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

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."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject