tinstar | Text Overflow: It's just a flesh wound

[Raylan was a romantic at heart and he wanted that whole life. Company. Love. Happiness. His problem was that he could never hold onto it. There was no telling if he could here but he was going to try.

At least he was sure Malcolm wasn't going to steal all his money and leave him alone.

His hands tightened around Malcolm for a half second before he stepped back, one hand coming up to help move the slick conditioner out of his hair.]

Soap, then you, then chicken.

[ Plans, they had them, and moved through them easily, paused only by their own need to kiss one another and never really coming apart for more than a few seconds before one was touching the other.] Leave your shirt off after you dry. Let that thing on your shoulder get some fresh air before we cover it back up.

[As for Raylan, he was happy enough to wrap his towel around his waist, tucking the corners in to secure it.]

[After toweling off, Malcolm padded to the bedroom naked and dug a pair of sweatpants out of his bag, pulling them on.]

So.... the chicken has been soaking in saltwater, right? ...Why is that?

[Curiously, as he got into his pants.]

[God that was a good site. Raylan stared the whole way as he followed Malcolm into the bedroom, easily noting the lack of underwear as he undid his towel and finished drying off.]

Seasoned saltwater, yeah. Makes the chicken more tender and juicy. Gives it more flavor, though I suppose if you've never tasted the difference, you might not know. But all good fried chicken is brined. I'm sure you've had it.

[He might not care for New York but it did have good food and he didn't have to taste it to verify the gush of love for New York food that he'd heard. Pulling on a clean pair of jeans, Raylan snagged a black t-shirt out of his bag and pulled it on.]

Do.. .you ever cook? Even if it's heating your own soup. [He wasn't judging or making fun - he was genuinely not sure. Malcolm could.. easily go either way. He'd judge how ready Malcolm was before heading back out of the bedroom and towards the downstairs.]

[Malcolm grabbed a t-shirt but didn't put it on, letting the wound air as instructed, following Raylan down.]

I cook a little bit. Recipes are easy enough to follow. But I've only cooked food I can eat, so... light meals....or soup. I never have had fried chicken. [He smiled a little self-consciously.] People rave about it, though. ['People rave about it': the source of the majority of his food recommendations when asked. His knowledge of things he couldn't eat that everyone seemed to love. He was mildly concerned about how heavy it was going to be, but he was reasonably sure Raylan wouldn't take it personally if he couldn't do it and had to switch to something lighter. He really wanted to try it.

He also didn't want to be underfoot while Raylan was working in the kitchen, but he wanted to see what he was doing. He took up a perch in a chair at the table, pulling up his legs to sit cross-legged.] So what do you do first?

I don't want assume you season it but.. [By the glance Raylan gave him over his shoulder, he sure hoped Malcolm did.]

Never? [Raylan shook his head, lips curling slightly.] Well, we're changing that tonight. I know you've got issue with heavy type food too but Helen's chicken never felt heavy to me. Might just be the oil we use, or the fact there's no eggs and double dredging.

[Bending to fish and pull a dutch oven from the cabinets, Raylan set it on the stove and found the jug of oil, lifting it up to look at it's color.] We heat the oil, season some flour in a bowl, dredge it and fry it. You're only going to be eating chicken and cooked flour. The clean up seems to bother most people but I don't mind it.

[Double-dredging sounded heavy on its own. Malcolm looked on with great interest, leaning forward to see better.]

What do you season the flour with?

Premixed seasoning salt, [he admitted a little sheepishly.] I don't actually know what's in it. The curse of brand marketing. [ He pulled down the bottle, padding over to hand it out to Malcolm before going about pulling two clean glasses down from the cabinet. They had that bottle of scotch to nurse and with dusk crawling up over the hills, Raylan figured it was about time for it.]

You can read it off to me so next time I'm asked, I'll know.

[Padding back, Raylan set Malcolm's glass down, taking a draft of his own and getting out the bowl and drying rack he'd need for afterwards. No chicken sitting in it's own fry drippings to worsen his chances.]

[Malcolm took the bottle, but his eyes continued to follow Raylan as he moved around the space, until he returned with the glass. He took a sip of scotch and then turned his attention to the bottle.]

Salt, pepper, paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, and cayenne pepper.

[He looked up, his gaze finding Raylan again.] Sounds good.

Nothing objectionable? [He nodded with a smile. Good. Another sip of his scotch and Raylan was pulling and pouring out flour into a bowl.]

And if you hate it, there's still soup so at least you're not going to starve out here. Can't give your mother more reason to worry. [And to dislike Raylan, with his influences of some kind.]

She's going to worry no matter what.

[He picked up his glass, turning it around in his hands, his mind clearly working on something.]

Raylan... can I ask you an... uncomfortable question?

[Raylan bobbed his head in acceptance. Mother's were like that, but he didn't want to aggravate her anymore than he would in general. He came to fetch the seasoning bottle, pausing to dump some in before stowing it away and leaning against the counter, glass in hand.]

Yeah. Shoot.

[Malcolm took a swallow of scotch, then looked over.]

Right after you left New York, my father called me. He said you attacked him in his cell for no reason. [He held up his hands to hold off any potential protests. Malcolm had no questions about Raylan's character.] I know you wouldn't just... attack a person. And I know he lies and exaggerates and wheedles people. But he did have bruises on his face. So I was wondering what actually happened. [He picked his glass up and looked at Raylan over it before taking a sip, his tone still careful.] And...why did you go there at all?

[The mention of Martin had Raylan lifting his eyebrows a little, and the lie given made him huff with a little shake of his head, eyes dropping briefly, but the tenseness in his jaw and the way his eyes set into seriousness belied any levity Malcolm might hear.]

I went there to see how he'd react. To Quarles being dead and you nearly having your throat cut because he.. can't keep his mouth shut.

[Oh, Raylan was still mad about it. Martin Whitly bothered him on many levels, only some of them due to the man at his table.]

His answer was... Unacceptable.

[Malcolm stared at him a moment, processing that. Raylan told Martin about him almost getting his throat cut? His heart moved into his throat, wondering what Martin thought about that.]

......What did he say? [Asked with trepidation.]

Not enough. [His jaw flexed again as he glanced into his glass and took a pull.]

Reacted like I'd told him you'd stubbed your toe. Called you his 'little guy'. [His disgust was almost palpable as he looked back over at Malcolm.]

He only reacted when I said Quarles had tried to finish what he started and the reaction was to get offended over me having a temper about it. [A beat passed, Raylan's expression slipping into one of careful treading.]

It was the fact that he was more concerned about the continuance of his legacy via you having kids.. I mighta popped him more than once... Or twice.

[He wasn't going to apologize for it but.. The way he looked at Malcolm expected it. Expected some kind of.. push back against Raylan having done what he did. That's what most people would do when one of their parents got punched out by their crush.]

...You punched him because he acted like he owns me?

[Malcolm took a sip of scotch, his eyes lingering on Raylan. Nothing resembling anger was there. Maybe a small amount of mirth.]

That doesn't bode well for him.

I punched him because he cared more about making it about him then understanding or caring that it was about you. This ownership bullshit is just more arrogant fatherhood. Arlo told me I was his all the time when I was small. 'I brought you in this world boy, I can take you out of it'.

[ Raylan had to move and did, setting his glass down so he could get the chicken. The oil should be hot enough, he figured and it gave him something more productive to do than think about his own childhood abuse.]

Maybe one of those punches was for that. [he admitted.]

I think he considered taking me out of it.

[He watched Raylan work; watched the tension in his frame.]

Did Arlo ever try to take you out of it?

[He didn't want to agree with Malcolm. He didn't want to agree that his father could even consider it but he did. Even if Martin didn't go through with it, Raylan didn't doubt that it crossed his mind.]

Not on purpose.. [Carefully, Raylan dredged and layed several pieces into the oil, filling the kitchen with the sound of it.]

You asked me, back in New York, what Arlo did to me. Said I told you what happened to Frances but not me.. [Rinsing his hands, Raylan found a kitchen towel and started drying them as he leaned back against the sink.]

Arlo would come home drunk just as often as he left drunk and when he got a hair up his ass, he'd start screaming and beating on Frances. She'd run off on up to the hollar and leave me here.. [Raylan looked over at Malcolm.] Arlo was never done with her when she left. But I couldn't leave. [He looked back down.]

When I could, I'd run away to Helen's. When I couldn't, I got drug up to the hollar to watch him yell for her and grab me up by the collar to try and.. get her to come down for the sake of me.

[He emptied his glass, silence somehow pressurized, despite the warming bubble of the frying chicken, eyes finding Malcolm's again.]

So yeah. Maybe not on purpose, but he tried.

[As soon as Raylan said 'in New York', Malcolm's eyes widened slightly. When he asked that question in New York, he thought he'd either misread Raylan's interest in friendship or that he'd ruined it. Either way, it had been an excrutiating few minutes where Malcolm had regretted everything.

But Raylan was answering the question.

And the answer was as heartbreaking as he suspected.]

So you were more his leverage than his son.

[He hoped Malcolm could understand why he wasn't keen to jump in and start telling those kinds of stories.]

I don't know what I was. He wanted a lot of rights to me and what I did and thought, just because I was his, he had those rights. Frances never stopped him and didn't come down from the hollars for me so I don't know that I was effective leverage either.

I'm sorry.

[He did understand; talking to people he didn't know well about his relationship with Dr Whitly wasn't his favourite thing either.]

Do you think Frances didn't come because she knew he wouldn't really hurt you?

I don't think breaking an arm counts as not hurting me. [It was offered gently as Raylan stepped forward for the scotch bottle, and another two fingers.]

I think she didn't come down because she was afraid he'd kill her one night. I don't know why she didn't leave. Sometimes I think she didn't leave because as much as she left me with him, she didn't want to abandon me completely. Older I get, the more I get how hard it can be.. Sometimes.

Edited 2020-04-27 22:51 (UTC)

He broke your arm? ....On purpose?

[As much as Malcolm believed Dr Whitly was capable of murdering him to save himself, he was also reasonably sure it would have been as quick and painless as the Surgeon's medical training allowed him to make it. As much as he tortured strangers to death, he wouldn't have beaten his children.]

Lotta jerking, when you're in Arlo's hands. [Raylan got some tongs and flipped the chicken, checking it over and pulling the pieces.]

I stayed with Helen for two months after that incident before Arlo demanded that she return me back.

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