Is this some kind of test? Well, obviously it's a test. He's asking questions. But she doesn't know why.

Until she's sitting on the stool he pointed at and he asks her that.

"...What?"

She stares at him, own brow pinching in confusion, looking briefly very like her father. "What are you talking about?"

His brow furrows in return, body turning half a step to face her in her new orientation.

"I'm talkin' about my daughter still bein' a baby and you very much not bein' one. So if you're Willa, how's this possible. How are you her?"

Some part of him screamed that she had their features, his and Winona's - he'd know those blue eyes anywhere - but the rest of him struggled against the change of reality.

"I don't know."

Her voice rises a little, and she tries for angry or defensive instead of 'more than a little freaked out.' "I was on a plane ten minutes ago."

Hang on. Wait. “Did you say you’re forty-three?”

Edited 2023-08-10 06:34 (UTC)

Raylan's jaw works oh so slightly as he studies her with a pressured gaze, looking for any sign that she was lying to him. Any sign that suggested a lean into the innocent waif feeling that Willa almost touched.

She didn't know. He could tell she wasn't lying to him. That made things more complicated that he was really ready for. There was this girl that he, of course, felt compelled to protect by virtue of her age alone, and he couldn't just. Turn her out. Not when it seemed like she really believed what she was saying.

He took and let a deep breath but as soon as he'd let it out, she added on her next question. He furrows his brow, head pulling back a little. "Yeah." He was sure that was the least important thing right now.

"Okay. Alright. We'll. .. We'll figure this out. Just-" He pinches his brow with his fingers. "Gimme a second." He had a few options. CPS, a DNA test, or two days to try to find something that wasn't getting the government involved. None of them were great.

“Well you weren’t forty-three yesterday, okay, you were fifty-eight.” At least she manages to sound aggressive that time. She’s hanging on to the top of the barstool, eyes huge, trying not to panic.

Is she high? Did something happen to the plane? Is this the weirdest, most vivid dream she’s ever had? What is going on.

“Where are we?”

He gives her an unimpressed look, lips thinning briefly. "The difference between forty three and fifty eight is shorter than the difference of six months to fifteen years."

And it was going to be weird for him to be walking around with a new teenager out of no where.

"It's a collage bar, in Lexington. I'm stayin' upstairs, where you came from, until my mansion gets finished. Look, I got work in a little bit, and I don't want you assuminin' nothin, so let's get this right outta the way. I'll take you with me, but you're stayin' at the court house if I have to leave. Until I can figure out what to do about this."

“I guess on a scale of old to really old.” She glares back at him, starting to remember now that she was mad.

…Except they’re in Lexington. They’re going to his office.

“Fine,” she says, trying to sound more annoyed than she actually is while she simultaneously plans to scour his desk for anything interesting she can find.

“Wait, what d’you mean what to do about this? About me?”

This fighting felt familiar somehow. Huh. He lets the comment pass - always pick your battles, especially when the other party is stomping their little foot about it.

The 'fine' pleases him well enough. At least that won't be a fight, but he knows that getting her to stay in one place very likely would be.

"I don't know. That's why I need to figure it out. I got no place that's set up right for housin' a little girl."

Eyebrows up. “Okay, first of all I’m not a little girl, second, you leave me in hotel rooms or at your office all the time. And like, I’m pretty sure that apartment isn’t set up right for anybody.”

It was striking how exactly him all that sounded. The tone, the hoisting of her eyebrows - he didn't know how any of this was possible but he was starting to maybe possibly consider thinking about thinking about believing it.

"It's got a bed and a functionin' bathroom and no stains on the floor." So. Just oh so slightly better then where he was staying before. Shit. He was going to have to go back. Lindsey sure as hell wasn't going to understand this and no 15 year old should be staying above a bar if he can help it.

He sighs again. "I'm supposed to be in, in two hours and I'm sure as hell not gettin' anythin' done with it. I hear the delivery truck pullin' in, so as soon as I'm done with that, we'll go."

"Those aren't high standards, Dad." Seriously, it's a little concerning. She can't help calling him dad, even if none of this makes any sense. The way he talks is too much her dad, the way he looks is too much her dad. He can't be anyone else.

Wait, deliveries?

"Do you work here?"

Raylan only grunts a note at her opinion of his standards. He wasn't exactly in the best place right now and he didn't want to open that can of worms.

"No. I'm helpin' out the owner of the bar. Part of the lease agreement." And that was a 6 month agreement, though Raylan had been told he could stay longer if he wanted to. He wasn't going to tell her that. Walking over to the door, he pushes it open and kicks down the rubber stopper. Just in time to greet the guy, Raylan steps back out of the way and takes the invoice handed to him on a clipboard. A pen out of his back pocket, and he starts ticking off the boxes being wheeled in.

"I also bounce for him at night when I get in." It would only take about fifteen minutes.

This is... so, so weird. Her dad, taking deliveries at a bar, where he bounces at night? Just telling her that, like it was nothing. Defending his above-a-bar apartment, taking her to work. She watches him in confusion and fascination, ticking off items on the inventory sheet, but can't help her attention getting drawn to the door when someone else walks in.

She sits up and clears her throat, trying to sound authoritative. "Um, sorry, we're closed. Come back later."

The stocky, massive man snorts. "Ain't you a little young to be watching the door?"

Raylan barely glances at the door when the guy walks in - Willa said exactly what he would, but the snort and the response told him plenty, earning the slide of his eyes up to the broad man.

"She's right. We're closed. Open at 4pm, you can come back then."

The guy sweeps his gaze over to Raylan, and lifts what little chin his thick neck allows him, gaze scrutinizing. "And who the hell are you?"

"The one takin' inventory, so if you'll be kind enough to let me get back to it-"

The guy walks forwards, towards and behind the bar. Raylan lets him, brow furrowing a little at the audacity of it all and he flicks his eyes over at Willa and jerks his head a little towards the stairs she'd come down from.

"Where's Lindsey?" Randall grabs a glass and starts pouring from the tap.

"Look, I can offer some coffee, if you're that hard up. Milk maybe. Hell, I'd say you can take that, if it weren't illegal to walk around with it. On the house. But you can't stay here. The bar opens at four." The tension could be cut with a knife and Raylan was in the position of protecting Lindsey from some thicknecked creep who had too much of a fancy on the local bartender.

Raylan understood that, but as he was currently seeing her in the loosest possible terms, he knew he had to be careful. Nothing antagonistic while not bending like a reed, calm and firm. He didn't want to play the Federal card if he didn't have to but he also wasn't going to cower or posture at someone who would probably cold clock him into the end of the week. Willa didn't need to see that either.

Real shame he didn't have his gun on him.

Her dad points her toward the stairs. She slides off the stool, but doesn’t go any farther.

The guy behind the bar looks at Raylan, then at Willa, then Takes a swig from the glass. “It take your daughter to work day?”

"It's none of your business." The word themselves were blunt, harsh even. But his tone made it sound like he was answering a trivia question that was more than easy. He even smiled a little. Affable and unflappable. He wasn't going to let go of that power.

"If you'd rather get an escort out, I'm happy to call the local cops."

The man sniffs and looks over Willa again, clearly deciding how far he wanted to take this. Raylan just tilts his head, expectantly.

"Hey," he says, snapping a few times until the guy's eyes swung back to him. Raylan lifts his eyebrows slightly in question. "How do you want this to go down? Because I promise it'll end with you bein' booked at the courthouse."

The guy considers it, considers it some more like taking up the silence that the Marshal so easily sat in, before draining his glass, aggressively not breaking eye contact with Raylan as his throat works and works to swallow it all. When he was done, he smacks his lips with a satisfied sigh and slams the glass back down on the bar top.

"Guess I'll come back at four then."

"That'd be a wise idea," Raylan drawls, cool as a jello salad, keeping his forced polite smile that fell as soon as the guy started to move away. Willa had spent her whole life with Raylan, no doubt she can pick up on the Ping of Something Dad Don't Like radar.

She certainly can. She’s never seen it quite so nakedly. It’s always been a dull glow, not an open blaze.

“Who’s Lindsey?”

"Bartender works part time here." His eyes haven't left the door yet and he looks like he's chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Pretty too, opens her up to all sorts of weirdos."

There was no hesitation in his lie, it came unbidden and well practiced - his business was his and his alone. Besides, no teenage girl wanted to know about their dad's love life. He was pretty sure that was standard issue with teenagers.

He takes a deep breath, eyes settling back on her.

"I'll make a call, let her know. And the owner too. We'll keep her safe." Don't worry.

There’s no hitch to the lie, it makes perfect sense, and she doesn’t have a reason to question it. She hasn’t actually seen him around this woman yet, and she has seen him around a lot of women who thought they were more subtle than gen z is worldly.

She climbs back onto the stool.

“I know you will,” she says softly. She can’t help remembering her own accusation and the look on his face right after she said it. If you wanted me here you’d find a way to keep me safe.

She’d meant it. She also just knew it would hurt.

“You always do.”

"Well that's somethin'." Good job future him, he supposes. Always good to know he hasn't lost his edge. With one more steely glance towards the door, Raylan goes back to checking off boxes as he rubbernecks the stacks being set inside the bar, oblivious to the drama of the beefy dude flexing for no reason.

He finishes with the incoming inventory quickly and signs off on the invoice, sending the deliver man off. Raylan lifts a finger to Willa as he lets the unmoored door close behind him.

"Five minutes, lemme go get dressed, make a call and we're leavin'."

He was a prompt man and five minutes later, he was trotting back down the stairs, now dressed in a button down shirt that wasn't done up, his gun, badge, hat.. Everything that Willa would find familiar about him.

"Let's hit bricks."

It’s reassuring. All the ways this Raylan and her-dad-Raylan are alike. She’s quiet, she goes where she’s told, and she buckles up without prompting

She’s scared, if she’s honest. Scared he doesn’t believe her and she’s about to go to a doctor or a social worker.

“What are you gonna tell people?”

"I don't know yet. But whatever I say, go with it." It would be better that way. WITSEC was always a good option; no one questioned that. He hadn't decided yet.

His driving hadn't changed at all, though he was, perhaps, a little more attentive to his mirrors. Never could tell if an asshole was going to make a stupid decision today or not. More often than not, they did and his backhairs were already up.

He glances over at her. "Are you really her?"

Go with it. For a moment, her lips pinch into annoyance, and her eyes narrow.

For once in your life, just say 'yes dad.'

"...Okay."

She looks out the window, missing his glance but turning back when she hears his question.

"Yeah," she says, quietly. Willa looks back out the window. "I don't have any idea how I'm here, but I'm her."

He didn't know how deep of a fight he gets to skip with Willa's 'okay' but he was grateful for the capitulation.

Of course, some part of Raylan would stay suspicious about all this until the core of him felt it was proven. Still, the rest of him caved to the tug of emotions. She was his daughter. Look at how big she'd gotten. How tall. Brave to have not cried already. Sure as shit looking better than he did at fifteen.

He lets the silence sit between them until he rolls into the Courthouse parking lot, throwing the car into park and taking out his keys, but not quite getting out of the car yet.

"We'll go for lunch in a few hours if nothin' gets in the way. I can.. call Winona in the mean time."

She'd been studying the courthouse as they pulled in, memorizing every detail she could in case she wakes up on the plane again.

When he says he'll call her mom, Willa tenses. She doesn't think her mother would react any worse than her dad, really. She has no reason to think that. But there's always an edge of judgement in her mother that she never feels from him.

"What d'you think she'll say?"

"Honestly kiddo, it's anyone's guess. C'mon." Raylan opens his door, slides out of the car and starts ambling towards the Marshal's entrance, glancing back to make sure she's keeping up with him so he can lock the car with the remote, the reassuring beep beep sounding behind them.

He opens the door for her and follows her in. The first guard they see, standing at the end of the short hall next to a metal detector and an xray machine.

"Well hey Marshal!" the guard says in greeting. An older man with a bit of a beer gut and a friendly kind of smile, he turns the same harmless energy on Willa, with a- "And little Willa!" he gestures them through. "Been a while since we've seen you around here, you havin' a fun day with your dad?"

Raylan was openly shocked. What??

Kiddo, he says, and there's something incredibly comforting about his nicknames being the same even now. If she was willing to completely let go of her dignity, she might have tried to take his hand, but she's too proud. Too proud and too scared that he might not want to take hers.

Her head is still on a swivel as they walk inside, even though it's yet another courthouse. She snaps to when the guard says her name though, asks her that, and she's just as shocked as Raylan.

At the guard's concern, she tries to pull her head together. "Um. Yeah."

She sort-of-laughs. "How long has it even been?"

She's still her father's daughter.

A very good question and one Raylan was eager to hear the answer to. With light fingers, he urges Willa through the machine and to the other side, where he stands next to her with one hand cocked up on his hip.

"A couple of years, I think. That right Raylan?"

Raylan stares for a long second, face pinching in slightly. "Yeah, Don. Couple of years sounds about right."

Don continues on, talking about how cute she'd been but that he shouldn't keep them from their day and it was a pleasure seeing her around again. Raylan nods his head a little, with a soft thanks as he leads Willa away.

"Okay, now I'm really lost," he murmurs to her as they head towards the elevators. A door opens as soon as Raylan hits the button, and he shuffles her in, stopping someone who was trying to join them. "Protected travel, catch the next one."

Everyone in the courthouse was used to that kind of thing, so it wasn't a problem, but Raylan turns to look at Willa with a little bit of a wild look in his eyes.

"Is any part of this makin' any sense to you?"

"I've never been here before. You don't even talk about Kentucky." She's as mystified as he is.

Willa follows him into the offices, wondering if she'll recognize any faces or names. She's heard of Art Mullins, mostly secondhand from her mom or Raylan's current Miami coworkers, now and then.

What she doesn't expect is for the pretty Black woman with a desk in the same cubicle as Raylan's to smile at her in open welcome. "Hey, Willa. We heard you were coming back to town. Here to stay this time?"

She opens her mouth. Closes her mouth. And looks up at her dad, mystified.

Once he gets out of here, he maintains there's simply no need. Nothing for anyone he loves here, nothing for him. To hell with the past, and it's ghosts.

Raylan keeps his painfully confused look as they step into the offices and it doesn't change with Rachel's greeting. So it's not just Don. He had to wonder if Winona would know too, like some big cosmic joke was being played on him and Willa. He needed to make that call.

"For a couple days at least, Rachel," he answers, supplying her name for Willa's sake only. "We haven't really decided the rest yet - Can you-" He gestures at Willa with a finger and Rachel nods, setting down her pen and leaning back in her chair. Raylan gestures towards his desk at Willa and starts to walk away with - "Won't take me but a minute-" as he pulls his blackberry out of his inside jacket pocket. Stepping into the conference room, Raylan keeps half an eye on Willa as he dials up Winona's number and listens to the ringing.

Willa makes a noise of protestation over being given a babysitter when he's not even leaving the building and Rachel grins. "Come on, I'll show you my nephew's favorite gag when he visits me."

Winona picks up after the fourth ring, with unsettled baby noises close to the receiver. "Yeah, Raylan, what is it?"

Ah. He could tell she wasn't in a great mood. The fussing was about right - Never stops bitching, Winona had once said, exhausted from days of it, and he still couldn't help but wonder if soemthing was wrong with Willa to make her cry that much. Winona assured him she had it under control, thank you, and to mind his own business about it.

"I got somethin' real weird to ask you."

"Okay?" 'Get on with it then'.

"You've.. Everythin' alright there?"

"Well Willa hasn't slept in what feels like four days, I can't find anyone to watch her during book club for this whole month and we were supposed to be out the door to go to Gayle's a half hour ago, but I can't set her down without hearin' all kinds of hell about it, so if you've got somethin' to ask me, please get on with it."

He took and let a deep breath. "I-I got a girl in the office here, showed up at my apartment this mornin'. Out of my apartment this morning. Say's she's Willa. 15 years old."

Maybe he just needed to hear from someone else that this was crazy. That he was crazy.

"What?" She's distracted, yeah, but there's something in her tone that says she's clearly not truly hearing him, either. "Raylan, what on earth are you talking about. Someone named Willa broke into your apartment?"

Willa herself is pretending to look for fugitives to offer Raylan as possible date options. But as soon as Rachel gets called away by someone--someone else who knows Willa's name--she's looking up Clement Mansell. And trying to print what comes up before anyone comes back.

"Yeah, I guess.." It sounded stupid when he said it all out loud. He knew that.

"Okay? And? You know what to do with kids. Find someone in the office to call CPS, let them handle her."

"Winona, she knows stuff. Specific type stuff that I find it hard to believe would be a research packet for a fifteen year old girl. She-.. " He sighs out his nose and looks back over to see Willa behind his desk and typeing away.

He knocks on the window to get her attention and shakes his head. Don't do that.

"Shit, Winona, she looks like us."

"Okay. Take a picture. Then send her to CPS."

The background fussing turns into crying. "Look, I need to take care of the real Willa. Was this it?"

Willa looks up at the knocking on the glass, eyes huge with innocence as she takes her hands off the keyboard. She already got what she wanted. Maybe he'll look away long enough for her to close the search page without him noticing her move the mouse. ...Then she just has to be sneaky about getting the paperwork off the printer. And hide it somewhere until she has a chance to give it a proper look.

Edited 2023-08-14 01:11 (UTC)

Satisfied with Willa's drawback and irritated by Winona's dismissal of it all, Raylan sighs as he paces away from the door.

"I don't think you're understandin' me here - everyone at the courthouse says they know her. Acts like they know her. It's.. weird."

Winona sighs back at him. "Raylan, really, I don't know what else to tell you okay? Willa and I have got actual problems here. We're late already. I'm hanging up now."

"Winona-" But she'd done just what she promised and he was left with a dead line. He frowns at his phone for a long second and bites his lip as he looks back towards the rest of the office. Guess he really was dealing with this on his own. Shit.

He needed another long minute by himself before he was sauntering back out to the open room of the office, eyes sweeping over towards his desk first.

Willa... is not there. She's on her way back there from the printer, studying the papers in her hand. It's a lot of pages already.

She almost runs into her dad. Starts to apologize. Then realizes who she crashed into. "Uh."

With a large stab of panic and a glance around him, he doesn't expect her to be coming from that direction. Hands spread as if to catch her, always polite to make sure you're not knocking people over, he frowns at her and the small stack of papers in her hands.

Now he had reason to be suspicious.

"What are you up to?" A hand is held out. Turn 'em over.

Fuck, she thinks, emphatically. Her lips purse in annoyance and chagrin, she hesitates, and then holds out the paperwork. It's Clement Mansell's file, with the addition of his last known.

"I was just curious."

Better that she gives it over than him having to grab it. He takes them and starts looking them over.

"Clement Mansell, who-"

Rachel looks up from her desk and the call she's on.

"Raylan? I got Harlan PD on the line. They're askin' for you."

Raylan glances over his shoulders, lips tight in open annoyance before he looks back at Willa. "We'll talk about this later."

Striding over, he takes the phone. "Givens." His expression gets darker, the longer he's on the phone.

"Is there a reason I'm still solvin' your problems?" A beat. "Yeah, and ain't I just fuckin' lucky for it." He sighs as he hands the phone back to Rachel, looking over at Willa.

"We're gettin' back on the road. C'mon."

Saved by The Call. That's a new one. Harlan PD, Rachel had said. They're getting back on the road?

Willa trots over to him, sticking close until they're in the elevator and the doors are closed. "Harlan? We're going to Harlan?"

"Unfortunately." His face suggested he was less than pleased about it.

"Apparently, someone decided to go skydiving without a parachute and someone's broken into the house. Unrelated, I'm assuming. Tim and Art will meet us down there."

Raylan leads them back out and to his car, stride unforgiving as he fidgets with the horseshoe ring on his finger, papers still caught up in the left. He doesn't say anything as he turns the engine over and pulls them out of the lot.

Edited 2023-08-14 02:24 (UTC)

Okay. That's... right, sure. She'll figure that one out on the way.

She has to jog to keep up with him through the building then the parking lot. The whole time she's cycling through the questions she's built up over the years, trying to decide which to start with.

"Whose house got broken into, did the guy go through the roof? Can we go to your old house while we're there? Who's Tim? Does he live down there?"

She climbs into the car, buckling up as her dad tosses the file onto the dashboard. Willa doesn't think she can reach it from here.

He can't help but sigh a bit at the string of questions, thinking back on a conversation with Winona one time where he'd done the same exact thing. Maybe Winona was right, maybe he was crazy, but he was seeing parallels. He normally didn't make those outside of Kentucky.

"Technically, Arlo's house. No, he didn't go through the roof, he smeared across the street. Arlo's is my old house and Tim is another Marshal I work with. He lives here in town. You'll meet him later." Likely when Tim has to chase Raylan down because he isn't where he was supposed to be doing what he was supposed to be doing.

"It's a bit of a ride though, so get comfortable. About two hours."

Two hours where he was her captive audience.

For a moment after her dad says he smeared across the street, Willa just stares, wide-eyed. He's never been half that blunt with her. It takes her about five--well, no, more like three--minutes to start bombarding him with questions again.

What did he do for fun as a kid? Where was his favorite place to go? Is it still there? Who were his friends? What were they like? Arlo is his dad, right?

A good way to discourage questions like that was with some dark, stark truths and, without the benefit of experience with her, time to chew over his choices and options about how to deal with these things, he was going on his gut. Something he almost regrets as soon as Willa launches in and he does his best to field them.

Check out a lot of abandoned barns, a little grove in a nearby holler by a creeks, he supposes it's still there, though they might get shot at if they're not careful about it; he declares Willa doesn't need to know about his friends and yeah, his daddy was Arlo and that was the only thing she needed to know about him.

Raylan's jaw got a little tighter after that though, and he steers the conversation towards what she could expect to see, peppered with him gesturing out a window every time they passed cows. Finally, he turns them down a seemingly random dirt road to come to a stop in front of the two story, rundown and shabby looking house.

"Here it is," he says with a sigh, turning off the car and slipping out.

New York was a familiar city. Even with the myriad of changes over the years, it still felt familiar at its core. It made it feel a little like coming home, even if this wasn't his time period or even his world. Which also made it relatively easy for him to traverse. It was still a walking city after all.

It was a large city, but the Butcher had hunted many a prey within its space. As long as he knew where to begin the Butcher could easily find who or whatever he was looking for. He didn't have much to start but that was half the fun of it. Eventually he would find his man.

And so he did. Holed up in a decent yet ultimately insignificant hotel. He would have possibly been disappointed in the scenery if he wasn't anticipating the meeting so much. The poor man had no clue that anyone was after him. And Collins wasn't going to give the lawman any--not until he was right in front of the man as he caught him heading out of his room.

"Evenin'," he said as he tipped his hat to the bull, a small sinister smile on his face. That was it, that was the most Raylan got in warning before the Butcher was in the lawman's space, too close, no just close enough for the first punch aimed at Givens's jaw to connect if the reaction was too slow. Then even closer if it did and Collins had free reign to corner the other man.

For all the cowboy hat and boots that Raylan was insistent on wearing, no matter what city he was in, New York City might seem like something that was Too Much. But bit cities provided Raylan something that the country did not - the ability to blend, hat and all. You get enough bodies moving together, it could all turn into a blur of bodies and faces, the hat providing an extra layer that he could shed or trade to turn even more into an Everyman.

Normally, it served him well, and he had several leads to follow for a case that was hopefully going to lead to getting one 'Chara Barvara' back behind bars where he belonged. Nothing seemed out of sorts otherwise, he hadn't felt any eyes on him that weren't the normal course of being in a city this large. So it was something of a surprise to see Dennis Collins in front of him as he closes the door behind him.

He didn't have any time to do anything but frown sharply in shocked surprise at the visage before Collins punches him and sends the hallway around them to darkness as Raylan crumples like a wet sheet. It was probably some kind of blessing, though Raylan would be hard pressed to say what kind, outside of Collins saving himself a new and fresh bullet hole for now.

Well, that was a tad disappointing.

Collins didn't linger too long staring down at the crumpled marshal despite this unfortunate feeling. He might have to give Givens a new nickname. He thought a bull might have more to give than that. With a mental shrug, the Butcher began a low whistle as he drug Givens back into the room he'd just left and took a look around.

After some time, the killer had Givens tied up into the single chair inside the quaint room. He was good with knots, careful and precise with them, just a little give but not enough to make use of in any way. Sometimes he enjoyed watching the struggle, and even more so the moment when the prey realized there was actually no way out. It was only a ruse.

He took a seat on the bed since there was no other chair and waited, casual and relaxed, for the good marshal to come back around. Everything useful--guns, mags, bullets, knives, and yes even the hat--were set aside well out of reach of the lawman. Collins appeared to have empty hands but there was surely a weapon somewhere close by if he wanted one.

It wasn't the first time and very likely not the last time that Raylan got popped in the face and crumpled. It wasn't something he was ever proud of, but shit happens. Thankfully, Raylan didn't tend to stay unconscious that long and Collins only has to wait a minute before the Marshal's eyes are rolling the correct way in his head and opening unevenly. The frown didn't come back immediately, though it didn't take more than a second for Raylan to lay eyes on Collins again.

Of course he tests his bonds as soon as he registers that he's restrained, a push against them as he simultaneously catalogs what he's got left on him, but he wasn't a thrasher and he wasn't inclined to give Collins a shred of anything the man might enjoy right now. The Irishman had gotten his service weapon and it's spare mags, and the 9 mm mate that lived at the small of Raylan's back. With a slight shift of his foot, he finds that even his little snub nosed .38 has been lifted. Through. Impressive almost, if Raylan weren't tied down as a result of it. Only a little blood in his mouth, a cut by his teeth if he had to take a guess. Could be worse.

Which means Collins was restraining himself and that Raylan had a chance to get out of this alive, if he played his cards right.

"You know there's a joke in here somewhere about you bein' fresh off the boat. Wanna tell me what the hell you think you're doin'?" Hello to you too.

Collins intently watched Givens test his bonds with calculated movements, finding a different kind of amusement in the controlled manner in which the marshal reacted to his predicament than most others. There was something akin to pride and respect for the lawman's calm demeanor felt by Collins. That was exactly the man he remembered from the boat so many months ago before the bull had left. He registered the feeling as interest and set it aside to poke at later.

He smiled. "Testin' tha waters, bull, that's all." See what he did there? "Ya got ta admit, it's more excitin' than a simple 'hello.' And more ta my tastes."

Collins shifted forward suddenly and leaned in close to Raylan, face to face. "I am disappointed though. Didn't yer da teach ya how ta take a punch? Mine certainly did."

His expression doesn't change as Collins comes in close, though he mulls over the general idea of cracking his head into the other man's. Real shame that it wasn't smart - 1) if he was going to do that, it had to be for something valuable, a chance, a plan, because if it failed, Collins wasn't going to lean in again. 2) With having recently gone down, he didn't want to try and go all cross eyed and look like a pussy.

"My daddy didn't add in a lotta 'never expected to be in my universe' in his punches. And what can I say, I've had a long day." One that's clearly about to stay getting longer.

"Surprised you've got balls enough to pull somethin' like this here. Don't you know what kinda trouble you can get in for threatenin' a Federal Officer?" The question is asked with a faint curl of his lips and a lift of his eyebrows. "This ain't bum fuck nowhere, Space Avenue, Collins. This is the real world."

Collins grinned at everything Givens had to say. He even laughed merrily at the end.

"Ah, you think I don't know how to clean up my messes? How do ya think I went uncontested for so long in tha, as you call it, real world?" He leaned in a little closer, whispering into Raylan's ear. "If I wanted you ta disappear, bull, you would never be found."

He leaned back so that Raylan could see his expression as it shifted, full of dangerous delight. "I guarantee that."

It wasn't the 1930's anymore, but Raylan didn't need to rub that in just now. Collins wouldn't be as successful in a more modern world, not with cameras and GPS tracking and the like - something Raylan looked forward to educating him on. When Raylan moved around here, he moved with the backing of a variable army of bodies and badges. But in its own time.

"That don' stop a whole agency for lookin' or investigative technology bein' what it is. Yet here I am, tied up." His head tilts a little, eyes steady on Collins.

"Which suggests to me that there must be somethin' I can do for you? Or your just lookin' for a friend in this new wide world." There was a bit of singsongyness to the way the last bit out; he doubted that was anywhere near likely the case.

"And no one the wiser," he pointed out with a literal point of his finger at Givens.

It was true that Collins was still learning about the various new gadgets and technology of the modern world. He did his reading while on the Barge with access to all that wondrous library's knowledge, but it was one thing to read about it and another to experience it first hand. There were some concepts that were easy to understand and others that were a littler harder for him to grasp just yet. He would get there. He wasn't the sort to be lazy about learning despite the obstacles of his less modern time and way of thinking.

All that aside, he had to grin at Raylan for his guessing. "Cute. Still tha same as I remember, ya are. Full of spit and fire. Not so different from me." He said the last sentence low yet emphasized.

"Give 'em time," he remarks coolly. But with Collins answer and the grin that came with it, he wasn't sure that a rescue would be needed. This was not 'I'm gonna carve you up' energy, though Raylan knew well enough how comfortable that feeling lived in Collins' chest, and that was something.

Did Collins just call him cute, or was the guess cute? By default, Raylan tilts towards the guess itself being cute. 'Not so different from me' makes Raylan huff a breath, lips curling a little more around the edges.

"I'm not much of a changer, myself - set in my ways an' all- though I think I could come up with a number of ways in which we aren't even on the same side of the planet." That didn't stop the short list of ways they were alike.

"But I'm more interested-" as though he weren't currently tied to a chair, "-as to what you're doin' here. I don't mean New York either, I mean here here. 2016 New York. In my hotel room. You musta graduated from the Barge to travel, unless there's some bullshit interdimensional Thing that got you here.."

Edited 2024-03-03 14:04 (UTC)

"Time isn't usually somethin' ya want wastin' when yer tied down," he countered easily. His fingers twitched like they wanted to pull out a knife and play with it. He was sorely tempted to do just that.

He held off if only because Givens continued to prove to be entertaining. Tied down, as he said, and yet still talking with all the confidence of a bull in the greenest of pastures. He couldn't help but be drawn to this man. He liked that smooth playing.

"Surprised?" he said with a playful expression. "Wouldn't you know it, I might have done somethin' like that after all. Got meself a free pass off that fuckin' boat. Choosin' where ta go, that was tha harder decision, you know."

"Who says we're wastin' it?"

Panicking wouldn't do anyone any good and, generally, only served to get folks dead quicker. He knew better and honestly, he'd been in much hairier situations. He just had to play this right and follow the ABC's.

"Don't suppose that means that the bloody way is behind you? That I'm not gonna hav'ta worry about you being here?" There was no world in which he would NOT worry about Collins being here, but Collins was artfully dodging his question, and he asks his own with a faint squinting one eye doubtfully.

He chuckled again at the bravado. "I like you, bull. Not a worry on yer lips, not a single tell ta give ya away. You play poker?"

It was a rhetorical question. He didn't give any time to answer immediately.

"Oh, I still like ta play a dangerous game or two. I don't think there was ever any gettin' rid of that. Do you?"

"No. But the question now is, what game?"

As much as he did like poker, of course a man like him liked poker, he doubted Collins was planning on pulling out a deck of cards and dealing them a hand. He supposes he should be worried about Collins liking him and his bravado, but he wasn't. There'd been a few men who felt a particular way about this aspect of Raylan's personality; no matter how they felt, it was something that could usually be worked. Open a door here and there, maybe.

"That depends," he said as he stood up and closed what little space was between them. He looked down at Raylan and admired the view for a moment. There was an odd cross of feelings that chewed up his insides when he looked at the lawman like this. He could start carving into that canvas, listen to the music soar as he tortured the man in front of him, paint the room bloody red. The temptation was there. It burned within him. He missed those old glorious days.

But there was also something else that curled around his gut and it was still new and raw, and bloody in its own right as John had taught him, still attempting to scratch its way out. It hurt to consider as much as it excited him, and there was a pit of apprehension just beneath it. It was not something he fully understood yet but he had been learning. He had been craving it since the damn boat shoved it into him against his will.

Maybe there were other ways to make the music soar. There was really only one way to find out and that was to try. He looked at Givens expectantly.

Raylan keep Collins gaze as he moved, not unaware of this not being the first time that Collins has been between his knees, a thought that was very quickly shoved back into it's box along with any ideas that might follow. Foolishness would get him killed, if he let it rear too much of its head. He was also aware of the spike of adrenaline in him, one that took a little playfulness off his edges as he internally twists in anticipation, unsure if Collins was gonna kiss him or punch him. There were a few paths he could consider Collins taking but he wasn't confident in a single one of them. He didn't care for that feeling.

"If you were worried about my comin' after you, you wouldn't'a done this. Are you lookin' for help then?" Help getting used to the time, the society - It was his best guess.

Collins chewed on his lip. The question hit straight to home and that bothered him. He suddenly dug into the bottom of his lip enough to cause it to bleed, then he stopped altogether. The red stayed staining his lip.

He smiled. "I confess there are some complexities to this world that I don't fully understand yet." He knocked one of his knees gently against one of Givens's. "I read as much as I could in tha library of that prison, but it ain't quite tha same, you know? You know."

Ah. There it was. Hit his mark even without a firearm in his hand. The gentle knock of their knees told Raylan a lot too - he had made an impression, some kind of difference, in the frightfully short time he had been paired with and generally around Collins. The Irishman had done all this to avoid Raylan's greeting being the discharge of his firearm in Collins direction.

"I know." He nods a little with the answer, still steadily studying Collins face, up from his perspective.

"How's about let's start with you untyin' my hands. I'll pour you a drink."

Collins's eyes flicked towards Raylan's wrists where he was tied down. The man's legs were in much the same fashion though he had left the man the dignity of his fancy boots whereas if his first priority was to torture he would have stripped them. The lawman's chest was lightly fashioned as well but not enough to chafe, just keep motion to a minimum. That was mostly out of habit.

"You have somethin' worth offerin', bull?" It may or may not have been about the drink.

"That depends," he drawls, lips curling at the edges as he tosses Collins words back at him.

"How drunk you lookin' to get?"

The Irishman smiled wickedly at the lawman. "I don't get drunk, boyo."

Whether it was a simple boast of stamina or a statement of fact that he had more discipline than that he left for Raylan to guess.

"Well now I find that hard to believe. Somethin' else you'll find out about this time period - the drinks are stronger and the drugs are stronger. Either that or you're not drinkin' with the right kinda people."

It was technically the end of his day, though he had been going out to get something to eat and chase down a lead, for all he talked about time, he could have some on his hands. Enough at least, to pay this whole situation the due attention it demanded.

"I promise I won't shoot ya."

"Bull, I went through the prohibition. You either got tha good shit, or ya got tha shit that was liable ta kill ya. Either way, I bet I can out drink you."

Marshal, never challenge an Irishman to a drinking contest.

He leaned down and rested one hand on Givens's thigh, making their eyes almost level. "You don't have anything left ta shoot me with. And you ain't tha only sharpshooter in tha room besides."

He pushed off and stood back to his height. "Now, stop sayin' stupid shite before I change my mind and just get rid of ya."

Collins didn't know how deep Harlan's connections with prohibition had been, or that Raylan had grown up on mountain moonshine. No, he knew exactly what prohibition had brought to dry counties. What it was still bringing to some places.

But now was clearly not the time to keep challenging the man.

"'Fraid I don't know your scale of stupid, you'll have to forgive me as I adjust." He sounded amused by it, if nothing else.

Collins eyes narrowed at the cheek of the lawman. But if there was one thing he liked about Raylan Givens it was the man's bold attitude in the face of overwhelming odds. It was highly entertaining. Luckily for Givens, Collins liked to be entertained.

"Well, I did say if I wanted you disappeared, you'd be gone." He admitted lightly. So they both knew he wasn't here to kill Raylan just yet.

He set his hand on the marshal's wrist where the ropes were tied and rubbed his thumb along the back of Raylan's hand as he stared at the other man levelly, as if he were considering his next move. He could untie the lawman, or he could have more fun.

The fact that Collins hadn't untied him yet, hadn't fallen down the path of charm that Raylan was trying to lay to better his situation, tells him that 'help' is only part of it. The rest of it is tucked behind that brush of thumb against the back of his hand. The closest Raylan thinks Collins might get to a tender touch.

His face pinches oh so slightly with curiosity flavored confusion. He couldn't do much in the way of reciprocation, trapped as he was, and since that was Collins choice, he figures that the man is wrestling with something. Something specific to Raylan. To how he felt about him.

"Do you know why you're here?" It was said with a matching soft curiosity. He wasn't trying to barb or goad with the ask. Just trying to understand.

His eyes flicked up to catch Raylan's with the question. There was a flash of annoyance behind the cold, blue-gray eyes briefly before it was replaced by a hesitant softness. The vulnerability looked strange on the Butcher face. Unpracticed.

"I didn't have anywhere else ta go."

Raylan could have scorned it, made fun, or worse, made it a joke, but he didn't do any of that. It was a lonely thing, to not have anywhere to go. To not have a place to be able to launch off from. He stayed in that soft but serious tone, a faint lift of his eyebrows coming with his words.

"Then let's start this off on a better foot. Untie me, instead of settin' yourself up for thinkin' that I agree to anythin' just because I'm strapped to a chair."

His hand gripped at Raylan's wrist briefly. It was neither soft nor hard, just a noticeable squeeze of pressure at all points of contact. Then it was gone as well as his hand from the rope.

He leaned down again this time with a faint smirk on his lips. "But I always get what I want outta men strapped to a chair, bull. One way or another."

"Gettin' what you want either way, as far as I see it. Unless you think I'm lyin'." His head tilts a little, eyes back to studying Collins features like he would find the code to crack him in them.

"Unfortunately, nothin' I can say is gonna change your point of view on that. You're gonna have to choose to trust me or we're at somethin' of an impasse here."

"Am I?" he asked almost innocently. There was, of course, nothing left of innocence in the old Irishman. He giggled softly, like a bit of air escaping without permission.

"You haven't offered me anything but a drink so far, bull. What am I ta gain from that?"

Raylan takes and lets a breath out of his nose, jaw flexing a little as he keeps his patience, in sharp contrast to Collins giggling.

"A lot can come with a drink. First steps. Like hashing out what it is you actually need. A room, a place to stay? Somethin' to eat? We can get room service up here. You know I don't live here, right? Here in New York?"

Edited 2024-03-04 11:21 (UTC)

"Is that so?" Of course he figured Givens didn't live right here in this motel room, but he hadn't given much thought as to where the marshal actually did live. He supposed he could be curious where that was.

Collins shifted his stance slightly so that one of his legs was on the outside of Givens's own. His gaze was on the point of contact he created with their knees again rather than the lawman's stare. His knee tapped idly against Raylan's knee in a slow rhythm. "And where is that then?"

It wasn't just for help and wasn't just to keep him from getting his gun. Suddenly, Raylan has to wonder if Collins decided to cop a feel while he was hauling the Marshal in, and does the math for just how many times Collins has touched him while he was awake. Four times, four touches so far. The invasion of space, the hot breath against his ear that had long since cooled but he still felt anyway, he couldn't argue that there was, in fact, sexual tension.

He tilts his head the other way a little, only glancing at Collins half straddle of his leg before he was back to watching the man's face.

"Trade you a rope for an answer." Look, he had to try, and Collins had tied him up pretty damned thoroughly. "Were you carryin' this much rope?" He glances around, like he might catch the sight of a bag or something.

"It's a useful tool," he stated matter-of-fact. His eyes flicked up as he noticed Givens glancing around the room. From his position the marshal probably couldn't see the bag Collins had brought with him, tucked away on the other side of the bed.

The assassin tilted his head to one side as if contemplating the deal Raylan wanted to make. "Look at me," he demanded, tone suddenly less friendly. He waited till the marshal returned his gaze to the contract killer and then smiled, voice returning to the casual cheer from before. "I want somethin' else, if I'm bein' honest."

The impulse to look up right away still kicked and kicked hard, but it was a response to power that Raylan kept power of by not letting impulse win. His gaze slowly moves back up, that spit and fire always at a ready hand if he needed to use it. He remembers how Collins was that one time back in the Enclosure, how aggressive Collins was when he wanted something.

There was no question in his mind what Collins wanted. That wasn't going to stop him from asking, from making him say it. It also didn't stop his own personal struggle with trying to avoid having an.. engorging reaction. Sitting at almost half mast already, he was hoping it wasn't noticeable in the folds of his jeans.

"And what's that?" His tone was just as casual as it had been, only a little more pointed as it was posed as a soft challenge with a faint lift of his eyebrows and the edges of his lips.

Edited 2024-03-04 23:17 (UTC)

His smile grew into a cat's grin as if he had already seized himself the canary. "Another game, bull. You remember tha one."

He leaned over again, hand on Raylan's thigh once more, dangerously close to discovering the lawman's secret. Maybe it became apparent when he touched the tension filled pants, but it definitely became obvious when Collins shifted his thumb just so to trail a line over Raylan's member through the line of material. The Butcher's eyebrows rose in amusement at the same time his grin enlarged even further.

"Oh. You remember it well, apparently. Do you want ta play, then?" He asked and their faces were close, close enough to breath in each other, close enough to touch with minimum movement.

A new shot of adrenaline races through his veins like liquid fire as Collins leans in, hand full of anticipatory reach, but to his credit, he doesn't jump or flinch at the touch. The same cannot be said as Collins brushes over him, whole body twitching once as he tilts his head like he might kiss him, breath sharply inhaled through lightly bared teeth.

"This ain't there, Collins. There's consequences here. If not for you, then for me."

In full honesty to himself, Collins scared him a little. He was very much a dangerous man, capable of putting Raylan down for good and cheating to do it. And what would Willa do, who would she become, without him around? The Barge provided him a guarantee of safety that the real world couldn't. He also couldn't trust that his inclination wouldn't be used against him here in a way that made it clear to others what he may or may not enjoy.

There was a lot of baggage built into the walls that kept Raylan Givens alive. A lot that he couldn't set down so easily out here.

That didn't stop his cock from continuing to get hard. For everything he had to protect in this world, a radical amount was denied. Can't exactly find someone willing to tie you up and whip you, and remain secure and anonymous. He wanted the rough tumble he knew was behind the words, but he couldn't have it.

There was a flash of something dark and angry--and hurt--within Collins's eyes at the easy denial. Yet despite their position, the Butcher pushed away and straightened out without a fuss. No more touch. Neither of hand nor knee. The earlier expression was covered up as the killer now regarded Givens with a cool, impassive gaze from above.

"And what of consequences do you fear, bull?" he said, sounding bored.

The killer's gaze flicked to his hands now as he examined them. The blunt nails were a little less than immaculate and might need tidying up soon. He had a weapon on him and tools nearby if he wanted to grab one. He didn't think the intimidation would make a difference to the lawman and he wasn't certain he wanted that anyway. What was the point if it was just that.

But there was that desire to make the bull sing, listen to his song for one final time, then walk away. If he couldn't have it any other way maybe he would just go back to what he was good at. That had always been enough in the past. It would be fine now, too.

God he wanted a drink. The soothing comfort of a warm burn would be perfect right now. He saw the expression change on Collins face, the air of detachment that Collins like to take that made other people wonder if what came before it was genuine or not - but Raylan's gut said the face he was currently looking at was the mask. The lie of it all, likely in the name of self protection.

And how often had he done that himself.

"You pull some bullshit, I end up comin' after you, any case that might be made gets ruined right out if anyone finds out about us 'playin' games' together." Raylan didn't much care for that kind of vocabulary; they were adults and he was of the mind they should call a screw a screw, but it was hardly the most important thing right now.

"I'd like to think you gettin' off that boat means that maybe you aren't keen to take your normal well beaten path." Collins would prove him right or wrong either way, but Raylan didn't have enough information himself to guess which way the Irishman would go.

"Then again, I am strapped down to a chair currently."

Edited 2024-03-09 19:24 (UTC)

"Easy prey," he said with more lilt than typical. Like it was meant to represent the fun he was going to have of it, when in reality it was covering up the disappointment that easiness turned out to be.

Collins walked away. He knelt on the other side of the bed and the small sounds indicated he was rummaging through an assortment. When he stood back up he had a length of wire held between his hands. The grip was familiar and sure. He paused back in front of Raylan now.

He shook his head. "You come after me I'd expect you ta do tha courtesy of finishin' tha game permanently. Don't you remember? It's all I ever wanted."

Not all that Barge bullshit. He hadn't wanted any of that. The small community, the shenanigans, the magic, the forced lives and emotions that came along with them. All of it stuffed inside and hurting, confusing. Turning him into something he didn't understand much less want.

"But we can skip all that if ya want. I'll hear yer music either way."

"If you were really here for sport, you woulda given me at least a chance to show you a good time," he counters, one finger gesturing from where it was tied down. "And I don't kill men unless I'm not given another choice, you already know that."

So Collins would have to force his hand. Make that choice.

Raylan didn't let it show, but his stomach twists in terrified anticipation as Collins stands with the wire in his hand. This could not be how Raylan went out. This was bullshit.

"This is bullshit," he states, now getting a little annoyed. "You didn't come here to kill me and you didn't come here just to fuck me either. You put me down, Collins, and whatever you actually came here for is gone and you have a whole branch of the US Government crawling all over this city inside 4 hours. Fuck yourself over and for what? Me not barkin when you say speak?"

No world that Raylan rolls over and begs or tries to trade on material things as desperate promises. He couldn't do much, tied as he was, but he is tense anyway, readied as he can be with an unmistakeable fury in his face.

There were a lot of words that could be said. He thought of plenty of sentences that wanted to get out based on what Givens said to him first. Plenty of responses aching to get out. Most of them full of bravado and stubbornness.

Most of them useless in this moment other than as asides. The meat of the problem was buried somewhere deeper than all that. That left him with two choices: continue down the familiar path of anger and doggedness, or risk the fire leaping out into the open. He couldn't seem to make that first step, not on his own. He stared at Givens with that impassive expression on his face. But maybe the lawman would take it for him.

"And what did I actually come here fer then, bull? What great insight do ya have ta share today?"

The fact that Collins didn't respond with some dick swinging bravdo was a good sign. Raylan was onto something. The question was could he narrow down to the specifics enough to really hit that nail home. Thankfully, his pissed off tone wasn't any louder than his normal speaking voice and there was nothing to do about it being angry either way.

But Raylan takes a deep breath in through his nose and his jaw works as he pulls himself back from telling Collins to get it over with it or let him up. A long moment of silence sat heavy between them.

"You came here for connection and understandin'. For someone who ain't here to coddle you or lie to you. For a way to survive and live a life that ain't myriad in blood and loneliness."

He pauses for half a heartbeat. "And I ain't sayin' no to that." Even if maybe he should be, considering.

There was a stony silence between them after the words were said and gone. It matched the killer's lifeless stare. Then the image cracked as the Butcher burst into laughter, light and mocking.

"Is that what yer offerin'? And you see me goin' fer that?" His tone was easy but there was more mockery there, too.

Then it all disappeared again behind the brightness of fiery anger. An easy emotion to fall back on for someone like the Butcher.

"You goin' ta set me on tha straight and narrow path, bull." He took a step forward. "Goin' ta make an honest man of me? You think I rolled over... and now I want that fake bullshite."

Another step, quicker, eliminating all space between them and he reached out to wrap the wire around Raylan's neck. The string was pulled taunt but not enough to impend breathing--not yet.

"What makes you so special then. Go on, sing yer praises. Tell us."

"That's not what I-" But Collins was already moving and wrapping him up in the wire. Fuck. His hands grip into the wood, the corners of the armrests digging into his palms.

"I don't know. You're the one showed up here, I didn't go lookin'. You tell me. Or kill me and get it over with. I ain't a mind reader."

For one awful moment the noose was pulled tight, biting into flesh and cutting off precious air. Then the killer's muscles relaxed and the wire let up. It still remained in place, posed to finish what it started.

"You were tha only one that weren't tainted... forced... by unnatural ways ta have a connection. Yer tha only one-" He was still angry. He couldn't keep it out of his voice if he tried. "-that I have ta wonder why instead of fightin' ta keep tha realities straight."

Raylan struggles in his bonds, pressing his head back as hard as he can into Collins body, for what very little good it does him.

"Kill me and you'll never get that answer." If he were in a less precarious situation, he might have elaborated, but he was one good twist away from dying. Seemed like a time to be succinct.

He made a frustrated noise that sounded an awful lot like a vicious growl. "You think I don't know that? That it wouldn't be easier ta just get rid o' you and not worry about it, ever?"

He released his hold on one end of the wire and slipped back in place to be in Givens's face. His eyes burned with a murderous rage and if the earlier noise didn't make it clear how irritated he was then the obvious frustration in his expression certainly did.

"I could go back to tha way things were. To how simple and rewardin' it was. I never asked fer any of that crap. I never wanted ta change." He was breathing hard, the tension in his muscles clear from his grip still on one end of the wire. "I never wanted any... connections... or- I didn't need any of that then! And it would be easier ta sever that thread, right here, right now!"

Raylan knew Collins could do that, there were no delusions about how on the impulsive edge his fate rested right now, but all that matters is that the wire wasn't at his throat anymore - even if that was temporary, it was a reprieve. Striking out wasn't an option either as that would absolutely get him killed.

So he focuses instead on what Collins is choosing to say. A lot of past tenses. 'I never wanted connections, didn't need any of that'. Most importantly: 'its hard to kill you'. Even under the hard breathing and the obvious frustration, those weren't small things.

"Except if you not wantin' it, not needin' it factored into this, I'd already be bleedin' out. It scare you? Grip you with a concern that I'm gonna reject you and swear you off, promise to ruin your life, treat you the way you feel you oughta be treated-" Collins had earned a particular way of being treated and even though they weren't on the Barge anymore, Raylan could see the possibility in Collins. What he could become if he put in a little work and self reflection. What he could become if he had someone who understood, who might be able to support him.

This was not Raylan's natural way of thinking about things, but the time on the Barge had it's own effect. He knew progress could be made. He just had to make sure he didn't die in the midst of it.

Collins went still at Raylan's words. Another shot hit it's mark dead center. Only this one hurt much more than the last. Rather than deny it, Collins decided to accept the truth.

That didn't mean the lawman was off the chopping block.

"You already did," he accused huskily.

The Butcher yanked on the wire in his angry frustration and it tightened around Raylan's neck--briefly, as it snagged against itself then miraculously slipped through the unintentional knot and came completely away from Givens's neck. It threw the Butcher temporarily off balance and he almost stumbled, catching himself quickly. But it gave the lawman more time nevertheless.

"No-" was all Raylan got out before Collins yanked and as soon as he sensed the man was off balance, Raylan was throwing his weight into him and knocking himself and the chair over in the meantime. These chairs weren't much to look at - wood, yet to be replaced by the metal fashion chairs yet to come - and all the better for it as one of the arms cracks in its supports as it slams into the floor. Raylan wrests the broken piece from the rest, gaining enough freedom of movement to wield the piece.

He was surprised even more by the lawman throwing himself forward, chair and all. He knew the bull was a fighting man. This should have been expected. It was just the timing-

The chair broke and Butcher growled in realization that he couldn't just take it leisurely. Ignoring the pain, he fought back. He needed to subdue the arm that was free and wielding a piece of wood as an improvised weapon now. He reached out to grab it.

"Fuckin' stop," he snarls, punching at Collins' face with everything he had. All he could hope was that the wood beneath his fingers would add enough weight to stun the Irishman.

He missed as Raylan moved through the motions of the punch and his hand went past the target. He grabbed at the lawman's shoulder but the punch landed and he grunted painfully as his head snapped to the side. His grip was weak. But he wasn't going to take a punch and just stop like a good dog when he was told.

"Make me," he growled around the iron tang in his mouth.

Someone was going to end up dead at this rate and Collins has pushed Raylan to bare survivalism, a million miles away from reason and whatever connection he was hoping to make.

Raylan bashes his hand down on Collin's elbow and uses the angle that it puts his hand to try and jam the point of the wood into the tender flesh just below Collins jawline. He wasn't looking to spear the man but if there was a little blood, he wouldn't mind.

He cried out, muffled and quiet from his own need to keep control, but clearly in pain from the strike to his elbow. His opposite hand came up to gain control of Raylan's before-

He froze with the sharp point of the wood in his neck, fingertips barely brushing against the lawman's wrist. It was a risk and he hesitated to act on it. Maybe he wasn't ready to die (again) just yet after all.

"Do it," he hissed. "Finish it."

"I oughta," he snarls again, hair just as wild as his eyes. There shouldn't be any doubt in his willingness to do it but he wasn't gonna be just stuck to a fucking chair after it was over.

"Untie what you can reach. Now."

Collins was still instead even after the command. If he waited long enough maybe Givens would do it out of frustration. He could go out in defiance instead of obeying like a good dog. It seemed reasonable to him.

The train of thought didn't hold for long against the weight of time. He wasn't suicidal no matter how much he talked about death like he was in love with the concept. His hand moved slowly at first until it hit the ropes and then automation kicked in, and he untied the knots around Givens's wrist, the other on the chair arm that was still intact.

As soon as his off hand is free, he's using it to untie his other hand free of it's unmoveable grip from the bit of wood he was using as a weapon. He couldn't help the talking out loud that followed, the first burst of actual free speech that didn't directly shoulder the responsibility of keeping him alive. Collins has already heard him in various levels of pissed off, but the venomous one sided conversation that followed was with a noticeably heavier Southern accent, things rounded and stretched out while others were cut short. Honestly, words got out faster this way somehow.

"Gave you so many goddamn doors; you stubborn jackass of a man - 'told you no' my ass. A soft touch of pushback and you swing back into insanity and try to tell me that I said no, like what - like your feelin's are more important than my drawin' air? And you want a connection," he scoffs in condemnation, swapping his improvised spear holding hand so that he could reach down and work on freeing one of his legs, eyes staying locked on Collins, the half mutter of true thoughts tumbling out of his mouth.

"Come here to kill me because I somehow made you feel a thing; don't tell me I popped your fuckin' cherry because you knew what you were doin'. Gotta be joking."

Edited 2024-03-11 01:18 (UTC)

"No, I want it gone," he snarled at Raylan but he was brought up short by the threat to his throat. Otherwise, the tension that surged through his body most assuredly would have meant him retaliating with physical violence. All he had instead were words so he glared angrily at the lawman and growled at him.

"None of this bullshite. Shoulda killed you and gotten rid of the only person who knows I even exist in this world. Back to business." He lifted his head, pressing the piece of wood so far into his flesh that it bit in and he bled. "Don't act like you care about everyone you fuck, bull. Ain't hard ta charm and get back on tha road tha next day. Certainly ya know that."

"Or you coulda left me the fuck alone and done that anyway, so what the hell are you doin' here in the first place," Raylan snaps back, face close like if he had half a mind, he could bite Collins nose off, leaning into the press of his makeshift weapon, heartless about the blood that was getting split now.

"Makin' it my goddamn responsibility somehow; I left to get away from this kinda bullshit. You sure you didn't garrote the Admiral, skip out through a portal? Standards must be slippin'. Now here's what's gonna happen," he continues, one leg successfully free.

"I'mma roll over on top of you and you're gonna work open these knots on the back. And don't presume to tell me shit about anythin' I feel - so wrapped up in how big and bad you think you are to consider anyone else." He didn't ask permission, just rolled over, mounting the awkward angle Collin's body lay in and not moving his makeshift stake in the slightest.

Raylan knew Collins could do that, there were no delusions about how on the impulsive edge his fate rested right now, but all that matters is that the wire wasn't at his throat anymore - even if that was temporary, it was a reprieve. Striking out wasn't an option either as that would absolutely get him killed. He had to calm down and control that twist of panicked survivalism coiling tightly in his stomach.

So he focuses instead on what Collins is choosing to say. A lot of past tenses. 'I never wanted connections, didn't need any of that'. Most importantly: 'its hard to kill you'. Even under the hard breathing and the obvious frustration, those weren't small things.

"But you don't want to do that. Go back to the way things were. If so, you wouldn't be here. I wouldn't ever know you were in this world, save for this. So give us both a chance to get you what it is you're lookin' for here, Collins. This don't have to go sideways."

There was a blitz of emotion that passed over Collins's face in confusion and disbelief and anger and annoyance over the situation and every little word that Givens said. His expression finally settled on frustration, his jaw set in an angry line as he huffed in response.

"You don't want-"

He started and stopped abruptly with an annoyed noise.

Collins hadn't come here for this in the first place. Tying up Givens hadn't been on the agenda so much as it had come out of the opportunity. He hadn't even planned on punching the man until he had seen him and the impulse struck him. It felt right at the time. But the lawman had gone down so easily, and then he'd had an unconscious body and everything he needed for an old bit of fun. It was so tempting.

A part of him hungered for it. An undercurrent in the music whispered to him in a familiar leitmotif that proceeded this type of entertainment for him. It was a tantalizing call, hard to resist.

Yet when he gazed at Raylan there was an unfamiliar song that sneaked its way into the harmony. It started off low, bleak, hard but somewhere in there a handful of major chords hit a higher note and the hope was undeniable. The slow tang grew on him until he had to admit the sounds were quite peaceful in their own way and he could get used to them being around more. If he concentrated on that theme hard enough, it began to form its own melody that drowned out the other tantalizing song.

He'd reached out to wrap his hand around Raylan's neck and for a moment the tension implied he would squeeze--then it ebbed out of him, and the Irishman slowly slipped the limp line of wire away from Raylan's neck. Collins stood there, quiet and with a war inside, staring at the lawman stoically, the emotion bled out of him.

"It would be easier," he repeated. His voice was low and quiet. "Than standin' here listenin' to you pretend to want to help me." The corner of his mouth ticked upwards slightly, but his eyes took on a hurtful sheen. "But you do talk a good game, even if it's only for yer own benefit."

His hand fell to rest on Givens's wrist once more, but it did not linger for long and eventually the ropes fell loose as the Butcher released his prey for the first time.

Raylan couldn't help but try to finish the rest of that sentence in his head. Don't want Collins? Don't want to help Collins? He didn't let any of that change his face beyond a tightening of his eyes, the slight shift making his gaze more focused, a subtle eagerness to hear what would follow. He could still see the war in the man and had been doing his level best so far, so any shift that wasn't towards ultra-violence that had just left his neck was a win. The eagerness in his eyes turned to self-steeling, a readiment, a reason to let loose the internal monster he hauls around called his temper as Collins thinks over squeezing. He didn't want this to go south but he was running out of angles and he expected to be further along in this than he was.

Best laid plans and all.

Collins hasn't said anything yet but the tension made Raylan think he would, give him enough room and space to do it. Not going and saying something stupid that turns this. And then he watches Collins deflate into that stoicism and the very thing that Raylan warned him about at the start. He wasn't going to say 'I told you so'.

But the ropes coming free, Raylan's brow twitched towards a furrow, not quite making it for fear of giving Collins some reason to change his mind. He waits until they're all loose, helping pull them off as he stands up and steps away, rubbing his wrists and watching Collins carefully. He needed the space, the control over self, needed to not be on the edge of getting murdered, but he'd let Collins keep the weapons, the hat, the control over that and that side of the room. Compensation. Compromise in it's own type of respect.

"I'll be honest with you Collins - I want to be alive more than I want to help you." But that's just nature. You put a man on the edge of death, most will chose their own survival from it. "But I meant what I said. I'm not a stranger to men in your position. Nomads from the past finding themselves in the modern time. I don't want you to fail here. For your sake and mine." He points at the small fridge and cabinet across to his left.

"I'm gonna get a drink. If you wanna.. check anythin' first." See? He could be reasonable and talked to. But he was still an alcoholic.

He stood away and watched Givens with a flat expressionless demeanor as soon as the last of the ropes were untied. He gave the lawman a grim smile at the confession as there was not much else to do in response to that. There was no man on Earth that wouldn't say the same, or else be lying. It was a simple truth. He left it at that.

Collins's eyes flicked towards the small fridge across the opposite way but he shook his head and indicated that Givens go for it. He didn't want to check it out first.

He remained positioned near his bag, the bed, and the items he had taken off Raylan stacked in a pile near his bag.

"You mean you don't want me ta put a blight on yer name or cause trouble in a manner that you hear about later. You feel responsible fer me, bull?" Like yer lost fuckin' puppy, he didn't say aloud but the thought did cross his mind. His voice was steady with a hint of disdain under neath.

Nodding a silent bob of appreciation, Raylan steps forward and gets into the cabinet, pulling out a half empty bottle of Jim Beam and a plastic cup. With a glance over - Not reaching for anything dangerous - he nabs the hotel's coffee mug and dumps out the prepackaged coffee that he hadn't gotten around to using yet.

"Neither, and no. You're grown, your decisions are your own; ain't my responsibility. I don't own you a thing since leavin' that space yacht and you ain't my dog." He remembers how fond Collins is of that analogy. He spins the cap off the bottle and pours them each a few fingers before setting it down in favor of picking up both cups and walking towards Collins to hold the mug out.

"Don't change my not wantin' to see you fail this place if something could be done to help. Or the fact that I'd rather not have to put you down, if I can help it. Call me sentimental." It was all a series of first steps and once Collins takes the mug, Raylan will step back and take a sip of his own, openly sighing in enjoyment as he eyes the cup.

"Last man I tried to help here was my husband. Much as it pains me to admit it, I failed. And maybe some part of me is tryin' to make up for that." He looks back over with the admission, nothing on him soft persay, but it was a carefully constructed 'easy' expression. Raylan hadn't been open on the Barge once James had left; most people didn't know about the union, even less knew what had come from it. His tone suggested that he'd already gone around all the barbs and self flagellation that could come from the shame of it all; digs weren't gonna bother him on a surface level, should Collins go that direction.

The grim smile returned with Givens's answer. The lawman remembered the dog bit, because of course he did. He accepted the mug without reluctance and held it in one hand, close to his chest, as he listened to the marshal continue. It was after the word 'sentimental' that he shook his head in wry amusement.

He could have said words then but Givens beat him to it. So he listened some more.

It was plain as day that he hadn't expected the story. There was plenty of information to unravel in such a small set of sentences and Collins fell thoughtfully quiet. He met the lawman's easy gaze with a cool one of his own. It wasn't quite as hard as it had been two seconds before.

"You brought someone from tha Barge here to yer home?" His voice was carefully modulated to hold neither bite nor pity. He didn't want to convey either of those things. He didn't want to pretend he felt them, or discover if maybe he did for real or not. "Was he an inmate?"

"He was," Raylan says with a nod, taking another drink deep enough to empty his cup and despite his deep and stark desire to have another one, it was better that he didn't. Too much to still be handled. The cup is considered and, as he talked, set on the cabinet and abandoned by a few steps away, least he get tempted again.

"A pirate captain from the early 1700's. You wanna talk bein' unfamiliar with modern times," he huffs with a wry smirk that didn't stick around long, hands propping lazily, one on his hip, the other sprawling long fingers on the top of his thigh.

"Didn't last but six months before he was anglin' down a path of rage, poor choices, and an inability to understand how the social structure of the two thousands had changed from what he was used to. I'm hopin' that the latter of those might be easier for you than it was for him."

If Raylan felt anything about it, it didn't show. The more important point behind what Raylan was saying was that despite Collins previous almost acted threat to kill him on the table, all his offers so far were still on the table. Anything else would have to come after original offers had been considered.

Collins moved in the fashion of a nod without quite seeming to. His expression remained thoughtful. That was quite the leap in years and Collins could see where a man from an older time like that could go seriously wrong. Considering the fact that the man was a former inmate and a pirate captain, it wasn't hard to see where that path had led.

Unlike a social outcast, Collins knew how to move through a crowd. He knew how to keep his head low. He blended in easily with his nondescript looks and demeanor. But would this society be as easy to disappear into? He thought it wouldn't be that hard, certainly not as hard as it had been for poor Givens's husband. Strange thought that. Collins let it slide so he didn't have to think about it at all.

"My condolences," he said with little affection but with a slight bow of his head to convey the attempt at earnestness. "I can manage ta survive tha people, bull. It's tha not havin' anything ta keep me occupied that you should be worried about." That he was worried about. He could do menial jobs that no one asked many questions about without having to worry about his lack of documented life here. But that would never satisfy a man like him. Sooner or later something would go wrong. He needed something more challenging to do with his time in this new world.

"Mm," is all Raylan says to the condolences, politely accepting them with a faint nod of his head in return, but it wasn't something that he was going to focus on. He'd like to think Collins meant it, but he didn't know enough of the man yet. Coulda done some good with him, Raylan thought, if we'd had some time.

"That is what I'm worried about. Some people get a hobby, find a job that lets them get a little cruel and bloody - slaughter houses are still around, if that's your kinda thing; racin' cars, gamblin', I could go on. And I'm not ignorin' what else you said. What else you might want. But I also know I got a job to do. One that puts me well outta reach for helpin' you find any consistant kinda.. enjoyment." Therein lay the consequences. Raylan caves to his baser needs that had a thin connection to reason, leaves for a job, comes back to have his life blown up because the guy he fucks around with can't help his impulses. Not to mention the ever looming possibility that Raylan will have to shoot him. Or the possibility that Collins gets bored with him and decides to kill him outright instead.

He wasn't blaming Collins. Collins was what he was, just as much as Raylan was what he was.

"I'm sure we can find somethin' but that'll be it's own work, on your part."

Edited 2024-03-19 02:15 (UTC)

"Yer cars are strange," he said with a flat tone but a small smirk. He sighed loudly and glanced back as he suddenly decided to sit. The bed bounced with his weight. To his left was the pile on the ground of armaments and other tools. Raylan ahead of him with the fridge and cabinet to the other side. The statement wasn't meant as anything so much as a facetious comment about nothing and a blatant refusal to address the slaughter house issue. Givens damn well knew he didn't care for slaughtering animals. There was no purpose nor joy in it.

So here they were together again after all this time and Collins had to admit that this was not a conversation he wanted to have but was necessary. He could have done this on his own and kept well clear of Raylan. But what would have been the point of choosing the lawman's world if not to see the man. It may have been a foolish decision made with no other choices of appeal yet it was still what he had come up with as a decision and there had to be a reason even if it was just whimsy.

"I haven't lived without tha hunt since tha war. I know how ta find people, ta get them ta talk, ta procure things on occasion that people don't want ta give up. That's been me life fer a long, long time." He looked up at Givens and gave a faint smile. "I found you. Dumped close by, but not on yer doorstep, you know. This ain't even where you live, ya said, but I still managed."

He almost sighed again, instead took a breath and held it as he gazed at Raylan silently for half a moment. Then, "I know tha call of tha job. I never liked stickin' in one place too much. Travelin' keeps things fresh. I could always still find ya when I wanted..." He said, addressing the issue of whatever it was they could have. He wasn't the settle down type anyway. Maybe there was nothing there and it was pointless, or maybe the bull would cave if there was no predictability, no commitment, just random fun when the opportunity arose.

Collins sitting down let Raylan relax his shoulders some, more of the tension that had been built up slipping away. There was no forgetting what just happened, but it felt like they were further away from an exploding edge. They could get back into the grey of calmer emotions, less starkly black and white like the fight for life always was. The Irishman look, in a word, tired as he talked about himself, like the weight of it was sinking him down a little. Raylan was sympathetic, but didn't pity him. Everyone had their weight to carry.

Four or five decades of life always came with some weight, no matter where you came from, no matter what you did.

"Plenty of wet work to be found. People willin' to pay for things I can't endorse-" But generally, he understood. Passions were what they were, greed was what it was, hunger - Well, they all knew what side of the line Raylan had dedicated himself to. He knew it happened, he couldn't recommend it, but it was still an option for Collins. A hard and dangerous road, but no one could make Collins choices for him.

He ambles forward, close enough to be in Collins reach, a concession of space. A concession of possibility, however fucked up it might be to entertain it. But he couldn't bring himself to really poke and dig now, to try and pry up Collins' pavestones and make the man drag out whatever was underneath them.

"An' killin' me?"

Collins looked up at Givens and there was a moment where his eyes seemed to search for something in the other man. Whether he found it or not was up for debate but eventually he answered.

"It was never really tha reason fer comin' here," he admitted, "but you already deduced that. It could be a fun filled night..." He closed his eyes and tilted his head to one side as if listening to something. "...but it would only be one night. It would only be one song and gone." He opened his eyes and stared directly into Raylan's gaze. "I like yer song, bull. It would be a shame ta silence it anytime soon."

He didn't know if it was the right answer, or even if it was what the lawman was trying to get out of him. But it was what he felt. It was what stayed his hand this time. Maybe it would continue to stay his hand in the future. Or maybe it wouldn't. He could give no better answer than that as he didn't know himself. He only knew that he could try.

He had deduced it but it was important, good, for Collins to vocalize it. For both their sakes. Nothing he'd said up until now had been bullshit - his concerns were valid - and Collins had earned his peace for the transgression of threating him in the first place. They could work with these rules. What Collins would find in his expression was a hesitant softness, an open want, and a hint of amusement in the faint lift of his eyebrows that came with the charmed little pull of his smile.

"Just be happy you've never heard me actually sing," he says lightly, holding out a gun calloused hand to Collins, inviting him back to his feet, and if he rises, Raylan will pull him close, slide a hand up his cheek and pull him into a firm, exploring kiss.

Just because they'd slipped into vulnerability didn't mean that Raylan couldn't keep it hot.

"Wouldn't be opposed," he started to reply but his expression dipped into a furrow-browed frown as Givens held out his hand to Collins. The contract killer looked up at Raylan with a softer expression as he tried to figure out what Raylan's face was doing. There was a surprising amount of honesty written there that Collins wasn't expecting right now but the winning little smile tugged at Collins and gave him an odd feeling. It took him a second to realize that it was hope.

He hesitated out of a lack of understanding what was happening, but Collins did reach out to take the offered hand. He let Raylan guide him to his feet and then was surprised to be pulled in close and caressed. There was no objection, however, when Raylan kissed him and Collins let the lawman in to explore to his heart's content.

The Irishman hummed in satisfaction as he slipped a hand around Raylan's torso and kept him close with a possessive grip in the other man's clothes.

Raylan tasted deep, wrestling their tongues together, as he leans into the embrace, off hand wrapping around Collins' waist in kind. He kisses the Irishman until his lung scream for breathing, breaking it all with a little roll of his head that let him slide his mouth towards Collins ear.

"I think you'll enjoy makin' me sing a totally different tune more." As he spoke, his other hand crept to Collins' waist, pulling up his shirt so he could slide a hand under it, fingers dancing their way towards Collins's front. This, he knew how to do. This was just like breathing, and there wasn't any issues with what had come before this. Raylan knew he was something of a greedy man, that he took what he could get when he could get it; there was no helping or changing that about him, not now.

"And it ain't gonna be just one night," he purrs. "We're both gonna be back for more."

Edited 2024-03-27 18:10 (UTC)

He was busy catching his breath after that deep kiss but those words produced a hearty smile from the Irishman and an airy chuckle that followed shortly. Collins liked the sound of that. He would indeed enjoy making Raylan sing a tune that involved them both on mostly even footing, a duet that satisfied both of their needs and left them both alive for more at a later time. He could get used to that sort of life.

It was worth trying at least. It sounded worth the effort. It sounded like a beautiful song to produce and listen to.

He made a contented sound to indicate what he thought of that and their current situation. He rubbed his free hand up the length of one of Raylan's arms in an idle gesture just meant to appreciate touching the other man.

"I'll make sure not ta disappoint ya, bull. Keep ya comin' back fer more. I do like tha sound of that," he admitted so that Raylan would know it. Know that he wanted it. That he was going to make an honest attempt at this new life.

Raylan loved the way his lovers sounded after getting kissed like that, like air was in short supply and it was their turn at the counter for a lungful. Like they might remember it sometime, when they're alone and lonely. Like he might have left an impression. Which wasn't a question he had to ask in regards to Collins, considering.

He actually believed what Collins said too, trusted in the moment that Collins meant it, even if the weighing of time might change things. It was a nice picture. A nice promise. Time would tell him if it was pie crust promise or not. He wasn't going to ask for his gun back, that could wait until they were spent and done, but he did lean his weight into the Irishman, pushing him back closer to the bed.

"Then let's play that game you were talkin' about. Prove it to me, huh?" He gives a roguish grin and pops the top button of Collins' trousers. "I'll even let you tie me up, slipknots only."

Collins let himself be backed up until the backs of his knees hit the bed but he didn't go down. A little grin lingered around his mouth as he listened to the lawman's proposal. "You'll spoil me," he said with the hint of laughter.

He reached up with his arm and slung it so that it was over the taller man's shoulder, fingers curling into Raylan's hair. His touch was feather-light at first until he slowly tightened till he had a firm hold. He pulled slowly, exposing Raylan's neck with the angle, and his teeth raked along the skin of the lawman carefully. He pressed a deliberate kiss to Raylan's Adam's apple. And then released his hold.

He stepped around Raylan, running a finger along the other man's jaw as he re-positioned, and then gestured towards the bed. "Get comfortable." See, he could act civil when he wanted to play nice.

His fingers only stop their unbuttoning as Collins' fingers as the Irishman fists that grip in his hair, earning a little note of approval as his head is pulled back, as his neck is so sweetly assaulted. He imagined that Collins had been pent up, or maybe that was his own denied need rearing its head. Heartbeat thrumming under Collins' lips, Raylan groans softly as the shorter man steps away and watches him as much as he could without adjusting too far.

"I'd feel comfortable with my bullets back in my gun and it all tucked away somewhere. You know they count bullets, the US Marshals? To account for every shot fired." The statement was ended with the soft clank of his belt against itself as he pulls it off and tosses it to the side before walking around the bed. It didn't take long, he found his clip, sets it in place, checks the chamber and tucks it into the nightstand drawer. Everything else is set off to the side somewhere, pants and boxers shucked in one go, and Raylan ambles back to where he was with his hands wide. Nothing in them that would be unexpected.

He drops back onto the bed and scoots up towards the center, half propped on the headboard with his ankles crossed as he watches Dennis. A name he hadn't been given leave to use yet, but it was on his mind.

Collins didn't reply to Raylan's insistence of securing his weapon, and while there were surely thoughts about it on his mind, he gave little of it away as he simply watched Raylan coolly as one might imagine a domesticated hawk would eye its handler. Careful and keen but with no attachment. Collins was no hawk but he was clever and experienced enough to know how to hide his inner workings.

Once Raylan returned to their game the tension did seem to ease back out of the Irishman though he hardly gave the marshal's hands a glance. Was it trust or was it simple ego? A desire for any reason to go back to fighting or a lack of care at all for his own well-being? It could have been all of those things, or none of them at all. Instead of giving anything away, Collins merely went straight to work. He tied Raylan's wrists in the way promised--an easy slip knot that would allow the marshal to escape just about any time he wanted so long as he remained calm and in control of himself but gave them the illusion of Collins being in control.

It wasn't perfect but it would do. Collins would let it be enough. That was what compromise was all about, wasn't it? He could manage that. He could still have what he wanted...

And what he wanted was before him now. He stopped for a moment, head cocked to one side, as he admired the form before him. A song was on his lips, silently sung as he watched the lawman in front of him. When he surged forward, the song was still on his lips as he kissed the marshal passionately, possessively.

He loved it when they ran. Not always so much when it was in a sheer panic and they had not thought to their actions. But, ohhh, when they had half a plan in mind or were good at quick-thinking, clever maneuvers, boy did that get his blood pumping. Collins loved it when they ran like that.

This one had decided to run. Collins didn't blame him, the man was intended to be locked up for a very long time and likely didn't stand a chance to getting out early for good behavior or any other redemptive qualities. And Collins did know that aching, painful feeling of being trapped. He remembered how much it rankled and rubbed, how much it hurt, how much it tortured. Some days it felt like he was still there. That he had never left. He was still being tortured. It was just someone else doing the torturing.

(Himself. It was himself. Playing by new rules. It still hurt. He still missed his old life. Craved it. Longed for it. Ached to return to it. His control on that was strenuous at best most days. Some days he wondered why he bothered.)

The man wasn't the most intelligent one out there but he didn't run in a mere panic. The fugitive was spontaneous but there was a fluidity to his actions that was appealing, that and the chaos, the lack of predictability. Collins had had to track the man down twice now on account of losing him and somehow rather than be upset the Irishman was excited.

Collins knew where the man was headed. The area was area was surrounded by wilderness out here, all green and wet, a Florida swamp at its finest. It was not pleasant. Collins knew there was a small business down this line somewhere, a tiny shack really, where a boat or two waited in the water. With the right kinds of contacts and a chunk of money or something sweet enough to barter, the person that owned said shack and boats would help people disappear. Dead or alive.

It was the kind of place the Butcher wouldn't have used--he did his own disposal--but would have had ties to nonetheless. It didn't hurt to have contacts for all sorts of illicit things back when he was just as unlawful. Now it was smart to know about them but steer clear. Except when he knew where a person would run to on their way out. This quarry was not going to make it out.

Collins saw the signs of his prey just before he heard the man struggling through the brush. It was treacherous out here, and no true roads led to the water bogged area for a myriad of reasons, so they were both on foot. Collins thought he might make it there before his prey but catching up to him before the man got there worked all right for him. He was eager to catch the illusive man.

He must have made too much noise though because a few seconds later the sounds he heard coming from ahead suddenly shifted and he knew the prey was running, literally now, towards his last chance at freedom. Collins heard the music pick up its pace and his feet followed suit as he pursued his prey with renewed vigor.

When Raylan left the barge, nothing felt right anymore. She shut everybody out, and stayed away as much as she could unless shit hit the fan, which it always did. It was several months before she finally decided to rejoin the rest of the inmates and wardens, be more present while trying in vain for far too long to graduate. Until she finally did.

Laura can't be sure what exactly it was that did it, but it came shortly after she admitted that she did believe in something: herself. She realized she was worthy of being loved and didn't have to give her whole self to someone who only gave her half of himself. It would have never changed and she's glad she finally understood that it wouldn't. Had she not, Laura wouldn't be standing behind the car of a certain Marshal who she said she would find as soon as she could.

And it's been two, very long, years for her.

The Barge felt like a million years ago, the edges of the pure wildness of reality breaking possibilities washed away under the familiar comfort of Normalcy. Of the day to day that had taken up so many of his years. It kept him busy, as it always had. Kept him distracted from the yawning hole in his everything that had formed when he left the Barge. James, Malcolm, Sweeney.. Laura.

The Almost Loves hurt the most, right on par with Winona's wounds on him. So he worked and he drank and he took out his feelings on people who deserved a little hardship in their lives.

Which was what he was doing now - posted up for a third day on a run down street, watching a run down house. Tim had gone for food and supplies and Raylan was grateful for the silence. It let him run the facts over in his head as he watches for any sign of life in the house. Focused as he was, he didn't see Laura walking up in his rearview - a rare lapse in attention.

Her knock makes him swivel his head over, ready for trouble and a reason to use his gun and- There should have been a cartoon sound to accompany his face dropping into open shock. Instead, there was just the quiet whir of the window getting rolled down.

"Wha-" Congratulations Laura, you've stunned him into silence for a short moment. But then his eyes are darting at the house he's watching. "Get in."

Admittedly, this didn't usually happen to him.

There were a few universal truths about Tim Gutterson; he did not miss, his handwriting was absolute shit, and he could drink just about anyone under the table and still be able to drive home. Except for this night, apparently. The guy he was drinking against was twice his size, and usually that didn't matter because Tim had the alcoholic gene on his side, but he'd bitten off a little more than he could chew.

He still won, mind you. Just a little more marginally than he cared for. For his efforts, he got the red flannel off the dude's back. It was two sizes two big on Tim, the cuffs falling down past his fingertips, and a shitty prize for anything in the grand scheme of things, but he wore it anyway.

The bartender took his keys. It was fair enough; Tim wasn't in any state to drive. But it left him figuring out how the hell he was going to get home. Leaning against his truck that he couldn't currently drive, he pulled out his phone. It wasn't like he had many friends to call to come get him.

He settled on a contact to call and listened to it ring. It was late, but he was pretty sure Raylan was going to pick up anyway.

The sky was blue, water made things wet, coffee was better black, and Raylan Givens was up at ungodly hours of the night. It was a wholesale refusal (or inability) to keep to sane hours. He preferred to drink alone just as often as he did at a bar, but tonight was a night in as he poured over some casefiles. Bars were for when he wanted to forget. 'Home', as much as the motel room could be one, was for work.

"Tim."

Caller ID was a marvelous thing. Tim normally didn't call him at night, unless they were out after someone. He wasn't aware of anything that they were doing that would call for that. So while his tone was the same easy going and largely unflappable, some flags were up.

"What's up?" He was fully expecting to hear some nonplussed grisly detail of something Raylan must have forgotten. It didn't matter that he'd been nursing some Jim Beam for nearly two hours, he was well under his limit to drive, so he could work if needed.

"Raylan." Tim looked up at the sky, a little rueful about his next words. "I need a favor."

The night around him was relatively quiet, with the exception of the muffled country music leaking through the windows. Somebody opened the door nearby. A whooping holler escaped from inside before the door swung shut again. It was all very familiar and inviting; he spent as much time drinking home alone with a book as he did in the bar. It all depended on his mood, and his mood tonight was a tad bit self-destructive. So here he was, a bit too drunk and calling on Raylan to save his ass.

It'd be fine. Raylan wasn't the worse person to owe a favor to.

"Bartender took my keys," he said by way of explanation.

His eyebrows raise slightly as he flips the case file closed - favors weren't ever easily asked for, and it was usually Raylan asking for one from Tim instead of the other way around. So he figures Tim is owed a few. The muffled sounds of a honkytonk bar in the background behind the simple statement told Raylan all he needed to know, even before Tim admits to being grounded by the bartender.

Those were sounds Raylan had been listening to his whole life and at this time of night, it almost always meant the bartender had done the less fun aspect of their job. It wouldn't be the first time Raylan helped someone home and it wouldn't be the last, but he knew Tim's habits. Knew the man drank just as much as he did. Could guess at the whys as well, though he wouldn't out of respect. That was Tim's business and Tim's choice to share his whys if he wanted to.

"And you forgot your flying broom at home, huh. Where are you at?" Raylan was already out the door and sliding into the driver seat of his well abused town car that seemed to have a permanent haze of Harlan dust imbedded into it. He knew Lexington as well as he knew Harlan; he'd find whatever watering hole Tim had chosen.

"Not 50 miles outside'a city limits, I hope."

"I don't think air traffic control would like me very much right now, either." Tim's voice was steady, but there was a distinct slur to his vowels he couldn't quite get rid of if he tried. It was a comfortable kind of drunk that left him feeling warm, maybe not quite as guarded as he typically would. Maybe there was a reason he called Raylan instead of anyone else.

The implications of that were not one he cared to think about right now, and easy enough to swish away with other drunken thoughts.

He glanced at the bar behind him. It was in Lexington, tucked away just on the outskirts. Not quite hidden, but out of the way and left alone. The only place that wasn't as far as Louisville to go to for certain proclivities that amounted to a whole lot of male patrons. He could meet Raylan down the street, but he didn't care to walk and he found that actually, he didn't care at all what Raylan knew or thought. He cared a whole lot less about a lot of things when he was this pleasantly drunk.

"Just outside," he assured, and gave Raylan an address.

There wasn't a lot of opportunity to see what Tim was like when he was actually and properly drunk, but there was no mistaking the lazy curve of vowels or the way some sounds dragged out a little too long. Not that Raylan thought there was any shame in that - cause and effect. You drink, you get drunk, and then you don't speak so good until you've sobered up. They were all guilty of it, especially those of them that worked in the office.

"Alright, I'm on my way." He didn't give an ETA, even though he knew it was going to be only about fifteen minutes and ten minutes later, Raylan was pulling into the dive bar's parking lot a spot down from Tim's truck. It was a place he hadn't been before, but there wasn't so much as a blink at the few other people that were milling around outside, dangerously close.

Sliding out, Raylan drapes his arm on the roof of the town car, Stetson solidly on his head with that same easy going, crooked pull of his lips that most people were accustomed to seeing on his face.

"Tied one too many on, huh? Just promise me any puking that needs to happen happens outside the car."

Did he think Tim would vomit? Not really, the man held his liquor well but it was a warning that Raylan stuck by. That smell never really comes out.

It probably wasn't long before Raylan pulled up, but drunk minutes were not like regular minutes, and he wasn't particularly paying attention to the time. A few songs played inside before the town car showed, so he could make a guess. Long enough that the man whose shirt he won found him and started chatting him up.

Eyes were on the town car when it parked, and then on its stupidly attractive driver. Tim realized, maybe a moment too late, that Raylan Givens looked like bait here.

Whoops.

Tim fixed Raylan with a scathing look in response to his statement. No, he wasn't going to puke, because yes, he could handle his liquor. Being a functioning alcoholic was a well-practiced lifestyle. It wasn't until they were both in the car with the doors shut that Tim decided to inform Raylan of why he was this drunk.

"Won a contest." He paused. "A little more marginally than I intended."

Giving Tim a little bit of shit was Raylan's favorite pastime, tempered by the knowledge that the sniper enjoyed giving him shit in return. They had to pass the quiet downtime at work somehow, right? Raylan smirks at Tim's scathing look and lifts his eyebrows a little at the man that Tim was walking away from.

He was fully aware now of what he might have interrupted and while Tim had left the man for Raylan's town car for innocent reasons, he did not hate the implication that his 'hey too bad' expression gave. Let this rando think what he liked, it didn't bother Raylan either way.

"I hope that doesn't mean the other guy is tryin' to handle alcohol poisoning then." Someone should look into helping that person. Someone who wasn't them. The car is started and Raylan pulls them back out onto the road. There was no judgement for Tim's state or what got him into it - Raylan had done similar things over his life so he was in no high and mighty place to talk.

"You get anything for winnin'?"

This was how they operated; tit for tat, snark for snark, a favor for a favor. It was a comfortable push-and-pull they'd picked up in a fairly short amount of time. Where Tim liked working with Rachel for her level head and decisiveness, he liked working with Raylan for his wildcard nature and how it kept Tim on his toes.

He trusted very few people to watch his back the way Raylan did.

"He was still standin' when I left him," Tim said, waving a dismissive hand between them. He was pretty sure the guy puked in the bathroom for ten minutes afterwards, and was certainly unsteady on his feet outside, but that wasn't Tim's problem.

To answer Raylan's question, he tugged on the worn collar of the too-big flannel hanging off his frame. "Gonna start a collection."

That trust was a two way street and one of the many reasons that Raylan didn't have a problem getting Tim home securely. Tim Gutterson had saved his ass several times already, in ways that Raylan couldn't ever repay.

"I was wonderin' if that was yours." Yes, he had several jokes lined up about it. (Nevermind that Tim was inexplicably some kind of 'cute' with the bigness of it on him, though Raylan would be very hard pressed to say that statement out loud.) There was a half second where Raylan considered joking about the security of his own flannel, but he decides that its too suggestive, considering everything.

"You got a lotta flannel trophies then?"

Tim didn't live too far away, though everything was all of twenty minutes from itself until you really got outta town, and Raylan didn't need directions. Not that he'd ever been to Tim's apartment, but he knew the address.

"Well, it is now," Tim reminded.

Raylan knew where he lived, despite never having been over, and that was something Tim was well aware of. It'd be difficult to be partners with someone for this long without learning more about them than they actually shared. Where they lived, how they took their coffee or their bourbon-- even Tim, as private as he was, could only keep so much of himself unknown at this point.

Tim cut his gaze briefly to Raylan. It felt a little bit like a loaded question, like he couldn't answer it without revealing something about himself. The short answer was yes and the long answer was that they hadn't all been obtained through drinking contests.

Some of them were obtained off of motel room floors, usually when their owner's were cleaning up in the shower.

"I don't lose often."

"Don't I know it," he quips with a smirk as he turns them another corner.

Tim had always been private and Raylan had been respectful of the man's inclination. It went back to their lives being their own business, but that didn't stop Raylan from using his eyes. Couldn't stop him from finding out what he could when the opportunity presented. Something else they shared and Tim, unfortunately, knew too much about Raylan's personal life so he took any chance to balance that. He had Arlo to thank for that little disadvantage.

"Suppose we should be happy you didn't, don't know that I signed up for carryin' you up some stairs." He would have, if he needed to. Or just brought Tim to his motel room - they'd both slept in chairs too much in their life, what would another 8 hours be.

"Oh, you're sayin' you would've, though?" It was a quick quip, an easy tease, the back-and-forth of their rapport as comfortable as ever. Tim didn't call on people for favors, as a rule. He preferred to do what needed to be done to handle his own shit. But if he ever did need a favor (and this was the first), it'd be Raylan he called every time.

Easy to tell himself it was because Raylan owed him a few favors by now.

They'd pulled up to Tim's modest apartment building. His hand found the door handle before looking at Raylan. "You want a drink?"

How else did men say thank you in Kentucky besides sharing their bourbon? If there was a way, Tim hadn't learned it yet.

Raylan smiles that crooked, cat in the cream easy and amused smile of his, eyes half-mooning as he lets his expression do all the answering that might be needed. That was an image just for themselves. Anyway, did Tim think he'd just leave him in the car?

Of course not.

The car was thrown into park, engine killed and keys pulled out of habit, dark eyes sliding over to his partner at the question. Raylan always wanted a drink, but Tim was drunk and inviting him into his space. If he said yes, would Tim kinda hate him for it in the morning when he realizes he's given Raylan a glimpse into something he keeps so close to the chest?

But if Raylan were a cat, he would have already burned through his 9 lives for his curiosity and now was no different.

"Yeah, I could handle one." The smile stays playing on his lips as he moves out of the car and follows Tim towards his door.

"What'd'ya keep in stock?"

Would Tim regret this in the morning? Maybe. But if he was going to regret anything, it was going to be having Raylan pick him up at the not-so-stealthy gay bar instead of a couple of blocks down the road. And since that was already said and done, he didn't have much more to lose.

"Jim Beam and Modelos." Tim handled the stairs easily, only the slightest sway in his step, and the door was unlocked with the practiced ease of someone who'd done it many times before.

The apartment itself was, unsurprisingly, very neat. There was no mess, no clutter, and very little unnecessary décor. There was a bookshelf with a variety of books on it, all some genre of fantasy, and a small stack of Guns&Ammo catalogues on the coffee table. There were no decorations or knick-knacks, and the only true personal item on view was a single framed photo by the couch of Tim in dress blues, standing next to an older blonde woman.

Tim's keys were tipped back into his jacket pocket as he wandered into the kitchen. He flipped on lights as he went, glancing back at Raylan to ask what he preferred without saying anything at all.

Raylan didn't think Tim was drunk enough to not walk successfully, but he stayed prepared to have to catch the smaller man in the case of a misstep. He was deeply curious to see how Tim lived, to see the inside of his apartment - almost like it was fair game because of how much of how he lived Tim had seen in return.

He wasn't particularly surprised by the sparten-esk living space, hat coming off to find a home on the first flat safe surface he finds, and he catches Tim's eye with a faint lift of his head.

"Jim Beam, please. Modelos should be saved for afternoons or a porch." What could he say, he loved a porch.

"Nice place." Hellva lot nicer than the one room Raylan had been living in for nearly a year and a half.

Tim busied himself with pulling glasses and a bottle out of a cabinet. He knew how Raylan took his bourbon, and he poured drinks for the both of them. Did Tim need more to drink? No, probably not. But he was at his apartment now, so the repercussions of getting absolutely shit-faced were few and far between.

Whatever helped him sleep without dreaming, honestly.

He handed one glass off to Raylan before dropping himself onto one end of the couch. Other than the rest of the couch beside him, there was an armchair across the coffee table for sitting. Raylan could take his pick.

"Sure beats some cliff side perch in Kandahar." He cut an amused glance to Raylan. "Or a motel."

The glass is taken with a faint nod of his head, eyes dancing around the room again before settling back on the sniper, scoffing softly.

"Hey, least my motel room is sand free," he replies good naturedly as he ambles over to sit on the other end of Tim's couch with him. "That's gotta count for somethin'. Barely even have any shootin's too. My room would be the four seasons in Kandahar."

For all that really did for the argument. Raylan wanted to ask if Tim was okay, if there was something weighing on him that drove him to the bottle so hard tonight, but it was openly against their rules to go at something like that so directly. That was generally Art's job.

Talking to Tim when he was this drunk was a lot like navigating a minefield. It was hard to tell which sentence would trigger the thought that would get him talking. One wrong step and Tim would be spilling his guts about something he'd normally keep private.

But that would be his own damn fault, not Raylan's.

"Oh, come on, now." He stretched an arm across the back of the couch, leaving his fingers inches from Raylan's shoulder. "The shootin's the fun part."

It was ironic, the thing he was best at also being the thing to cause so many nightmares.

Talking to Tim when he was sober was also like navigating a minefield sometimes but that was just part of the package that he'd come to accept. Tim held a lotta stories, a lotta weighty personal secrets so when any hint of something came out, it wasn't something to be taken as frivolous.

He doesn't glance at the outstretched fingers but he feels them there, like hot little rods of dangerous possibility.

"Shootin's always the fun part." Especially when they knew they were after someone who really deserved a bullet. It was satisfying to Raylan in a way he did not want to explore too deeply.

"But then it turns into us talkin' about effort verses reward." He grins crookedly. "I think our job is better balanced."

It was probably a mistake, calling Raylan up for a ride. It was probably a bigger mistake, inviting him up for a drink. They were almost certainly just the first two steps to more catastrophic mistakes, if his level of intoxication was anything to go by. And it was only this drunk that he was prone to making such mistakes.

You'd think maybe it'd give him reason to quit drinking. But he had far more reasons not to quit than to quit.

"Easy enough when you're just followin' orders." And Tim liked following orders, having the weight of making decisions off his shoulders. Falling in line, no questions asked. Unless the orders were coming from Raylan.

"Not that you'd know anything about that." He wiggled his fingers at Raylan for emphasis, and this time the tips of them brushed against the other man's shoulder.

"If I did, your day wouldn't be half as interesting," he says cheekily, grin steady and edging that shit eating 'I'm about to have a lotta fun' that was broken out now and then. Tim was a pain in his ass sometimes, but the good he did far far outweighs the sometimes pot shots he took at Raylan. Raylan was sure he deserved it and it was a small price to pay.

He shifts, a pull of his jacket the excuse but when he settles back, Tim's fingers only have to come down a fraction to be on his shoulder. The whiskey made him brave, but whiskey also made him dumb in a way that served most of his needs and even more of his impulses. You'd think he'd learn but he'd fucked around plenty and not found a single thing out.

"'Sides, I get the job done-" Even if it wasn't assigned to him or he'd been told specifically to not. The grin had slips to a careful eyed wondering over the easy slant of his closed lips. "-And that's the important thing. Better to ask forgiveness than permission."

That much was true. Raylan did make things more fun. To Tim, there was a distinct before and after in the marshal's office. Before Raylan got there, and after Raylan got there. Before, the most entertainment Tim could find most days was picking on Nelson. After? Well, it was safe to say that Raylan kept him on his toes.

Besides, Raylan was much better eye candy. Long legs, strong jaw, that charming crooked smirk. Tim got a lot less paperwork done sitting at the desk next to him than he used to.

And now, with the bourbon buzzing through his veins, his gaze flicks over Raylan openly, only half-hiding it behind the rim of his glass as he takes another drink. He definitely doesn't need anymore. The fingers now resting steadily on Raylan's shoulder say as much. Idly, he traces his middle finger along the jacket seam.

"I'm not complainin'. But I don't reckon I've ever seen you actually do the ask forgiveness part."

The touch was like a jolt of electricity through Raylan's veins, the best and worst of himself warring with each other as he gauges Tim. Those lazy half lidded eyes that struck Raylan the same way all blue eyes did, the equally lazy confidence that Tim carried on him like easy armor. They were alike in a lotta ways. Except Tim wore himself more easily than Raylan did, in reality. Yeah, Raylan put on a good show but Gutterson was more.. disciplined.

Must be all that training.

He was about to do something stupid, he could feel it. And yet, he couldn't stop it. He shifts again, taking one last drink of his whiskey before setting it on the coffee table and turning a little as he settles back, closer than he was before.

"Most people find themselves okay with what I've done, once it's all said and done. Only had a few complaints anyway."

Would Tim freak out? Hit him? Shove him away, kick him out and then ignore him at work for the terrible assumption. The more he thought about it, the more the whiskey loudly proclaimed that it didn't matter.

"'Sides, I don't find myself needin' it either way. Helps if I don't regret my actions."

Tim certainly wasn't being very disciplined at the moment. Not when Raylan was sitting right by him on his couch and it was the time of night that bad decisions were made, and the alcohol was making him feel warm and loose and like repercussions weren't real.

What was the worst that could happen? It wasn't like either of them were going to say anything to anyone about it. Maybe they'd have to adjust to looking each other in the eye again under the bright fluorescent lights of the marshal's office, but whatever liquor laden trouble they got up to tonight was between them.

Though Raylan's track record with keeping his illicit affairs a secret wasn't that great. Maybe the fact that Tim was very good at hiding his would balance it out.

He's getting a little ahead of himself, but the way Raylan settles back a little bit closer than before doesn't go unnoticed. Tim knocks back what's left in his glass and sets it aside, his gaze never leaving Raylan. The glint in his eye looks like it offers a challenge.

"Not a single one, huh?"

His fingers slide up Raylan's shoulder, still tracing the seam of his jacket. They continue up until they run out of fabric, and he's grazing the skin of Raylan's neck with his fingertips. It feels like sparks and fire.

The real trouble with Raylan Givens, evidenced time and again, was his brain's inability to work when he was in a certain state. It was why he'd had as much fun as he'd had in his life and it was a flaw he'd made only a scant amount of progress in correcting. The challenge in Tim's eye, everything the the double layers of their conversation held, was something the deep in him couldn't help but answer.

"Not a single one," he reiterates huskily.

A confident hand moves up Tim's jaw and around to his neck, pulling the man into a firm and commanding kind of kiss. A hundred fantasies stirred in his mind about what would happen next, but he was a man that worked on feeling and went with it. To hell with what trouble it might get them in - they could keep their mouths shut.

No one had to know anything outside of a closed door.

Edited 2025-03-17 00:43 (UTC)

Tim's almost smiling by the time their lips meet. It took a bit less goading than he expected, but that was the beauty of alcohol. Was there a small part of him that felt guilty for calling Raylan out so late at night for a favor, inviting him inside, and then plying him with bourbon until the walls came crumbling down?

No, actually, there wasn't. He's thought about this since the first day Raylan strut into the office.

Raylan kisses exactly how Tim imagined -- assured, in control -- and his mouth is pliant beneath his partner's. The hand from the back of the couch slides along the nape of Raylan's neck, fingers intertwining with the soft locks of hair there. His head tips, teeth nipping experimentally at Raylan's lower lip.

A part of him thinks if he moves too fast, he'll spook Raylan off. But the whiskey makes him confident and comfortable, and his free hand find Raylan's thigh, long fingers sliding inward until the find the in-seam.

There was no moving too fast now. Raylan held himself back, as many cards as he could close to his chest because of pride and fear. A small cowardice and a greed for the power he had as he was perceived now kept him well in line, every action considered. But once he got a green light - the way Tim's mouth opened to his, the fingers playing in his hair, the nip of his lip that earned a soft involuntary grunt of approval as he slides closer.

The hand on his thigh only encouraged him, hips lifting a little like he was guiding Tim's fingers to the girth growing in his jeans as his off hand slides along Tim's waist, pulling up the oversized flannel and the tanktop underneath so he could get palm on skin.

No, he was drunk enough that it didn't matter; he was already in over his head, amazed that this was happening, unable to stop or question either of their ability to have any sense around themselves right now.

All it takes is that hand under his shirt sending sparks like a live wire across his skin for him to decide that, no, Raylan isn't going anywhere. He's just as into this as Tim is, and that little arch of his hips proves it. A hundred different fantasies he's had like this, late at night, alone, frustrated. Now it's happening and his imagination couldn't possibly have prepared him for how Raylan's mouth actually tastes.

He's fueled by Raylan's encouragement, but instead of sliding his hand further, he removes it completely. It's only so he can move, swinging a leg over Raylan's lap to straddle it with more practiced ease than a drunk man should have. His jeans are uncomfortably tight, and he can tell when he shifts his weight down that Raylan's just as hard in his own pants.

He breaks the kiss, pulling in an unsteady breath before ducking his head for the other man's throat. He hovers a second before placing an opened mouthed kiss against the side of Raylan's neck, teeth scraping dangerously against the skin. The idea of leaving a mark behind that he can stare at at work is a very tempting one.

Raylan can't help but groan softly into the kiss as Tim slides onto him, one hand moving to get further up under that fabric as the other curves around Tim's ass. How many times has he fantasized about them this way? It didn't hurt anything that Raylan loved being ridden and Tim's weight felt so good and right on him.

The kiss brakes and Raylan is almost entranced by the sound of Tim's uneven breath. What did he sound like when he moaned, when something felt good to him too? He couldn't wait to find out.

His head tilts a little, enough to give Tim the range Raylan's neck if he wanted it and the brush of teeth earns a sharp inhale, fingers digging into Tim's hip as his own lift slightly. Oh yeah, if it weren't for the excuses they'd have to make at work, Raylan was all for being bitten. Being marked. But that didn't stop the wash of worry that manages to peek through the Whiskey veil.

"Gonna make me a liar at work, you leave something visible above my collar," he says, voice tight and sultry in Tim's ear. Then again, that phrasing suggested that Tim could leave something visible below his collar without reproach. Either way, Raylan sure as hell wasn't going to stop his partner; he'd be made a liar if he had to - this was more than worth it.

Tim grins against Raylan's neck. It would be highly entertaining to listen to Raylan make up excuses and fend off comments about a hickey all day. Might be even better to watch him shift uncomfortably in his chair every time the fabric of his shirt rubs against the mark, though. Hidden, a secret shared just between the two of them.

He likes that better.

"It'd be kinda fun," Tim murmurs, lips brushing against Raylan's throat. His hands move between them, finding the front of Raylan's shirt to undo the buttons. He's drunk, and buttons take a little more coordination than pouring glasses and unlocking doors. His fingers fumble once, but he gets the first few undone, enough that he can lower his head to Raylan's collarbone.

This will do just fine. He places a series of soft, simple kisses along the curve of the other man's clavicle, starting inwards near Raylan's throat and moving out toward his shoulder. His tongue darts out over the dip where the collarbone meets the shoulder, and with no other preamble, he bites down properly to begin sucking and nipping a mark into Raylan's skin.

He can feel the grin enough to imagine it in his head - grins always felt like a victory, Tim had high standards sometimes. (Or, Raylan's jokes were just that bad, which was very possible.) Either way, as soon as Tim was in his shirt, the hand on his ass moves up so Raylan can hastily work the other buttons free and tug his shirt out from his waistband. Tim dealt with his undershirt easily, the fabric moving aside and Raylan didn't hear his own grunt as Tim bites, only lets himself get carried on the wash of arousal.

"Fun until you're the one gettin' the questions."

Fuck that felt good.

He pushes and pulls at Tim's won overshirt, peeling it off and discarding it to the side somewhere so he could come back to try and do the same to the undershirt that was strikingly like his. There were too many layers between them and goddamnit, he wanted to leave some marks himself.

Tim is patient. Part of it natural, engrained in him a long time ago from spending days tucked away on rocky cliff slides, simply watching and waiting. But some of it is definitely because he wants to savor every single second he has Raylan beneath him like this. Just in case it's the only time he ever gets to outside of his own fantasies.

He takes his time, biting and sucking a sizeable mark below Raylan's collarbone. When he leans back, he leaves behind an angry red blotch that promises to bruise. He takes the hem of Raylan's undershirt, pulling it straight up over his head and tossing it aside, and only then does he allow Raylan to pull his shirt off too.

"Then make 'em ask some questions."

Oh, he's definitely properly drunk. A little more sober, and he might not be inviting Raylan to leave his neck littered in marks. At the same time, nobody in the office had the balls to try to pry into Tim's personal life, and the only one stupid enough to try was Nelson.

With no way to get the shirt off if Tim wasn't going to cooperate, Raylan's fingers tangled in them as he breathes a little more heavily. God in the moment he didn't care if Tim changed his mind, if Raylan had to get creative with his answers for the next week and a half.

He wishes he could see Tim's work, but he's sure by tomorrow morning, it'll be as clear as the daylight.

Then make 'em ask some questions. Raylan stare for half a heartbeat, hair a little wild from the pulling off of his shirt, pressing in the image in front of him into his head and wondering if he'd tripped and fallen into a old Penthouse Magazine. But there was no cajoling needed - Raylan moved forward at speed, hands wrapping around Tim as his body came up to meet him, hot mouth landing on a patch of skin mid-neck. He bites, nipping before sucking against Tim's skin, arms turning them so he can drop Tim into the couch.

"Gonna leave more than one," he murmurs, his work paused only long enough to breath out the words, one hand moving between them to start undoing Tim's belt and then his own if he can manage it.

God, is Raylan a fucking sight right now. Shirtless, hair mussed, that mark looking beautiful against sun-kissed skin. Tim only has a few seconds to commit it to memory, and he does-- the rise and fall of Raylan's chest, every single out of place hair, the curve of the mouth he'd just kissed.

Then that perfect mouth is on his neck, a symphony of skillful teeth and teasing tongue, and Tim's breath stutters in his throat. Once he's been tipped onto the couch his head tilts, giving Raylan as much access as he needs to accomplish what he wants. One hand moves to the back of Raylan's head, fingers tangling into his hair like he's dreamed of doing many times before. He can feel his belt being tugged loose, and his legs spread a little wider around Raylan in response.

"Never were one to half-ass somethin'."

And speaking of that, his free hand trails down the other man's spine, over his ass to roam and squeeze through his jeans.

Tim tastes like sweat, salt, whiskey, and himself, the best mix that Raylan's mind had barely been able to imagine, and Raylan finds it its own kind of intoxicating. That or he's been thinking about doing something like this to Tim for long enough that actually getting to feel and taste the younger man is an overwhelming rush that's going to carry Raylan away.

Belt and button's open, Raylan slides a hand under Tim's waistband and moves it around his hip as he breaks off from Tim's neck. The short hairs of his goatee scrap along Tim's skin as Raylan moves down his neck and collarbone, lips coming to settle on Tim's chest so he can bite and suck again. His hand comes back again, long fingers brushing across the low of Tim's hips, fingers searching for the length that he felt pressed against him so he can curl them around it and stroke softly.

If Tim wanted to stop him, he could, but nothing in Raylan thought that he would. They'd danced around this for too long, come so dangerously close to something like this a few times before, stopped by sobriety and concern, that Raylan was sure Tim wanted this as much as he did.

Tim's imagination is wild, and he indulges in it often for his own sanity, but it couldn't even begin to compare to the real thing. The way Raylan's mouth leaves a trail of heat and sparks down his body, the tantalizing scratch of facial hair against his skin, the pistol-calloused fingers that slip past his jeans and wrap around his fully erect cock.

There's no way he's stopping Raylan now. Consequences mean nothing when the other man's weight is so pleasant over him, and the liquor buzzing through his brain erases every 'what if' that tries to crop up anyway.

"Fuck," he breathes, his own hands stilling and stopping as he's momentarily overcome by the pleasure Raylan's wringing from his body. His hips arch off the couch, encouraging those slow strokes to become something more. One hand stays in Raylan's hair, tightening to give a single experimental tug. The other drops between them, and while he's not quite as coordinated about it, he gets his fingers into Raylan's jeans and around his length.

It reminds him of fooling around as a teenager in a way he doesn't entirely mind.

That 'Fuck' would fuel Raylan for days - it sounded perfect coming so breathily from Tim, the normal reservation the man kept around him feeling properly sluffed off now that Raylan had his hands on him. Now that they'd both accepted that this was going to happen and abandoned the rest of their sense. That panted word and the way Tim lifts up into him is the sole thing he focuses on, enough so that he doesn't hear the hum of approval sound from the back of his throat as Tim pulls on his hair.

Yeah, he liked that.

His hand strokes Tim more firmly, the silent answer to the ask those hips were lifting towards, and another hitched moan slipping from him as Tim's fingers wrap around him. His own hips did the same thing, just as eager to let Tim touch and feel him as he was to touch and feel Tim. His lips break off from Tim's chest - another mark, and murmurs.

"We gotta get these jeans off," he says, not indicating which pair he was talking about. But it was both, honestly. Begrudgingly, Raylan sinks back down, groaning out with a breath as Tim's hand is forced to leave his length even as he is forced to do the same so that he can tug down Tim's jeans. He didn't bring them down all the way, just enough to fully free Tim's dick. Just enough so that he could sink down and swirl his tongue around Tim's tip before sinking him into his throat.

The office would lose it's mind if they knew that Raylan Givens sucked dick. But his lovers knew that Raylan liked oral sex. He liked knowing he could undo a person with just the skill of his mouth before he undoes them with other things.

Edited 2025-03-19 14:07 (UTC)

Jesus Christ. Raylan sounds downright sinful moaning like that, and if Tim were less drunk, he'd be able to focus more on biting back his own noises so he could hear Raylan's better. But as it is, their moans linger together, and it might be the single hottest sound Tim has ever heard.

His skin aches sweetly where Raylan's teeth were. Not only will he be fending off nosy questions at work, but he knows he's also going to be making a concentrated effort to not get a boner every time the fabric of his clothes rubs against those beautiful marks Raylan has left behind.

At bare minimum it's going to keep things interesting for a few days.

Tim makes a soft disappointed noise in the back of his throat when Raylan leans back, and he can't even tell if it's more from the loss of sensation between his legs or the fact that his hands are now empty, however brief that may be. His hips lift to better assist getting his jeans tugged down, and he barely has time to settle again before that persuasive mouth is on his cock. And apparently, it's good for more than just talking himself out of trouble.

Tim's back arches reflexively off the couch, murmuring a wordless encouragement. Both hands drop, one coming to rest on Raylan's shoulder and the other sliding back into his hair, where he thinks he might keep it for as long as he can, somewhat obsessed with the feeling of the soft strands between his fingers.

The hand in his hair, on his shoulder, the soft encouragement of it all was divine. Tim tasted and sounded better than Raylan had imagined and he was almost jealous he didn't get to see that arch of his more clearly. But as it was, Raylan's vision was limited to looking up Tim's chest, watching that face of his as Raylan starts to bob and suck. No blushing, shy, first timer here - Raylan tests burying Tim in the back of his throat, swallowing once around it before relenting to the needs of his lungs.

While his mouth worked, so did his hands, pushing and shoving at his own jeans until they and the cowboy boots he worn in were clattering on the floor. If he were any more sober, he might feel weird about laying facedown naked on Tim's couch, but he was more consumed with moving a hand up Tim's hip to hold onto him. It's mate helped keep Tim's cock upright for the attention Raylan was giving it. While he was sure he could get Tim off like this alone, Raylan had always been something of a greedy man in these situations.

He wanted everything he could get, in case this was a one night stand. In case Tim comes to his senses in the daylight and decides that this was all a mistake.

Raylan gasps a good breath as he pops Tim out of his mouth, and goes back to stripping off the jeans so they were both naked. He wanted him more than he probably should but this had felt so impossible twenty minutes ago.

Edited 2025-03-20 11:59 (UTC)

Tim hadn't gone out tonight planning on getting too drunk to drive, nor did he invite Raylan up with the intention of getting him naked, but he's certainly glad he did. Because now his fantasies are being shattered in the best way possible, exceeding and breaking every expectation he might have had. Even as it's happening, it almost doesn't feel real.

"Jesus Christ, Raylan."

Raylan's mouth working his cock is too incredible to be anything but real. He doesn't even bother to try and keep the traces of surprise out of his pleasured tone, because nobody could've guessed that Raylan is this good at sucking dick. And he can't help but to watch through a half-lidded gaze, those lips looking delightfully obscene wrapped around his girth, his fingers still curling into that soft hair.

Tim groans low in his throat when Raylan's mouth pops off his dick, propping himself up on one elbow as Raylan gets rid of his jeans. Tim does the same, finally properly freeing himself from the confines of the denim, kicking military boots off to the floor. The second they're both properly naked, Tim's using the hand in Raylan's hair to drag him up and in so he can feel their bodies flush together. He catches Raylan's swollen lips in an open-mouthed kiss, his moan muffled when he tastes whiskey and Raylan and himself on the other man's tongue.

The exclamation earns Tim a low hum of appreciation from Raylan, mouth busy as it was at the time - yes god, Raylan is proud of his other non-gunslinging skills, proud that he could draw such a compliment from his partner. It somehow felt like proof that he was good at more than being a pain in the ass asshole. Good at more than being an unstoppable force, good at putting that tunnel vision he sometimes got to better use.

Raylan got a brief scan of how amazing Tim looked, naked and wanting underneath him, before he was easily pulled down, a soft groan echoing Tim's wildly hot moan into his mouth as his tongue twists with snipers, body shuddering slightly as their cocks rub together, trapped between the space of their bellies. One hand slips up under one of Tim's shoulders, resting on his elbow to support some of his weight, while the other smooths up Tim's bare leg and hip and side, relishing in the open and unbroken swath of skin. Bare skin on bare skin was one of the most sinfully delightful feelings. It felt too good, too right to be between Tim's legs, and Raylan kisses him until his lungs are burning from the lack of proper air.

Breaking the kiss with another little sound, Raylan wastes no time in drifting his lips along Tim's jaw and neck to the untouched side. Make them ask some questions. Goddamn - that statement was going to haunt him in the best way.

"I've wanted to do this with you for months. Wanted to know what you sound like, taste like." He nips at Tim's neck, hand moving from Tim's waist to between them to gather their cocks together in his fist and start stroking lazily. "I want to feel what it's like inside of you."

It would be embarrassing later, that he admitted that out loud, but chances had to be taken. He wouldn't be upset if Tim said that this was as far as they went though - he knew too well some of the hang-ups that could be stuck onto the act and hornier than he was at 17 or not, he would never push for something more than what his partner was comfortable with. This was about trust as much as it was about desire, and only one of those things could be irrevocably broken with thoughtless actions.

Tim laughs breathlessly. It's not at Raylan, but at his own disbelief. Not only is this actually happening, but it turns out that Raylan's wanted it as long as Tim has. And yes, the words do a lot to his dick, but they also do a lot to his heart. And Tim knows the second it skips and stutters in his chest, that he's absolutely fucked.

Literally and figuratively. Because the truth of it is, his feelings go a little deeper than lust, in a way that he's categorically refused to acknowledge or address. Wanting to be bent over and screwed senseless by his partner is a lot different than wanting to wake up next to him the morning after. Sex is the easy part, and it's all the little feelings in between that complicate things. Tim goes to great lengths to keep shit uncomplicated. He sleeps with strangers, exclusively one night stands, never stays the night, and never invites anyone home because it's easier to leave a place than to kick somebody out of one.

If he were less drunk, he probably would've told Raylan to shut up and fuck him then. But the alcohol buzzes in his brain and the words for months make his ears ring, and his hand is running through Raylan's hair over and over again because he really just can't get enough of how it feels.

"You mean to tell me I could've had you like this months ago?" Not acting on this sooner is quickly ranking to be one of the biggest regrets of his life. Especially now that Raylan's skin is flush against his own, feeling better than he could've imagined. Tim's head drops back as that mouth moves along his neck, his breath hitching quietly in his throat when he feels those teeth against his skin. And when Raylan gathers their lengths together to stroke, Tim follows the touch with a lift of his hips.

When he speaks again, he cants his head to murmur directly in the other man's ear.

"Fuck me, Raylan."

It was a rush of validation, hearing that Tim wanted him too - that he hadn't been alone in it even though they both had no idea, clung so tightly to propriety and the ideals of keeping things 'simple'. Tim had his back. Raylan had Tim's. He couldn't figure it as more than just lust, everything in him rejecting those ideas because they just couldn't happen. Statistically, the chances... They both knew how Raylan's relationships tended to go.

In the morning, Raylan would reflect on what it might mean that they were doing this, admitting these things, but right now, Raylan's everything was focused on Tim's reactions. On how he lifts into him, on how good those fingers felt in his hair. Tim's words in his ear make him shiver. It also reassured him. If Tim was worried about him wearing a condom, he'd be more than happy to wrap it up, but he didn't seem to care in the moment so neither did Raylan.

He pulls back a little, enough to spit in his hand and reach down between them, rubbing the spit into Tim's hole and playfully almost threatening a fingering by the way he presses. But he doesn't take it further than that, primarily because he's too busy spitting on his fingers some more so he can make his cock a little slicker. There's no preamble or hesitation in the way he lines himself up, watching Tim's face as he teases him with a circular rub of velvet soft skin, but even he doesn't have the patience for that for more than a few heartbeats before he starts pressing himself into Tim's hot clutch.

He wanted to see Tim enjoy it, and wanted to make sure that if there was any pain, that he could be gentle about it. Never mind that the daydream about how Tim would take it was right up against the test of reality.

Tim has a lot of sex with a lot of strangers. He's always careful, always uses protection even in the drunkest of states. But Raylan's not a stranger. Raylan is his partner, the person who watches his back, the reason why he doesn't always need to position himself strategically to see the whole room when they're together. There's an implicit trust between them that Tim has only ever extended to his war-time brothers, and it exists here, too.

Tomorrow, his back is going to be very angry they're choosing to do this on the couch. Tonight, Tim isn't willing to part from Raylan long enough to move to the bedroom. Not right now, not with the heavy warmth of that body he's craved so long against his and those nimble fingers teasing against his hole. His legs lift, wrapping around the other man's waist, using the leverage to angle his hips and give his partner easier access.

There's nothing that could've prepared him for how it feels to have Raylan's cock pressing inside him. There's some discomfort, a little bit of pain that only shows in the brief crease of brows between closed eyes. But it all quickly gives way to the sheer pleasure of being stretched and filled. The hand that hasn't left Raylan's hair tangles and tightens as his breathing hitches and shudders, his back arching further off the couch the deeper that length slides into him.

If there was any hesitation or doubt left in Tim's mind, it's long gone once Raylan's buried fully inside him. All that matters now is enjoying this for what it is, and for every second he can get it. He grinds his hips upwards, groaning low in his throat as he feels every single inch of Raylan's cock.

Tim was fucking beautiful. The grip in his hair, the way Tim's breath coming tight and shuddered, the way he felt so tight around Raylan's length. Raylan drank in the sight of him, dark eyes almost black with his passion and singular focus. He grunts softly, eyelids fluttering as he sinks in balls deep, and he pauses for a few heartbeats, letting Tim's body get used to the invasion.

If they had lube, if they had something more reliable than the headless drive of passion, Raylan would take longer, would aim to fulfill every dirty thought that Tim had, with an easily given promise to take care of him in the aftermath of it all.

"We'll have to make up for lost time," he says, voice tight and husky as his hips start moving, thrusting shallowly but with a growing confidence if Tim can take it. Raylan was a gentle sort on the surface but underneath it, he was different. Arrogant. On the edge of possessive and aggressive. They weren't fragile men; they'd seen too much to be fragile and vulnerabilities that may come would never be classified by such by Raylan.

It doesn't take Tim long at all to adjust. They aren't fragile men, and Tim wasn't a fan of gentle sex. Soft touches and slow movements were best saved for married couples, in his opinion. He craves roughness, something hard and fast that both numbs his mind and makes him feel alive. There's no point in it if it doesn't make him sit a little stiffer in his chair the next day.

He doesn't expect to be disappointed, not if the way Raylan's thrusting picks up is anything to go by. Tim rocks his hips upwards in time for each one, finding a steadily increasing rhythm that has him pulling Raylan's hair and panting between moans.

"Then you better go hard," he groans, and for encouragement, his free hand comes up to rake blunt nails down his partner's spine.

He wants to see Raylan unravel at the seams, to witness first hand all that charm and confidence become something primal and animalistic, unable to control himself. He wants to find out how Raylan sounds and looks coming deep inside him.

Raylan was delighted to see that Tim could take it. That Tim wanted to take it like that because god, did Raylan want to give it to him. The groan and the nails down his back earn Tim a tight encouraged groan in return and a sharp snap of his hips, deep and hard, circling himself once or twice before he starts thrusting again.

One hand moves down Tim's leg, catching him by the knee and pulling it up, spreading Tim out underneath him so that he could roll his body, smoothing out the steady, firm pace of thrusts. Raylan's bangs had already fallen in front of his face, but that didn't get in the way of his view of Tim bent underneath him.

"Wanna make you feel me for days, put a hitch in that step of yours."

He feels that sharp snap all the way up his spine, a jolt of pleasure that steals an even louder moan from him than before. He'd like to think that if he were a little more sober, he'd be trying to be a little quieter for the sanity of his neighbors. But it actually has nothing to do with how drunk he is, and everything to do with who's doing this to him.

Raylan looks unbearably good-- hair falling into lust darkened eyes, muscles tense where he holds Tim against the couch. Firm and in control in that way Tim craves, but typically struggles to submit to for lack of trust. But that's obviously no concern with Raylan.

"Fuck." He has nothing smart to say to that, because the idea of Rachel looking across the office at him sideways every time he shifts uncomfortably in his chair is thrilling, and the euphoria that Raylan drives through his body with hard thrust is all-consuming. One hand drops between them, curling fingers around his own length to stroke in time with Raylan's movements.

Unless he got sign otherwise, Raylan was geared to go full tilt but all it would take was a word to stop him. In this state, he might have to be hit to snap out of it enough to listen but he'd stop as soon as it was registered.

Tim's moan comes with a tight grip of him around Raylan's cock, and he moans with his partner, feeding off the sound, fucking harder with the very specific purpose of driving Tim over the edge. Hell, in the moment, Raylan was fantasizing about taking Tim to bed, sleeping for a few hours, and waking him up again with a cock in his ass. If he fucks him right, will he earn the right to stay the night? To wrap Tim up in his arms, to wake up next to him?

He watches Tim stroke himself, grunting softly at how good it looked and enjoying the view before his free hand bats Tim's away so he can take over, long fingers matching the pace of his hips.

"I wanna be the only thing that makes you cum tonight."

Edited 2025-03-24 01:35 (UTC)

Tim would be hard pressed to stop him right now. Everything is white hot pleasure and sheer bliss, each of Raylan's relentless thrusts pushing him that much closer to the edge. Heat is pooling rapidly low in his belly, and it's not because he's drunk, or because he went out tonight with the intention of being picked up by a stranger and didn't. It's because Raylan is the one setting all of his senses on fire right now.

This can't be a one time thing. Ultimately, if all Raylan wants is a one night stand, there's nothing to be done about it. Tim will accept that this exhilarating, mind-blowing night is the only one he gets. But if there's a way to convince Raylan that this should happen again, and then again and again, he's going to find it.

There's control in the way that hand replaces his own, and laced within the words Raylan speaks. A sense of dominance that has Tim fully losing his mind, his moans starting to hold an edge of desperation.

"You're about to," he manages between labored breaths, because he can feel that pressure building and building and building, and it'll only be a matter of time before he's shaking apart entirely.

Hearing Tim like this was intoxicating.Tim held himself together so well, so effortlessly to the outside world that getting to see him on the edge of unraveling felt to Raylan like he was getting to watch something that only happened once every ten years or something. Or, perhaps, it had just been too long since Raylan let himself enjoy this kind of engagement.

He moans again at Tim's prediction, swearing softly under his panting- "Fuck, you feel so good" as his own pool of imaginable heat coils around the small low of his back. He had to restrain himself; had to strike the right balance between fucking Tim hard and deep and his own orgasm. The small grunts and half moans that had been slipping out with his breath had gone unheard by his own ears but they got louder as he pumps, as he races Tim towards climax, fully intending on following with him.

"I wanna watch it paint your chest, I wanna see how much you've wanted this." He didn't normally talk like this, but there has been something in the quality of Tim's sounds that egged him on towards it.

What he didn't expect out of this was for Raylan to be so chatty, but he's not complaining. Quite the opposite, in fact-- each word in that honeyed accent spurs him on further, turning his grunts and moans into something more desperate and heady. If he weren't so drunk, if Raylan didn't feel so damn good slamming into him, he'd be making more of an effort to swallow down his own noises so he could hear more of Raylan's. As it is, their groans mix and linger between them in a way that's too intoxicating.

It's only a few short moments before Raylan's getting what he wants. He can only swear, a short string of fucks and Jesus Christ as he's pushed right over that edge, hot and sticky cum striping his stomach and chest. His whole body tenses and tightens, back arching fully off the couch as he throws his head back. Both arms wrap around to dig his fingers into the other man's shoulders, practically clinging as he rides out wave after wave of sheer euphoric pleasure.

His ears are ringing and his head is swimming and it's insane just how much better this was than the many nights spent with his fantasies and right hand.

Watching Tim unravel beneath him was better than his imagination could have ever crafted, the half panted swears and the arch of Tim's back shoving Raylan over his own edge. His hips and his hand doesn't stop their sweet assault, unloading with a shuddered breath that shivered down his whole body. His hips bury him deep for it and while his hand lets Tim go, his hips can't help but continue to thrust, slowing down to a stop like a machine that has to wind down.

Raylan needs a few heartbeats, eyes dark and glassy, before he lowers himself down a little. He keeps their stomachs and chests apart but bends his head to rest it on Tim's shoulders as he deals with the whiteout of his vision and the drumming in his ears. Goddamn.

"Jesus," he mutters against Tim's shoulder. He was gonna need a minute before he moves again.

Another hard shiver runs through his body from head to toe, groaning softly at the feeling of hot semen shooting deep inside of him. He watches the beautifully controlled way Raylan shudders apart -- hair falling into dark eyes, pupils blown out with lust -- and commits every detail of it to his drunken memory. At bare minimum, he'll be thinking about that expression every time he jerks off for weeks.

Tim laughs softly, because yeah. Jesus. The tempo of his heart is trying to slow, hard breaths beginning to even out, but his mind still feels clouded with a dizzying afterglow. His hand moves back into Raylan's hair, fingers idly winding around and through the soft locks, now a bit damp with sweat.

"Yeah." He can tell without even moving that he's definitely going to be stiff and sore tomorrow. "We should've done that sooner."

Those idle fingers in his hair gets a soft, sighed out hum of a note and he huffs a breath in agreement, dropping a kiss onto the hickey that was darkening on Tim's neck. Pushing back up onto his elbows, Raylan smiles down at Tim, answering as his hips shift to dislodge himself from Tim's clutch.

"No time like the present, hmm?"

He didn't dare ask if it was going to happen again. Instead, he would enjoy his view of Tim underneath him, the comfort of the weight of his legs on Raylan's, and not try to worry about what came next. Cuddling post sex was one of Raylan's favorite activities but that was less easy to do on a couch covered in wetness that would be quickly getting cold.

"You got paper towels or somethin' in the kitchen? Unless you go real old-school and hate your shirts."

Edited 2025-03-25 18:50 (UTC)

There's a soft, pleased noise from Tim when Raylan pulls out. He settles back into the couch for the time being. If he tries to stand right now, his legs will be trembling, and it seems like a bad thing to try to combine with the unsteadiness he already feels from the alcohol. Besides, Raylan seems more than content to take charge of the cleanup, and Tim wants the chance to get more unfettered views of that lean body.

"Not my drinkin' shirts," he mutters, and reaches down to snag his flannel from beside the couch, balling it up and throwing it towards the open door of his bedroom with surprisingly good accuracy given his inebriation.

The apartment is small and open, so he's able to just point across the room where the kitchen is half visible. Traditionally, this is where things get awkward, and where Tim typically dips out before the dust has even settled. But, well-- this is his place, and he knows without a doubt that Raylan would leave if he made the desire known, and maybe that's why that desire isn't there at all.

Tim isn't usually the kind to want that close contact after sex, but he also usually doesn't invite people in, or fuck someone whose last names he knows, or want to do it again in the near future. He bets Raylan would look fantastic tangled up in his bed sheets, and he's quiet as he tries to figure out the most nonchalant way to invite Raylan to stay.

Raylan pulls back slightly, giving Tim the room to chuck his shirt and chuckling at the dedicated resolve about it. He gets the nod of direction and nods himself, slowly and carefully (and reluctantly) pulling himself back up onto his knees and onto his feet. He wasn't a hundred percent stable, but he was less drunk than Tim and less likely to cause himself some head injury from a fall in their most vulnerable situation.

Confident in his body, Raylan wasn't embarrassed to be seen naked or, apparently, to stroll across Tim's apartment to the kitchen. Quickly wiping himself down, he gets a glass of water and a few more paper towels and pads back to Tim.

"Figured a swallow or two of water wouldn't go amiss. All that noise we made. You're not gonna get complaints in the mornin', are you?"

Now that his only task was done, he was going to have to figure out what to do with himself. Sitting back down was, somehow, not an option. You just didn't put your bare ass on another man's couch like that. So, instead, he hunts for his pants, fishing his boxer shorts out from them. If nothing else, it might look like he's getting dressed, rather than stalling.

Tim watches openly and unashamed as Raylan crosses the room, taking in the lovely curve of his ass and the nice set of his shoulders. He could easily get used to this, Raylan walking confidently through his apartment wearing nothing at all. Too easily, maybe. But that doesn't stop him from watching on the walk back either, and goddamn are those hip bones tantalizing. If he were a little younger and a little less drunk, he'd be angling for round two right now.

"I hope so," he answers, with a little bit of a shit-eating grin.

He takes the water first, not realizing how dry his throat is until he's taking a drink. Setting it aside, he goes about cleaning himself up, wiping at his stomach and chest before shifting a little stiffly to clean up Raylan's bodily fluids on him, too. The paper towels are tossed, also accurately, into a nearby trash can before he pushes himself into a somewhat more upright position.

God, yeah. He's gonna be sore as hell tomorrow. Following suit, he finds his boxer briefs and pulls them on, still moving a bit gingerly. Really, he's just doing a bit of stalling of his own. His heart skips uncomfortably in his chest before he speaks again.

"Could try for more of 'em in the mornin'."

To hell with a little younger; catch Raylan more sober and two rounds were achieved easily enough, with gusto. Maybe some part of it was an eternal fight against his age. He did well in things that made him a man and old age threatens to steal it from him. Maybe it was just pride and health.

The boxers snap in place and instead of getting his jeans, Raylan grins at Tim's shit stirring nature and the results that it would no doubt get, grabbing his half finished whiskey and emptying it down his throat. He tries to look busy kicking one boot upright, but watches sidelong as Tim gets up and pulls on his boxers. He was a little sad that stretch of skin from chest to knee was getting covered up, that unbroken line was always a delicious one. He bends down and gets his jeans-

The invitation made his heart skip a beat. Of course he was going to say yes. Only an idiot would get dressed and leave after that suggestion. He was a weak man sometimes, but this one didn't bother him. There was nothing wrong with wanting contact, connection. Wanting Tim. Right? He looks over and after a heartbeat of his own, drops his jeans.

"We talkin' six AM wake up?" He gives Tim a crooked smile and ambles closer, pushing his limits and sliding his hand around Tim's waist as he steps in. "Do I get to be the big spoon?"

There's a second where Tim thinks Raylan's going to turn him down. And while he'd accept it, because it's honestly probably for the best, it would really fucking suck. It's not like he puts himself out there often. Or at all. Which has less to do with rejection and more to do with not wanting to saddle anyone else with his baggage. This is likely just a step in the direction of making things messy and complicated anyway, so maybe Raylan's right to call it here--

But then the jeans clatter back to the floor and Raylan's hitting him with that crooked smile, and Tim almost can't believe that worked. Just like that, Raylan's staying the night. They'll wake up intertwined with wandering hands and he'll be able to experience Raylan again in a whole new light.

His mouth twists in that way that indicates he's trying not to smile, hands sliding flat up Raylan's chest and shoulders, crossing arms loosely behind his neck. He doesn't even mind that he has to look upwards a few inches to view Raylan properly. There's even something he likes about it.

"You can try to sleep in," he offers, "But I plan on makin' it real hard."

He didn't quite expect Tim to go full arms around his neck, an easy but intimate posture that somehow suggested to Raylan that they could get comfortable standing like this together. It made something in his chest go warm. Yes, this was probably going to be messy, definitely complicated considering their job, the position they both held in the office. But that had never stopped Raylan before and he knew Tim had baggage. They all had it in some manner, and Tim's flavor of baggage wasn't something Raylan minded. He would support Tim, regardless of what was happening between them. If things went south-- well, he'd deal with that bridge when they came across it.

For right now, all he wanted was what Tim was offering. The chance to lay down properly in a bed, wrap himself around the sniper, and pretend that this wasn't going to be complicated. Better to look at everything in the morning anyway.

"Oh, you know I love a challenge," he chuckles as he bends to steal Tim's lips in a kiss, one hand sliding down to rest on the top of his ass.

"Lead the way, darlin'."

Almost every aspect of this situation is foreign to Tim. They're at his place, spending the night together, about to fall asleep all tangled up. It's so far removed from the string of one night stands with no last names that he subscribes to. The one thing that is familiar about it is Raylan, and that creates a sense of security that he's not used to outside of them kicking down doors together. But it's enough for Tim to lean into what he wants instead of shy away from it.

The alcohol also helps. Kind of a problematic amount, but that's just more of that baggage.

"I know, it's usually a pain in my ass."

And now he can mean that figuratively and literally. He smirks into the kiss, giving Raylan's hair a light tug before moving to lead the way. His stomach does something stupid and fluttery at being called darlin', but it's studiously ignored. He points out the bathroom as they pass it, and kicks the flannel he'd thrown into the doorway toward a laundry basket.

The bedroom is much like the living room in that there's not much in the way of personal belongings. A dresser with a TV across from the bed, which is impeccably made with neat creases and lined folds. There's another framed photo of the same older blonde woman on one of the bedside tables, and next to it a very battered copy of The Wizard of Oz.

The light switch is ignored, but he turns on the lamp beside the bed as he starts to pull back the bed sheets, moving a bit stiffly each time he has to bend at the waist.

The tug in his hair earns a hum and a flash of impishness in his expression as the kiss breaks, playful eyes following Tim before the rest of his body did. Ironically, he thought of the same exact joke - wasn't he a real pain in the ass now - but he didn't know how comfortable Tim was with that kind of commentary. He knew how comfortable he was about it, but that comfort depended entirely on if he felt secure in his situation. Tim and his apartment were safe. Tim had- no, shared - some secrets that Raylan did; on the plainest level, they faced the same threat.

Raylan gets to enjoy the full view of Tim's back as they're led along, him glancing around the room, eyes lingering for a moment on what must be a picture of Tim's mother before his attention is drawn to which side of the bed Tim got in on. Important information. The stiff movements get a smirk, but Raylan doesn't say anything until he crawls into the sheets next to Tim.

"I snore too loud, just elbow me real hard."

He waits until Tim turns off the light to drape a loose arm over Tim's waist, scooting fractionally closer. He unabashedly loved this shit, though it was always better if they fell into tangles for those post sex cuddles he enjoyed so much. Once they were both settled, Raylan pushes his luck a little further and drops a kiss onto Tim's shoulder without a word - a silent 'Thank you' before he drifts off.

"Don't gotta tell me twice," Tim murmurs, but his voice holds an unmistakable teasing tone.

It takes him a moment of shifting to truly get settled. He expects to have more trouble with it than he does. It's easily been years since he's shared his bed with someone in this capacity, and having another body behind him feels strange at first. But it's Raylan, and that means the arm that settles over his waist is safe, and the kiss that's placed on his shoulder is soothing. It only takes a short moment for Tim to properly relax, leaning back somewhat into Raylan's chest as he falls asleep.

--

Tim doesn't dream that night, and that means it's a good night. Bad nights are plagued by nightmares, which are the only dreams he ever has anymore. Those result in him waking up in a blind panic, ears ringing, teeth gritting on sand that's not there, nose burning from invisible gunpowder. And for the rest of the day, he's never quite able to get that dryness out of the back of his throat.

The right amount of alcohol helps to stave them off. So does the right kind of bone rattling sex, and he got both last night.

Sunlight is just starting to seep through the curtains, but like always, it's Tim's natural biological clock that causes him to stir. They've shifted throughout the night, Raylan on his back and Tim on his side just a few inches away. It's nice, waking up first. It means Tim has a moment to lay there and stare at his partner in the morning light.

First, he's taken by the reality that Raylan's even there, that last night really happened and it wasn't all some very elaborate, vivid, alcohol-fueled fantasy. But then there's the fact that Raylan looks unfairly gorgeous like this, sheets pooled at his waist, hair a tousled mess, expression relaxed to the point of almost vulnerable. Tim almost doesn't want to ruin it, but, well--

He did say he was going to make it hard to sleep in.

He inches closer until he's pressed along Raylan's side, leaning up so that he can press slow, gentle kisses along the stretch of skin that's Raylan's collarbone, gradually working up his neck. One hand snakes beneath the sheets, fingers trailing lazily over the delicious curve of those hipbones before ghosting along the side of Raylan's cock.

In contrast, Raylan has spent plenty of time in random beds and was an old hat (badumtish) at getting comfortable next to a new body. Not that he wanted to be loud about that, but he adjusted around Tim's adjustments and settled easily. He could nap anywhere to start with, so being laid out in a bed with a person he gave cared about meant that he drifts right off to sleep.

He had his own good and bad nights, a few nightmares of his own but nothing that came near to the trauma of real war. His nightmares also tended to have a trigger - too much dangerous stress after a particularly gruesome or thinnly won gunfight, sometimes the ugliness that they saw on the street or in the jungle, or when he was too deep in his own head. Something he would call regular for someone doing their job. It kept him from bed all together, sometimes. Obviously not a problem tonight.

The draw up out of the blissful black of sleep was a quick one, Tim only getting a few of those kisses in before Raylan's waking was announced with that sharp intake of breath through his nose and a soft hum that shifted into a moan as Tim's fingers trace over and across him, finding the mostly hard length of morning wood. His hips lift into the touch, hand sliding off his stomach and pushing its way under Tim's arm, fingers looking for hip or thigh or- anything really. Contact. Encouragement. All he knew was that he was warm and bed lazy and he welcomed however Tim wanted to greet the day.

It makes sense that Raylan's quick to wake. Tim is, too; it's the nature of their jobs, providing a sense of awareness that's always ready to be flicked on at the drop of a hat. Or in this case, a kiss of the neck. It's nice, feeling the hum in Raylan's throat beneath his lips. Raylan's hand finds his hip, and Tim let's it stay there for a moment while he traces lazy fingers over the dips of hipbones and the curve of Raylan's thighs, only ever brushing feather-light touches along Raylan's length as he does.

This only lasts for a few moments though. Last night was incredible, but he never got the opportunity to find out what Raylan's cock tastes like. And now he's in the perfect position to do just that. Without stopping the gentle kisses along Raylan's clavicle, he shifts to put himself between his partner's legs, bracing a hand on either side of Raylan so that he's hovering. He kisses down the center of his chest, over the lines between the muscles of his stomach, shifting himself further beneath the sheet as he goes.

This could easily devolve into something more hurried and eager eventually, but for now it's only 6 AM, and Tim's content with taking his time.

For right now, they had forever. A mindset that had gotten Raylan in trouble for being late more than a few times. It was always worth it. Finally cracking an eye open, Raylan smiles that lazy crooked smile as he shifts where needed to let Tim more easily fit down there, hand moving to settle on Tim's arm as he watches from under heavy lids.

Who didn't love this kinda wake up. He only gave half a thought to what Tim might think about what he found down there - circumcision was common among most people, which always made the reaction to him being uncircumcised a 50/50 draw on where they'd land. He was also glad he cleaned himself up before they came to bed last night.

It would be a lie to say he hadn't thought about Tim between his legs, spreading him out the way he had the sniper the night before, but he didn't know about how he would really take that. It had been years. But a blowjob was like a handshake, get a grip and hold on.

Tim is faultlessly punctual, something that became engrained in him in the very first week of his basic training. It's hard to shake the 'fifteen minutes prior to fifteen minutes prior' mentality. Then again, he's not typically waking up with a devastatingly handsome man in his bed, and he can't say he'd be terribly mad if he was a little late for the first time in his career with the marshals.

Though it would be suspicious if they came in late together, especially in combination with the purple-red marks he knows decorate his throat. He's not really concerned about that right now, because he's gotten himself settled between Raylan's legs and can see what he's working with.

It really is a blue moon for Tim to come across a dick he doesn't want to put in his mouth, and that's definitely not the case here. He's far from disappointed. Delighted, actually. It wouldn't be his first uncircumcised dick, but it is a very short list he wished was longer. He makes a very pleased noise low in his throat, ducking his head to place a gently nipping kiss against Raylan's inner thigh. He wraps long, nimble fingers around Raylan's length, stroking firmly but slowly so he can watch as the skin slides back to fully reveal the head. With his gaze trained up again, he leans forward to drag his tongue flat over the tip.

The sound from Tim was reassuring and while there was no part of Raylan that doubted Tim knew what to do with a cock with a sock, there was a relief that came from hearing it. One that will be re-enforced as Tim goes further. There had been a whole slate of things Raylan's brain had been readying itself to face in the light of the morning, but those were completely forgotten as he keeps his eyes down, entranced by the whole situation.

They could plan the plan for work when his brain was actually functioning on a higher level.

It was amazing how sensitive those spots that never got touched were. Raylan sucks in a short sharp pinch of air at the nipping kiss, thighs spreading a little to give Tim whatever he wanted, and held it until it slips out of his mouth with a soft moan at the firm stroke. His stomach flutters with a shudder of pleasure at the lick across him and his hands search for any way to touch Tim, even if it's a drape of his fingertips on a forearm. They already itched to card through Tim's hair, but he didn't want to rush a single second of this.

Those were some delightful noises. Quiet but loud in the silence of the morning, unbidden by the clinging haze of sleep. As long as he can keep drawing those moans and gasps past Raylan's lips, it's going to be a fantastic morning. And maybe it's greedy, but even with the clarity of being sober, he already knows he's going to want many more mornings just like this one.

He gives a few more strokes before settling his grip at the base, his free arm coming up to rest heavily over Raylan's hips. It'll give him something to hold onto, and allow Tim to keep him in place when he inevitably starts trying to shift upwards. He drags his tongue from base to tip, swirling it around the head a few times. He repeats this process twice, really and truly taking his time, before finally taking it past his lips, sinking his mouth down lower and lower until it meets his fingers around the base. He stays like that for a few seconds before slowly pulling back and adopting a lazy pace for bobbing his head.

Everything was suddenly hooked and contingent on Tim taking his whole length, Raylan's breath caught in the back of his throat as he was teased. The sweet promise made by Tim's tongue kept him on a tightwire, right hand creeping over to softly grip his forearm. Touch was an anchor for him, something helped him feel like he had some control on floating off into pleasure.

Tim swallows him down and Raylan can't help but groan, low and tight from the back of his throat at the wash of lusty relief, and puts Tim's restraining arm to use. His hips lift slightly with the sound, but it only takes a little pressure for him to force himself to relax into the bed and let Tim wind him up. That thought alone, Tim being the one to wind him up twists with his desire in his chest, a feeling that is batted away in favor of focusing on how good Tim feels around him.

His off hand slides into Tim's hair, settling on his head but not pushing or urging. He already wanted to bury himself into Tim like he had last night and the small part of him that could have coherent thoughts only hoped that he got to wrap around his partner one more time before he has to face the possibility that this was just a one night stand. The possibility that they've ruined their working relationship. Right now, there was just this.

They have a few hours before they're expected to be anywhere. Even with part of that time taken up by Raylan needing to stop back at his place for at least a change of clothes and Tim needing to be dropped off at his car, it's plenty of time to have a lot of different kinds of fun. With any luck, they'll eventually be fully intertwined and will stay that way until the clock starts ticking too late.

He feels Raylan strain briefly against his arm, just as encouraging as the hand sinking into his hair. His slow, steady pace begins to increase, stilling every so often with Raylan's cock buried deep in his throat, holding it there for a few seconds each time before continuing. His tongue works around the length, taking his time with finding each of Raylan's sensitive spots to drag more of those lovely noises out of him. He's very intent on finding out just how much he can make Raylan push against his arm, just how hard he can get those hips bucking.

What he'd really like is to have those hands tight in his hair while Raylan slams his cock into the back of Tim's throat, leaving him gasping and watery-eyed. Maybe he'll get that this morning. Maybe another time, if there is another time. The maybes and possibilities feel endless right now. An unpredictable future, because even now, Raylan's keeping him on his toes.

The first hold, the deep bury of his length down Tim's throat earns a breathed out "Fuck," fingers tightening in Tim's hair like Raylan would hold on with the confidence of a bull rider. They loosened a little a moment later as Raylan registers that he's gripped. It wasn't that he was trying to be gentle, per se, only that he didn't know what Tim liked, what he didn't like. Part of the fun was always finding out.

There had never been any doubt in his mind that Tim was good at this, but it was different to be under those imagined skills and if Raylan had any sense of mind, he might be a little self conscious about the half, back of the throat moans that Tim was earning. His hips thrust up shallowly, unable to stop himself, restrained only by Tim's arm. Heat was already starting to coil low in his stomach and he was torn between choosing to let himself go down the path of unload down Tim's throat and pulling the man up so they could finish together. It hardly seemed fair, only one of them getting off, and Raylan wasn't sure if Tim would let him into a shower with him.

"How hard do you want it," he husks out with a breath. "How far down your throat can we bury it." It was a question, even if his tone didn't help that suggestion.

The hand in his hair tightens, just briefly, but Tim groans low in his throat in response, eyes slipping closed. His cock twitches where it's trapped between him and the bed, constrained by the thin fabric of his boxer briefs. His hips shift of their own accord, reflexively seeking some amount of relief. Raylan's voice comes as a nice distraction, Tim's lust-darkened gaze flicking back up again.

He removes his arm, instead curling his fingers into the sheets next to Raylan's hip. He pulls back just enough to speak, voice low with desire.

"Don't hold back."

He sinks his lips back over Raylan's cock, the second hand curling into the blankets to mirror it's mate on the other side, relinquishing all control to his partner. He doesn't intend on letting Raylan come this way, although he'd love to feel that hot load shoot down his throat. He's greedy, and he definitely wants to be fucked into the mattress now that they have more room than the couch.

Tim's groan and the way it vibrates around him tells Raylan almost all he needs to know. The removal of the arm, the clearance, god the way Tim grips into the sheets. Somehow that was hotter than everything else. Like Tim was preparing to be throat fucked properly. Jesus. Everything in him wanted to give that preparation exactly what it was readying for. And he would.

Raylan can't help his own groan, hand tightening back up in Tim's hair as he watches, as he thrusts, as he starts hitting the back of Tim's throat with each lift of his hips. He couldn't get enough of the view, of the reality that Tim was letting him do this, that Tim wanted him to do this.

"Like it when I fuck yer throat, don't you." This one wasn't really a question, and it was topped with a gentle hold of his cock down Tim's throat, waiting a few beats before relenting and letting the younger man breath again.

This is where it shifts, where the slow, sensual morning naturally begins to give way to a needy desperation. Tim's eyes slip closed, relishing the way Raylan's cock stretches his lips, the slide of the length against his hollowed out cheeks as Raylan fucks roughly into his mouth. His throat's going to be sore after this -- just one more thing in the long list of reasons he's going to be thinking about Raylan's everything all day long.

It's a wonderfully obscene combination, the huskily spoken words and the feeling of Raylan's cock held deep in his throat for those few moments. Tim moans, something that would've been relatively loud if it weren't muffled around a mouthful of cock, swallowing to keep from choking.

Fingers curl into the sheets a little bit tighter, inhaling deeply through his nose once he gets the chance. His hands are where they are to give himself something to hold onto, but also to give him the leverage to pull back if Raylan tries to come too soon.

The moan sent a primal kind of thrill through Raylan, and he knew he was in trouble. He can't help but think about what Tim said last night - that they should have done this sooner. Raylan was a greedy man, masquerading as a gentleman, and the more of Tim's sounds he heard, the more he wanted, and he was already hungry for them after the night before.

There's a sharp grunt of breath out as Raylan continues, another low groan following it as his head falls back, eyes closed as that heat coils tight around his low stomach.

"Tim-" he warns, unable to say anything else or provide any other hints. If they didn't stop right now, he was absolutely going to fill Tim's mouth with more than just flesh.

It's too easy to get lost in this feeling -- Raylan fucking roughly into his mouth, filling the back of his throat, combined with that hand twisting into his hair, not too tight but tight enough. It's a concentrated effort to pay attention to those movements, the growing uneven jerk of Raylan's hips, his name being spoken in warning.

He pulls back all at once, releasing Raylan from his mouth and denying him the chance to unload. Crawling back up his partner's body, he's smirking when he leans down to capture Raylan's mouth in a lazy, open-mouthed kiss.

"Good mornin'."

His voice is quiet, a little hoarse from the previous abuse, and he doesn't quite pull back far enough to not be murmuring it against Raylan's lips.

The groan of protest that comes from Raylan is almost pained, joined by the trembling of his body at the denial but he doesn't try to hold Tim there, hands much preferring to move across his skin as he moves up. One palm moves over Tim's ass as Raylan fervently kisses him back and he smirks at the greeting.

"Very good," he murmurs back, kissing Tim again as that hand works it's way under the waistband of his boxers. His off hand helps pull them down over Tim's backside before wrapping up to drape his fingers at the nape of Tim's neck. "Almost perfect," he husks, breaking the kiss so he can roll them over, the hand not holding his weight slipping between them to pull the front fabric down to free Tim's length to bump between their stomachs.

It was dangerous to even think but god he could get used to this. Waking up to Tim, blowjobs or not, just the solidness of him something Raylan had always found reassuring. He was deadly and beautiful and a little bruised and battered, and now letting Raylan see into the most vulnerable part of him. How the soft mornings could be, before they were awake enough to let any sense or reason stop them.

Edited 2025-04-06 21:09 (UTC)

The way Raylan groans and shakes from the denial is quite possibly one of the hottest things Tim has ever seen. It's a reaction he'd like to elicit from Raylan over and over again, until he's a writhing, whimpering mess beneath Tim's hands and mouth. Maybe, if Tim ever gets to do this again. If he ever gets another chance to wake up with Raylan in his bed. Or him in Raylan's bed. He's not picky.

His heart beats a little unevenly in his chest, and he tells himself it's just the anticipation. Just the anticipation that builds with Raylan's hand on his ass, pushing his underwear down to expose more of his skin to the cooler air. Just the way he's rolled onto his back, inhaling sharply when his cock is freed from the confines of the fabric. Anticipation and desire and lust. Nothing more.

"You about to show me what a perfect mornin' looks like?"

He arches his hips upwards, giving a pleased hum when he feels both their lengths caught between their stomachs.

Raylan gives him a toothy half pulled grin, hips pushing forwards with a gentle grind, bangs wild and half in his eyes. Bending, he brushes his lips across Tim's as he answers with a brief chuckle.

"Guess you're gonna have to tell me, ain't ya."

He pulls back, tugging at the boxers until he could cast them aside and drop himself gently back down to kiss Tim all over again. Seems he couldn't quite get enough of that, like a thirsty man sipping at a shallow pool. He wishes they had lube and makes a note to buy them some for- Well. Later was later. Now was now.

Raylan spits into his hand, smearing it against Tim's hole before repeating the move to slick himself a little. He watches Tim's face, hungry to watch the reaction of his invasion with non-drunk eyes, like he was verifying that Tim was a glorious in the morning light as he was in the evening dark. Rubbing his tip against him, Raylan hitches a groan himself as he starts to press in.

His heart skips again-- it's that fucking grin, and the sunlight coming through the window, catching and highlighting the lighter streaks in his hair, and the way his body cages Tim's and Tim still feels wholly comfortable. He's not drunk now, he can't keep pretending like it's just the sex.

And even knowing he's fully fucked, he kisses back hungrily, exploring as much of that mouth with his tongue as he can before Raylan's pulling away. The second he suggests they do this again -- and he is going to suggest it before the morning's over -- he'll be leading himself into an inescapable trench, always stifling growing feelings with each hook-up. A unique kind of self-destruction.

He settles into the bed, spreading his legs a little further to give Raylan better access. His hands slide up the other man's forearms and over his shoulders, coming to rest in the hair at the nape of his neck. His breath catches in his throat when Raylan's length starts to press past the tight ring of muscle, lips parting, head sinking back against the pillows. It feels just as incredible as it did last night. Better, actually, now that his senses aren't dulled from alcohol.

It was offical. Tim was glorious, head rolled back, breath all caught because of him. It was its own high and Raylan can't stop himself from bending down to pepper lazy kisses up the top of Tim's chest as he starts thrusting. Last night was for heady reckless need and Tim had driven Raylan to that already this morning, but he wanted to make sure they both enjoyed as much as they could.

He moans softly as he buries himself deep, nipping at the bruise on Tim's neck, sucking as a hand slides up to slip itself around Tim's shoulder. Sweet nothings rattle behind Raylan's teeth, held back by the bearing reality and self consciousness and he breathes them out in another moan across Tim's skin as he starts moving faster and harder. His off hand slides down the line of Tim's body, gripping his ass as Raylan drills into him with long, strong strokes. He wanted to drive Tim to the edge, to unravel him, to hold him as he comes undone around Raylan's attentions.

"I love the way you sound," he murmurs. "I wanna make sure your neighbors get a sample." The pace is paused with a deep bury, a roll of his hips, shallow thrusts giving way again to the long steady pound. He meant to back up that desire properly, instead of the hasty need of the night before.

Jesus. He didn't realize how drunk he was the night before, how muffled everything actually was. Truthfully-- it's been a long time since he's had sex sober. There would probably be a lot to unpack there if he ever went to therapy, but, well. He's been ignoring that particular suggestion of his mother's for almost two years, he's not going to start listening now.

Without the alcohol running through his veins, everything feels that much more intense. Raylan's length buries all the way to the hilt, filling him perfectly and leaving him stretched to his limit. Tim can barely keep he groan in the back of his throat.

Those teeth find the already aching mark on the side of his neck, and that's really the beginning of the end for Tim. A sharp intake of breath precedes the moan as a bright jolt of pleasure shoots up his spine. Raylan moves faster, harder, clearly recalling exactly how Tim liked it from last night. One hand moves above his head, flattening against the headboard to keep Raylan from quite literally fucking him up the mattress. His back arches, both legs hitching around Raylan's waist so that he can shift the position of his hips, searching for that perfect angle, right there.

"Fuck, Raylan--"

It's loud, easily carrying over the creaking of the bed as Raylan thrusts. The head of Raylan's cock nails that sweet bundle of nerves inside him, and Tim sees stars as his whole body tenses briefly. At this rate, he really will have a stack of noise complaints by the time he gets home tonight.

Some younger, less experienced men tended to hear that kind of endorsement and do something stupid like doing something different. Raylan knew better. He kept his exact pace, his exact angle, thoroughly enjoying the fact that Tim has to brace himself on the headboard against the assault and the way his tensing gripped Raylan's length like a soft vice. Gone were the husky words of last night - Raylan was more chatty when he was buzzed than not - replaced by that focused attention that got Raylan more trouble than he asks for outside.

His breath stays hot and ragged on Tim's neck, nipping kisses moving across his collarbone, hand wrapped around Tim's shoulder helping to pull his weight down. The cry of his name makes his stomach twist with desire even as they were swimming in pleasure, making him drive harder like he had something to prove. And maybe he did - some part of his male pride demanded he performed well in bed, to ensure that his lovers ranked him high, wanted him back for seconds or thirds. And it was Tim. Raylan was sure he was stacking up against a lot of one night stands and wild nights the like he himself hadn't seen in two decades.

He wonders too, briefly, if he'll be able to make Tim cum with nothing other than this - nothing other than Raylan slamming into that magic spot and filling him. He did fit perfectly inside the sniper in a way he would avoid looking too deeply at later.

Raylan knows exactly what he's doing. That much was made evident from last night, but it's far more clear in the sober light of day. That intuitiveness clearly lends itself to something more than just narrowly avoiding being shot. And a part of Tim already knew Raylan had to be good in bed -- the long list of women he'd gotten himself into trouble with in the short time they've known each other proves that. But it's another thing to experience it, the way Raylan seems to intrinsically know how to fuck him just right.

Tim's moans don't lessen. They only get louder, more continuous, punctuated by grunts each time those hips snap forward. It's relentless and intense and entirely all-consuming, and Tim knows he's going to plunge over that edge far faster than he wants to. The one hand stays firmly planted against the headboard, which has started to thump against the wall behind it, and he makes a vague mental note to move it forward a few inches. For next time. There has to be a next time.

The other hand stays tangled in Raylan's hair, not pulling or pushing but simply gripping like it's an anchor. He doesn't feel like he can let go without fully drowning in the pleasure, certainly not long enough to touch himself. Ultimately, he doesn't think he's going to need to. Not with the way Raylan's rhythmically pounding into that spot and his own length catches between their stomachs occasionally. He can feel that raw, tight heat building quick and steady in his core.

Tim's sounds wash over Raylan and right into his veins, like a drug. It left him moaning out with his breath with each thrust, fingers tightening on Tim's hip as he keeps driving on like a piston in an engine. Given a whole day, he would gladly ride Tim into any surface the man wanted or, alternatively, maybe let Tim drive him into a surface or two, but the fact that they had life waiting on them felt normal in a way Raylan was sure they were both going to need.

The hand in his hair felt just as good as everything else, urging him on to finish the job, to fuck Tim right. Sweat starts to prick at the corners of Raylan's hairline, bead on his shoulders and neck as he pounds away, and he starts having to create mental distractions to avoid cumming too soon.

But as soon as Tim tips over that edge, as soon as his body clamps down and thrums on Raylan, he gasps out a husky-"Oh fuck-," he pushes up onto his elbow, thrusting speeding up as he races over his own end and pausing, buried deep in Tim as he unloads. He got only half a look at Tim arching and lost in pleasure before his eyes have to close under the wash of sensations. Cum or not, his body still wanted and Raylan steals Tim's lips up in a deep kiss as his hips start moving again, more slowly but no less deep.

As though he couldn't just stop. As though he had to sample Tim a little more before he lets the day take them.

Tim can't say anything, can't find enough words to string together for any kind of warning, let alone a whole sentence. That dam breaks like its been hit with a wrecking ball, crumbling apart all at once as wave after crashing wave of pleasure washes over him. All he can do is moan and rack up those noise complaints, cling to Raylan like the other man is the only thing keeping him afloat in the sea of euphoria. He feels Raylan follow shortly after, filling him with a hot, sticky load. It's filthy and obscene and a feeling he could definitely get used to.

They kiss, still rocking against each other slowly. A decidedly unhurried come down, which is nice. Because after this is when they actually have to face what's happened. Fucking drunk, falling sleep together, fucking sober -- they're past the point of being able to blame it on the alcohol, now. And they have to be on the same page before they're sitting side-by-side at work.

He's still in no hurry though as he unwinds himself from Raylan, unhitching his legs, lowering his hand from the headboard. The one in Raylan's hair stays though, lazily stroking as he chases Raylan's mouth for a few more short kisses.

"I don't think I'm gonna be able to look the 90 year old lady who lives below me in the eye again."

The drive of Raylan's thrusts slow to a stop in the span of those few short kisses, head dropping down to almost rest on Tim's shoulder as Raylan tries to catch his breath. Tim untangles from him but there's no rush from him to hurry, so Raylan doesn't. He doesn't think about later either, or them at work. It was a can he would kick down the road as far as he could.

Those kinds of conversations tended to close doors, in Raylan's experience. 'This was nice but-'. Putting off that gut punch of demanded discipline again, which he feared would be harder, now that he'd fully gotten to enjoy a night with his partner. Now that he knew what it was like to hold Tim against him in the lazy warmth of bed and what it felt like to sleep next to him.

He can't help but huff half a laugh at Tim's new conundrum, shifting his hips to slide himself out as he lifts up enough to bring Tim's face into focus, wearing that shit eating grin again.

"If she gives you any looks, bring her a pie and a smile. It'll charm her right into defendin' your right to be young," he drawls, shifting himself out from between Tim's leg but settling next to him, one hand staying on Tim's hip. "Maybe you'll get lucky and she'll've left her hearin' aids out. I'm more worried about your wall."

God. He doesn't want to move. Not when Raylan's looking down at him like that, hair falling into his face, wearing that easy grin. What if he got to experience this vision every morning? What if he always got to fall asleep with Raylan's arm flung over his waist? It feels wildly within reach, despite what logic and history are trying to tell him.

He could use a drink. Which is kind of how they ended up here. His internal clock says it's probably just after seven. No immediate reason they have to climb out of bed and face the day yet, so against Tim's better judgment, he doesn't.

"She'll know it's store bought," Tim mutters. Because he doesn't know how to bake a pie. Hell, he keeps a small stock of MREs in one of his cabinets for nights he gets home too late to order carry-out, or just wants something a little bit familiar.

Raylan mentions the wall, and Tim's curiosity gets the best of him. With a sigh, he pushes himself up with one hand, half-turning to examine the wall behind the headboard. There's a distinct line of chipped paint where the wood thumped repeatedly against it. Tim only gives a little grin of his own as he drops himself back onto the bed, purposefully landing so his head rests on Raylan's bicep.

"Worth it."

Raylan can't help but chuckle at Tim's declaration and the way the man drops back down on him makes Raylan only snuggle in more, tangling their legs loosely together. It would be so easy to get used to this, so easy to let idle heartbound daydreams take over and promise the world. Tim looked perfect with the sun peeking across his skin, that little toothy grin leaving a softness not normally seen in the sniper's expression.

"Easily fixed. Next time maybe the frame gets moved a little. And that little old lady won't expect a homemade pie from a bachelor. It'll still get you points in your favor."

God, he wanted to kiss him again already, bruise that mouth a little more like another mark that Tim would hav'ta carry around to remember their night together. Maybe he'll get lucky and that'll be what digs in Tim's head. Maybe it leads to another night together.

"You thought about what you're gonna say when Rachel spots that mark I left on your neck?" It looked good too, in that lewd primal way. He was going to be as distracted by it as he was the love bruise he could feel under his collarbone.

Next time.

He's almost positive that Raylan hasn't even realized he's said it. And maybe he just means the next time Tim has sex in general, but Tim's choosing to believe that he means the next time they have sex. After all, Raylan stayed the night, and he doesn't seem rushed to get dressed and see himself out. It reasons that they might both want a next time. Tim reaches up, idly fingering the bruise Raylan left on his throat. It aches pleasantly beneath his touch. Also worth it.

"Probably just gonna tell 'er to guess and see what happens. Seems fun. Let 'em all start up a bettin' pool they ain't ever gonna get the answer to."

It would be their fault for ever expecting to get a straight answer from him of all people. Nobody keeps their personal life as closely guarded in that office as he does. Not even Rachel, though she's a very close second.

"Next time," he ventures, trailing a hand down Raylan's side and bringing it to a rest on his hip. "Maybe we try out some surfaces that aren't the bed. Or the couch."

It was almost innocent, a boot in the truth of it, a boot in the hope that they might get to enjoy this again. Because he was positive that Tim had enjoyed their night together, as accidental and whiskey encouraged as it was. He was fully aware that not all of Tim's nights were like this, and he hoped that there was a reprieve from whatever darkness was kicking around Tim's head, but that didn't stop the possibility that Tim didn't want more than what it was.

Something Raylan would respect, if it was laid out. Even if he didn't really want to.

He can't help but chuckle at Tim's assessment. It was always a hellva lotta fun to watch him fuck with people, until those people were Raylan, but the rumor mill would go wild and Raylan would bet there'd be a betting pool by lunch about how Tim got all marked up. One he'd put twenty dollars in so no one suspects anything. Not that he thought they would anyway.

Tim's trailing hand has Raylan's skin growing goose bumps, and he can't help but smile at the suggestion. The hand draped on Tim's hip grips him slightly, Raylan's smile widening into a soft, impish grin as his heartbeat picks up.

"Lookin' to break a table huh? Really, we just outta make a nest in your livin' room." His expression softens a little, grin coming back down to an easy smile. "Just tell me when. No whiskey required."

Just in case Tim had the idea to get it into his head that Raylan would only do this drunk. Drunk or sober, he wanted Tim. It might all be a mistake - there were office rules for a reason and Raylan was forever eyeing the door out of Kentucky - but that had never stopped him before. It wasn't going to stop him now either.

It was probably just a matter of time before things went haywire, as they tended to do. That's normally enough to make Tim play it safe. A long line of nameless faces meant the feelings aspect never has to come into play. It's not just meant to protect himself. It's more about not subjecting anyone else to all this damage.

Damage that not even Raylan fully knows the extent of. The vicious cycle of trauma and drinking and nightmares. Some are harder to come back from than others. Some feel impossible to pull himself out of until he does. None of them are something he wants other people around for.

But this -- Raylan's crooked smile and the hand gripping his hip, everything highlighted in an early morning post-sex glow. He's thought about it too much to willingly let it go now that he has it within reach. Even if it means selfishly breaking a few of his own rules.

Maybe it'll end in disaster, but maybe it'll be as worth it as the broken furniture.

"What if I said tonight?"

Is it greedy? Almost certainly. Does he care? Definitely not.

Raylan lifts his eyebrows in a soft surprise, but it comes with a "Well," as he rolls towards Tim, gently pushing him onto his back so that Raylan can half hover from his position as he continues.

"If you said tonight, then I'd have to say that we gotta get goin'. Get the work day started so we can end it again," he says, smile spreading as he leans in and steals Tim's lips up in a kiss. When it breaks, he keeps his face close.

"Come shower with me. I don't care about comin' into the office smellin' like you and no one would know the difference anyway."

Right now, there were no downsides. That might change as some of the rose colored film rubs off, but that was always going to come so Raylan plans on enjoying what Tim will allow him to for as long as he can.

Gotta get going, Raylan says, like he hasn't just rolled them into the perfect position for Tim to wrap legs around his waist and keep him there for a little while longer. It's tempting, especially with the way Raylan's hair falls in front of his face like this. Tim reaches up to push it back, fingers threading through the locks and coming to rest on the back of his head as they kiss.

He's never much been one for leisurely kisses, or for lazing around in bed, but he finds himself wanting to do both with Raylan. This already feels like such a slippery slope, but he's not turning back now.

"You're gonna make it real hard for me to focus today, you know."

Nobody else will know the difference, but all he's going to think about when he catches his own scent on Raylan is their time together this morning. He gives Raylan's hair a gentle tug, nudging him by the shoulder so they can both get up.

"Shower then coffee. Can't say I have much in the way of breakfast, though."

Unless Raylan wants to eat an MRE, which Tim very highly doubts.

Edited (i don't shell out for paid time just to forget about my icons gdi) 2025-06-02 04:26 (UTC)

Lingering in bed was a luxury better had by those people who were wholly comfortable with each other and the secrets that slipped out in that kind of environment - it was dangerous for them to indulge in it. Even if Raylan did love how Tim's fingers felt carding through his hair to settle around his neck or the way he felt underneath him. He could see a future of them laying in bed and enjoying each other, ordering room service at a hotel, laying around in each other's company until noon or later.

Raylan smiles cheekily at the reminder, eyebrows bouncing softly. He wasn't sorry at all - now that he knew he could make it hard to focus, there was a satisfaction in it. In knowing that Tim wanted him as much as he wanted Tim. In knowing that he would end up back here in Gutterson's bed at the end of the day.

"We can get breakfast on the way," he promises, bending to kiss Tim's neck despite the tugs and nudges before crawling off him and standing up, still smiling. "Lead the way."

When she walks out the door of her hotel room in DC, she steps into mist. A clamminess that feels otherworldly but familiar, that grasps at her in a way that fog shouldn't. Goosebumps prickle across the back of Athena's neck.

"...Fuck me," she whispers, and the words get eaten up by her surroundings. Her fingers brush the holster under her suit jacket, reassurance she knows is meaningless, and then strides forward. Slow. Slow and careful. Hands clear of her sides and open, empty.

She doesn't want to startle someone if she walks out of this and into Mathias, or somewhere even worse.

Fog was common in Miami in certain months and it always felt like it hung different than the dense wet fog of the mountains that ran down into the valleys before being abolished by the rise of the morning sun. Miami Fog seemed to like to hang around for a little bit, eventually drawn back out to the sea as things got warmer over the day.

He was up and out early today, readying himself for another 4 hour drive up to some barely inhabited swamp land with a cup of coffee and a breakfast burrito, taking in the easy, if hard to see morning. The sounds of city and the soft milling of people fade out and Raylan doesn't notice until he notices that he's.. all alone. The rest of the burrito is stuffed in his mouth as he listens for anything-

A step behind him wasn't enough time for him to react outside of a "Whoa" as he turns around to be face to face with a woman-

Wait. He knows that face.

For a second, she's a kid again.

She's had too many moments like that, lately.

It leaves her frozen, hand on her firearm still, staring at him like she did the very first time they met.

"...What the fuck."

Yeah, he knows that voice, too.

That place felt like three lifetimes ago and when Raylan thought about it, which he did often enough despite the time, it had always been fondly. Sure they'd had some terrible horrible no good times but - he'd found people he loved. People he still worried about now and then in the idle quiet of a stake out.

People he was sure he would never see again.

A long beat passes as he clears his mouth before: "Athena? I-"

He steps forward one arm half out like he would have when she was younger or like he might set a hand on her shoulder and stops halfway, unsure if it was welcome or even wanted.

"What- Are you okay?"

Wasn't that always his first question, making sure she was okay?

"You got fuckin' old, cowboy." The teasing is raspy with emotions she's trying to hold back, smother. Squeeze into submission.

But for a second, maybe even sixty whole seconds, she'll let herself have the simplicity of a goddamn fucking hug.

God she was a sight for sore eyes. Raylan grins as he wraps her up in a tight hug like he was trying to prove he was as young as ever and softly laughs out his answer.

"Apparently I ain't the only one, darlin'."

He couldn't believe it was her and, after a long beat, he pulls back, one hand lingering on her shoulder as he takes her in before it drops with a pull of his grin. She hadn't gotten much taller, but the muscles were hard to miss - she was firm. Strong. She wasn't an awkward teenager any more.

"I don't know what's goin' on, but if you're here, I ain't gonna question it too hard. Either Somethin'™ has happened, or my burrito had LSD in it."

Slingin' from the hip, never the heart. | Open Post

hello chase said i could come here

YES YOU ARE MOST WELCOME, YOU AND YOUR TIM

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Sure 👍

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Nancy Sinatra, Eat your heart out

[strums guitar]

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It's called a joint taskforce

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through the (wrong) looking glass

smudge smudge

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smudge smudge

Re: smudge smudge

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