tinstar | Text Overflow: Scarecrow - The screams you're hearin are the wrong kind

He was still trying to clean himself up. Man, this was his best dirty shirt. He was gonna have to do laundry now or go to class smelling like a fruity mixed drink. That grin got an almost playful roll of Crane's eyes.

Raylan was a fun kinda asshole, so he didn't lunge at him. "That is about as good as it gets when you look like I do, Raylan. Willing is willing. Don't give a shit outside of that. Woman, man, willing is willing." He repeated, part of his 'courting' was giving Granny more to roll over in her grave at him being worse than his mama without anyone realizing it. "Also, fuck you. The willing line is drawn at twenty five. Don't get my dick near anything under that line." Country was country and things happen, but he wouldn't be the one. Probably more than Raylan wanted, but he didn't seem mad, this was a game of chicken.

"Bright, with you?" Hey he could be hopeful, he might not get laid tonight but maybe a battle of wits could happen.

Raylan wasn't aiming to start a fight, so he was glad to see Crane was amiable enough to a little humor. Made a lotta things easier.

Except the surprise of Crane openly admitting that he'd sleep with a guy. Not that Raylan could really give him any shit about it, but he was a little amazed at how comfortable Jon was saying it. Thankfully, he also supplied an easy thing to chuckle at. That was a line Raylan could agree with.

He shook his head at the question. "No, he's up in New York right now." The scotch glass turned in his fingers as he eyed Jon sidelong. Did Jon know? "We don't always work together but we are still resources to each other. Didn't your file say you were housed next to Martin Whitly?"

Because frankly, Raylan would love to know how Martin struck Crane. Maybe just to have someone to shit on him with.

He saw no sense in being irritated, he would have done the same damn thing if their roles were reversed, except he would have played up the 'are you ashamed of me, baby darlin' on top of it. Just for that extra umph. Luckily, though it was Raylan that found him and despite smelling like a fruity daiquiri he didn't care too much. Hell, he motioned to the seat beside him in a silent offer of company.

"We might have to take this elsewhere if she goes and cries to one of those good old boys." He warned as if Raylan wouldn't know what a scorned country woman mighty say but he also didn't seem to care. "Shame, he's always quite fun. Not that you aren't, but diverse types of fun. I'm sure you understand." Few people could keep up with Jonathan Crane's mind, Malcolm Bright, and Martin Whitly sure could.

"Indeed, I did, we had group therapy a few times. He made me play Malcolm once, and no, don't tell Malcolm that. He'll think I have daddy issues worse than he does. And why, pray tell do you ask?" He asked as he motioned the bar tender over ordering more low shelf whiskey.

Crane was very much more comfortable with the whole idea than Raylan was, despite his position with the New York Profiler. He loved Malcolm Bright without question, but he was still having trouble internally dealing with the shame of it all. But he took the gestured offer, sliding over to take the seat of the unlucky lady.

He glanced back at the door. "Nah. Plus, they start anything, I'm not drunk yet. I can handle 'em." He wasn't worried, and hell, he had his gun.

"Uh-huh," came his retort to Crane's answer, but he was still smiling, taking no offence what so ever. "I ask because I want to know what you think of the man. Current iteration, of course. What do you mean 'Made you play Malcolm'?"

Crane was used to being an outcast, he's spent his life being drug through the dirt for every sin since birth. Anytime he lays down with a man, he knows Granny's spinning in her shallow grave, and that just does it for him. Lifting the drink once it was before him taking a sip before nodding.

Yes, let the strong man with the gun handle that shit. He learned that in New York. "Good to know. I work Monday, can't be showing up battered."

"Mmm." He made the noise he so often does before he starts to speak, something from deep in his bony chest. "Well, you see, whenever Malcolm and Martin spat and Martin has group, he manages to make whomever he views as easiest prey to play Malcolm while he talks out their problems. I believe, if memory serves, the meds were heavy then. That he wanted Malcolm to see things his way. To have an open mind and embrace their familiar bond. Saying no to Martin Whitly is a headache one does not want. Textbook psychopath all the way. It is easy to see how he had everyone fooled."

"Make for a hellva teacher's lounge conversation," he grunted with an amused breath behind a sip of his drink, still smirking.

Raylan listened intently, eyebrows slowly crawling up his face the further on Jon got. He knew that Martin had problems but he didn't think they were quite that deep when it came to Malcolm. Letting out a low whistle, Raylan shook his head a little.

"I've only met him twice.. Second time was on purpose.. to punch him dead in his face. Too bad a few more wouldn't set him straight. I'd be first in line to take a few more shots. Probably not for the better though." He looked over.

"So what are you doin' out this way? I'd hardly call this a destination for vacation." Given the type of bar they were sitting in being one of the better ones in town, despite the vomit on the floor and the sawdust they're using to clean it up with.

"Oh yes, 'Keeny got his ass handed to him again.' Always a blast, let me tell ya." He grumbled as he leaned on the bar taking a drink from the glass before him, but chuckled, a real almost hearty noise when Raylan spoke of punching Martin.

"Good man, someone should. I used to think I suffered not having a father, but meeting Martin Whitly, no, I turned out as well I could in my situation. I'm certain your father was no winner either. I saw those looks you gave me in the car." He might be forgetful at times but not when it came to reading people. "My point, someone should beat his ass for Bright."

Taking another drink, he looked right at Raylan, making eye-contact. "I was aimin' to get laid, but some jackass put the brakes on that." Someone thought highly of himself despite having low esteem about his looks, he knew how to fish for a good night.

"Well you're young," Raylan logiced out with a bob of his head and a lift of his glass that hovered there as he finished before he took a drink. "You'll find another willin' body, I'm sure."

Once the drink was down, he huffed a breath. "Yeah, Arlo was.. something alright. A war vet drunk and wife beater with bipolar disorder. Real hoot to be around," he said dryly. "But he died after getting shanked in prison. Best we can hope for is Martin to go the same way."

And frankly, he'd happily be first in line.

"You know he almost got Malcolm killed, last time a case took me up there. Some psycho thought he'd finish what Martin started or some shit." Clearly, he was disgusted by the idea. But it wasn't talking about Arlo, and that was what was important.

He rolled his eyes some before he shrugged. "Yeah, probably. Works better up north, you surely know how good an accent makes people melt or judge." He spoke as he took a drink from his glass. He'd find someone, later, for now the entertaining company was better.

"Arlo, now there is a country name. But, amen to that with Martin. I would offer my condolences to you but you don't sound too tore up. You do have my number if you need to talk, I wont even send you an invoice." Not that Raylan wasn't to. Old country names. He could respect it. "I did not know that, but I am not surprised given Martin ...well Martin."

"Granny was just an insane bible thumper, the rest of the Keeny's were keen on suicide." Maybe not the thing to say openly given he lives alone and his own issues. "Old world gentry that put their money on the wrong side of the war then the wrong stocks. A name means nothing without money." Thus that big old manor he lives in and all that land. "Raylan, may I ask a question? You are not obligated to answer of course."

"I do," Raylan agreed. "And not just the north, I might add." There was a skill, a magic to the Southern accent and one that he used as often as situations allowed.

The suggestion that Raylan 'talk' so freely made him chuckle. "It's nothin' personal but no thanks. Malcolm disassembles me enough and he only gets away with it because it's him. Arlo isn't worth the breath to say his name."

He nodded, humming in a soft understanding of the things he was hearing. The south, unfortunately, had many stories and similar flaws and failures. Harlan was just a lotta people whose name meant only as much as they could rob from their neighbours.

At the question to ask a question, Raylan lifted his eyebrows over. "Yeah, shoot."

"I don't have as much issue from my voice down here. It's my face down here." Not so much his face as well, being a tall walking skeleton. "Well, give me a moment and I'll explain why I offered."

He spoke as he took another drink from his glass. A moment spared after seeing the nod. Weighing how to ask the question without getting hit in the jaw.

"Are you and Malcolm courtin'?" He asked finally looking over to Raylan, of course he lacked judging, he didn't give a shit about that kind of thing. He was more curious after thinking about the New York trip and the talk so far tonight.

"Didn't seem to have much of a negative effect on the lady you were talkin' to," Raylan pointed out like the friendly wingman he was.

The question was not the one that Raylan had been expected and his expression shifted slightly, but was kept as cool as it was before. "Courtin'," he echoed, lips curling in a smile. "Like we're in the old south, huh?"

Raylan took a shallow sip from his glass. "What's it matter?" There was no hostility in it, just bare, only slightly defensive curiosity. Considering what he'd already heard, it probably wouldn't bother Jon, but Raylan couldn't just.. jump into that pool of trust.

"I suppose so." Maybe Raylan had a point. He looked back towards the woman who was now sobbing on some burly man. Nah, he'll find someone else later.

He couldn't help that mischievous grin when Raylan repeated the word. "I'm old fashioned, sue me." He mused, as he held his drink looking to the other, measuring him. Looking for a crack, anything to give him anything to work with. Sometimes he couldn't turn the shrink in him off.

"Doesn't matter at all, now does it?" he replied as he shifted his glass, mostly ice now. "I have just been putting the pieces together that is all. I don't give a shit, told you that much already." An idea sparked then, as that grin turned to trouble. "If your not, maybe I'll ask him myself." Jonathan, NO.

Well, Jon was picking at low fruit to begin with. No surprises that she was now sobbing on the closest willing male body.

Raylan would have answered the 'Sue me' if they hadn't been talking about something that was, frankly, so close to his heart. He watched the glas move around in Jon's hands, listened to the almost damning words that fell out of his mouth. He knew that none of the damnation came from Jon himself. It came from the accent. The weight of what was behind it. The weight of where they came from, judging or not.

"I think you might find that harder than it may seem," he replied. "For a New Yorker, he's surprisingly stubborn when he's happy." He drained his glass and gestured the bartender over for another and continued speaking as the bartender walked away.

"And I guess I'm officially speaking for him." So in to make him Spoken for. In short, Yes Jon, for fucks sake.

Low fruit put out, which was all he really cared about some nights. No strings attached just getting off and getting back to work. At least he was honest about being the asshole he can be.

Oh Jonathan knew all about the damnation in voices. There was an old biddy buried in a shallow grave whose voice still rang in his head everytime he took someone off to the side. Just like your mother, going to hell, no family of mine, devils spawn. The old south judged, and that was half of why he ran north, but the city lights had rejected him and he came back to the dark fields to try and get some kind of crop going.

"Mmm." The sound rumbled from his thin chest, gravely and deep, laced with amusement. GodDAMN he was good. "Happy?" That word stuck out as that ginger eyebrow arched. He moved his empty glass to sit it on the bar, the ice rattling once more. "I thought as much." That grin said it all, it was so much easier to collect flies with honey instead of vinegar. "Congratulations, Raylan. Has anyone given you the shovel speech? If not as stand in for him for Martin, I would be happy to do so." Now he's just being a dick to be a dick.

There was no judgement from the man sitting beside him. Low fruits got him through some lonely nights.

Raylan kept his eyes down on his glass as Jon continued, unable to fully hide the curl of a smile that came with a bobbing lift of his eyebrows before he hid it all behind a sip from his glass. He was happy. They were happy. But Raylan was still mostly in the closet, if such a term even applied to someone of his situation - that was another can of worms altogether.

"The shovel speech?" That got him to look over, face still curled in soft, deflecting amusement. "Is that the one where you tell me if I hurt him, you'll put me six feet under? The companion to the shotgun 'If you get my daughter pregnant' speech?"

Jon was still watching him, still studying Raylan. He does this often with anyone of intrest. And make no mistake, Raylan Givens was of intrest. There was a mind under that 10 gallon hat, and a whole lot of easy on the eyes. Confirming he was with Malcolm didn't change anything, Raylan was squarely in the 'don't try and fuck that Jonny' list. Friends tended to be, and while he wouldn't say it aloud he did consider Malcolm and Raylan friends.

"Yes, exactly. So, you better not get my daughter pregnant." He replied with a cool tone, but the playfulness shined in the hazel eyes. Slipping off the Bar stool he threw a few bills on the bar to square up his tab. "Unless your still working, which I doubt as your talking to me. Theres a ice cream shop up the street. How about some we ditch this place. Talk with less change of being overheard." Hell yes he intended to find out more.

Interested eyes carried their own weight and Raylan could feel it on him. What he'd previously assumed about shrinks had only been proven right and more with Malcolm, so over all, he felt fairly confident in his ability to handle Jon without spilling too much by accident.

He smirked at Jon's answer, glancing over as the taller man slid off the stool and downing his own drink with a side bob of his head. "I like ice cream." He promised nothing about talking but knew Jon would pull him into something.

Following suit and sliding off to throw down some bills for his own tab, Raylan nodded his hat brim at the bartender as they headed out.

"Generally, I don't drink on the job, but every great once and awhile, things are slow enough to facilitate a drink or two." Or three.. Shut up.

He made an amused noise as he waited for Raylan, the wheels spinning in his mind. Already pondering what he could ask, but more so pondering if he should even both getting in his truck when a Marshal just watched him drink. Raylan's cool, but still a cop. It wasn't a far walk anyway, his driveway was longer.

Waiting for Raylan before starting out the door. "I got used to New York, the humidity here is a bitch now. Ice Cream helps." He shrugged hus shoulders, once outside he lit up.

"What's the job? If its local I know most of the assholes about 20 minutes that'a way." He motioned off towards Arlen.

Surprisingly, Raylan would let him get away with it. He couldn't fault country for being what country was and really, it was a job for the locals. The Marshals service didn't care about that kinda stuff, just like they didn't really bother with weed when they ran across it.

Even if the Federal government at large hadn't joined them.

"Ice cream always helps," he argued conversationally. Jon was blissfully unaware of just how much Raylan liked ice cream.

"Well, the guy we're looking for is closer to here than there. We expect him to be comin' in the early mornin' hours with a truckload of stolen paperblanks and plates moved up from Mexico. Left a bloody mess at the border. I'm part of the other side of the pinch. Sounds excitin' and all until you factor in the amount of waitin' we're havin' to do."

He should have asked, its not like he was going to leave his old truck there that night, but for now he was already making his way across the parking lot towards the old style diner in sight.

"I fully agree." If only he knew. "It helps with the temperature when it's this balls hot out." He spoke, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows making the walk towards the lit up building. New York had spoiled him.

Looking back as he listened and arched a brow. "Counterfittin'?" Of course, he figures that's what it would mean. He figured that would be big enough to pull a big time Marshal down this far. "I always assumed stake outs were boring. It's always filler in a movie."

A little walking after drinking was healthy anyway; it gave the body something to do with the liquor they'd poured down their gullets. The ice cream might undo all the work Raylan had been doing on getting his way towards drunk, but that was fine. Made room for more. He had the whole night to himself, after all.

"Yeah," he scoffed at the question of counterfeited, with a amused lift of his eyebrows. "Like it's a bad 1980's movie or somethin'."

The roads were empty, by and large, but Raylan glanced each way before he started across it, smirking at the way Jon rolled up his sleeves. "Musta been away too long." Says the man in his country suit, suit jacket and all.

"And it is boring. No way to make it exciting. I'm just happy I'm not sittin' on a house or a mailbox or something. No whiskey, no AC or heater."

He let a beat pass. "You really come out here just for a piece of ass?"

Jon could probably use whatever he was walking off but, he was still alive and still moving as skinny as he was. So, he was fine. Shaking his head in amusement as they neared the diner. "Yeah, somethin' like that is exactly what I was figurin'." He admitted shaking his head some.

"Turnin' 35 in a few weeks, I left at 18. Yeah, I was gone awhile. Yeah, I agree there, I'd hate to be stuck without AC, had to buy a window unit for the house it's just to damn hot here now." He answered honestly, as he pulled the door open for Raylan. Jonathan lacked shame so he didn't care about the question or the exchange. "Kinda the only way, everyone back home steers clear of me. You know how people are, a bastard is bad enough but an atheist bastard? Besides I can get groceries after I get done. It's a win-win." He mused.

"Whipper snapper," Raylan accused with a grin, not offering his own age in return. Passing forty had been hard and he was still

Stepping into the ice cream shop, Raylan couldn't help a blast of nostalgia at the fluorescent lights and the faded colors of the shop. It was exactly the kind of place where shitty teenagers hung out in the summer and flick lit firecrackers at strays or something.

"They always do have an affinity for demanding room for God. Never made much sense to me, if he's so forgivin', what's the problem?" He shrugged. "How's life been treatin' ya down here, Crane? The Highschool job, I assume you're still living in that damned mansion I saw with Bright when we were here?"

Most people who found themselves in mental hospitals more than once had a tendency to go back. Raylan was curious to see how far away from that breakdown Jon might be.

"No way." He eyed Raylan, clearly skeptical. He had assumed he was older than the man, but also, despite the brilliance of his mind, he was shit at guessing ages. "Agin' like a fine wine there, Raylan." Yeah, that deserved his name.

Jonathan made his way over to the counter, a few teenagers in line ahead of them as expected. Luckily, he doesn't teach at their school. "Preaching to the choir there. Alas, nothing to be done about it." Raking a hand through his ginger hair before looking back at Raylan again. "I've done better, but I am getting by." He admitted with his own shrug. "The job can be rewardin' at times, but they are mostly all morons." A glare directed at the teens before them as they paid and moved. "Where else would I be? It's my home. I'll die there." Which might be distressing for some, but Jonathan had planned his whole life to die there if he wasn't murdered in New York.

The woman behind the counter eyeing Crane as they walked up. She clearly recognizes him, but says nothing. A smile offered to Raylan instead asking what he would like, ignoring Jonathan for now.

Text Overflow: Scarecrow - The screams you're hearin are the wrong kind

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