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

[tinstar]

[Continued from here]

They'd set a 10 AM meeting time and while this wasn't Raylan's office, being in New York for reasons he wouldn't tell anyone, he'd managed to talk the local Chief into letting him borrow a conference room with a promise that Art Muller would buy him a high shelf drink next time he was in town. He was sure Art would be fine with it.. After a little cussing and swearing at him. The case he had actually been on was still active, but Raylan was waiting for someone to come in from overseas in a few days.

Set with a couple cups of coffee, Raylan (and his hat) looked over Crane's file as he waited for the man to arrive and be shown up. Crane hadn't been lying about his record; a point in the man's favor, but Raylan wasn't sure about him yet. The morning was going to prove to be interesting, if nothing else.

Comments

[tinstar]

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.

[hosannas_of_anguish]

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.

[tinstar]

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?"

[hosannas_of_anguish]

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.

[tinstar]

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.

[hosannas_of_anguish]

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.

[tinstar]

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."

[hosannas_of_anguish]

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."

[tinstar]

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?"

[hosannas_of_anguish]

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.

[tinstar]

"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.

[hosannas_of_anguish]

"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.