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

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

[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.

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10am? Shit, Crane had become a night owl since he was shitcanned last year. It was easier to do illegal chemical crimey things at night. But, jail and courts had helped some.

The former professor had been taken in by an old associate, at the cost of one of those books from the warehouse. They were all pricey books. He had fine taste in books.

Making his way into the office, he has a coffee with the markings of 7 shots of espresso in it. He had not actually expected Marshal Givens to be there he did look pleasently shocked as he made his way inside the borrowed office.

"Good morning U.S. Marshal Givens." It's to early to be this sassy.

Raylan looked up from the file, pulling on a welcoming kind of closed lipped smile that he and his charm had used for many years. "Look at that, someone who can keep a meeting on time."

He nodded in approval and gestured to the nearby chair. "Go ahead and have a seat. I see you come with your own coffee. Good. This stuff is like double boiled ashes. You'd think they'd give us better coffee.." Clearly, you'd be wrong. He still hadn't caught what Crane was doing, but if things went well, they might be spending a few hours together.

"I was a college professor for years, U.S. Marshal Givens, I am nothing if not punctual." Being late to his classes meant a zero for the whole damn day. No exceptions, so he himself was punctual as fuck.

He took a sip of his coffee and moved over to take the seat gestured to. "I am glad I did then. I am not a fan of ashes." Oh like he doesn't smoke when he gets stressed. "Also, I doubt the Marshal's brew 7 shots of espresso in a drink." He really should just do drugs... Or sleep. Whatever works.

"Is that the paperwork I need to sign, or something more devious?" he asked motioning to the file, somebody redid his nails since he got out. A nice new sheen of black over.

A professor, huh? So it said in the file, but Raylan made a show of being impressed, lifting his eyebrows and everything.

"No they do not but it might make things more interesting around here." At the question, Raylan pulled another 6 or so stapled documents over and dropped them in front of Crane.

"This," he said, tapping the file, "is your file. That," he indicated with a finger at the papers. "Is your CI agreement. The little yellow flags there will show you where you need to sign. Basically, it promises that you're doing this in good faith, without intent on screwing us. On pain of jailtime. Or getting shot again. Maybe."

Depending on his mood.

He was proud of little his degrees. He drug himself out of that hell and made something of himself. If he hadn't been fired he'd probably not turned to crime. He was happiest in academia.

Crane sat his cup of crack style coffee on the table as he leaned forward for the documents so he can actually start reading over them. He's a book man, and a college boy. He reads.

"Give me a few moments to read over this and to make sure I am not getting secretly screwed over." He spoke honestly, already feeling the old lilt coming out of his voice again. Its the Kentuckian it seems. Damn it, oh well, at least he wont be the only Country Bumpkin.

Taking a pen out, he started clicking it as his eyes scanned the page at a pretty good rate. "If I intended to screw you over, I wouldn't be here."

Raylan nodded again, sipping from his coffee cup. He expected that too. Due to the way some things sometimes fell out with the Marshal's service, he couldn't say if Crane was getting screwed - it all depended on what happened out in the field.

"You can still be convicted of criminal activity if some is found, but depending on how useful and competent you prove yourself to be, it will be taken into account come time for sentencing. Your file says you're from Georgia. What brings you up to the big city?" He could guess. There was a reason that after Kentucky, he went to Miami and would have stayed there if allowed.

Jonathan could see that much from the paperwork. Looking unempressed he started to sign his name. There was no middle name, just Jonathan Crane. Granny couldn't be assed to give him more than that.

"I assumed, but I have a good lawyer." And probably more debt if he lost that case. He shifted his eyes up from behind his glasses at the question, stopping his reading and signing for a moment. "I grew up in a town with no traffic lights, in the bible belt. I was a freak by the rules of my peers and an outcast by the rules of the rest of society. I came to the city to get as far away from those bumble fucks as possible... Plus my father is somewhere in the city. I always intended to find him, I just never got around to it."

The big bad scientist was to chicken shit to look up his daddy. "You are from Kentucky, I assume you would understand."

Edited 2020-04-17 23:07 (UTC)

"I put my daddy in prison," he offered in return, far too casually for there not to be a story behind it. Arlo had died there too, but that wasn't something Raylan was going to be sharing. "But trust me," he said, dad sighing as he stood up. "I do."

When Crane was done with the paperwork, Raylan took it and looked it over, giving him a cursory smile.

"Great. Welcome to the Marshal's service CI program. Now," he continued, sitting on the edge of the table as he adjusted his had back a little. "Where are we headed today, Doc?"

That got an arch of one of his copper colored eyebrows. He didn't ask, if he really wanted to know he could look into it. "At least someone does." He muttered as he went back to reading and signing. When he finished he tossed the folder back down.

Watching Raylan move, and sit on the edge of the table with his own hazel eyes. "Do I get a badge?" He asked half jokingly. "First we start at the shipping yard. He always has one of his boys waiting. I doubt me being busted did anything but make him bolder. If not, we take a drive for a few hours. I know where his actual house is. With his wife and children. Which, he does not know I know." Don't piss Crane off.

"No," he answered, short and sweet, eyes taking on a bit of humor before his finger gestured towards the pad. "Write down the addresses. We can leave in ten minutes."

He started to get off the table and stopped with a sudden question, settling back down as his finger came back around to point at Crane.

"What did the guy say that was bad enough to make you go to all this trouble?" He had to know.

"Never any fun from these things." He half teased as he leaned up and wrote down the address of the warehouse, and of the man's house. Yeah, he really doesn't like this fucker. To have those details and hand them over to the cops.

No honor among thieves.

"He always called me Ichabod. I take exception to being called the name the brats in grade school called me, by a man who doesn't even know how to read above a third grade reading level." The man probably could read but Crane will always attack ones brain first. "He also attacked my boys more than once. I am sure you noticed their loyalty. It is only fair I return it in kind."

They saved all the fun for the field and the bullshit that could happen out there. Raylan knew there was plenty, and gave Crane a little curl of his lips anyway. At the answer, Raylan bobbed his head with a facial equivalent of a shrug.

"I've heard people do worse for less," he said reasonably as he pushed off the table and collected the paperwork. "Had a guy string up another guy for insulting his dog." To say something of 'crazy'.

"Stay here, I'll be right back." Indicated with a finger, Raylan sauntered out of the office and just a minute later came back, pulling his thigh length duster on. "Do you need to set something up or can we be Avon and just knock on his door?"

Not that Raylan was big on knocking.

The field would be a trip, maybe Jonathan would turn that big brain towards doing some good if it was fun enough.

"We all have something that makes us petty, it is human nature." He spoke with a shrug, sitting back as he motioned for Raylan to do as he wanted. "I cleared my whole calendar for this." Which is a lie, he's only been out for two days, he hasn't had time to get plans. He's not really social but he wanted to see the bastard pay. Plus anyone who claims to be 'dixie mafia' deserved to be taken down.

This from the last male heir of old southern gentry. The money was long gone, but that Keeny blood of his was too fucking proud to let someone poke fun at him now that he is a grown man. "Oh, U.S. Marshal Givens, we are Avon calling that mother fucker." He spoke as he grinned a little crooked at that. "Its quite a drive we may want to stop and get drinks, and snacks for the road."

"Don't we just," he muttered as he walked out. Crane's answer to his last question made him smile despite himself as he flipped down his collar.

"About an hour - I'm not buying your sunflower seeds. We can break to piss." The only bend that Raylan was willing to give. Leading the way out, Raylan clearly expected Crane to follow him to the black town car that the US Marshal's service had lent to the cowboy.

"I hope you don't get car sick or nothing," he cautioned as he unlocked and slid in.

Of course, he pushed up then and followed Raylan out. Amused if nothing else. Shit, how did this man know he liked sunflower seeds? Then again, who didn't? He whipped around and hurried back for his liquid crack before using those long scarecrow legs to catch back up with the Marshal, less than a few seconds really.

"You are a terrible first date." He replied dryly, because seriously, who likes a car ride that long without snacks? Crane may be a string bean but he actually eats when he remembers to. Sometimes work is more important. "Oh, come on this car screams cops." He spoke almost as if disappointed. He almost suggested his beat up old truck out in the lot, but, no this would at least have working air. Fuck it. "Do I look the type to get car sick?" He asked as he slipped inside, pulling the bag over his shoulder to drop it between his feet and sat back long enough to buckle up and take another drink of his coffee.

"Can't even order you wine in French or get to second base," he said, self deprecatingly with a lift of his eyebrows.

Raylan shrugged again with a smirk. "I just drive what they tell me to." The car sprung to life underneath them and Raylan started them out of the parking lot with only an amused look to answer Crane's return question.

"What's in the bag?" He didn't glance at it, beyond when Crane slid in, but he'd noted it all the same.

"Une bouteille de vin rouge, s'il vous plaît." Sounded so fucking weird with that southern draw to his voice. Yet, never one to look dull. He chuckled all the same though, his french was not the best, but he could do it.

He shook his head some as he sat back in the seat nursing his coffee. "Contacts, the new issue of Psychology Today, and a metric shit ton of opiods." He spoke with an amused tone at the end. Only after a drink did he admit the truth. "I'm kidding about the opiofs, it's a bottle of venlafaxine and benadryl. One is prescribed and must be taken unless you want to deal with a real bad time, the other is allergies that no amount of moving will ever solve."

Edited 2020-04-24 00:37 (UTC)

Raylan chuckled back softly, eyebrows lifting with a little shake of his head. "Far better than me."

The bag and Crane got several questionable looks, largely displaying a whole host of 'You realize you're with a Marshal? and his gaze narrowed a little as his smile crept back up. Oh okay. He sees the kinda guy you are. Raylan relaxed the fraction back into his driving.

"Does that mean I've got something to worry about?" Redundant question; as a Marshal, he didn't trust dudes he's literally picked out of a crime scene. "You going to have any problems stayin' behind me and my gun?"

"I took four years in high school. A language course always looks good on a college application, and I worked very hard for my scholarship." There was absolutely no way Crane would have afforded college without a scholarship, unless he sold the farm, which he wouldn't do even if it was the bane of his existence. Land was important and with so much of his blood in that soil. He'd be buried there if he had a say.

That actually got a grin out of Mr. Spooky, gotcha, Mr. Kentucky.

"No, I am very good about keeping myself on my medication. Despite the stigma not all mental illness is a crucifying offence. It simply keeps me on a nice level playing field." He explained. "I have no problem with that, but I would venture to say I am likely a better shot than you, U.S. Marshal Givens." He mused. "At least with a shotgun."

Raylan wasn't sure he fully believed that but Crane hadn't given him much reason to not to give him a chance to prove he could function on meds. Raylan knew Malcolm could, but the profiler in New York was not some Country Boy with an education and a mind to use it for ill.

The suggestion that Crane was a better shot made Raylan smile, a slow curling spread that ended with a crooked peek show of his teeth.

"You think so? Me, I never went to collage. First job after high school was in the mines, my second job was the Marshal's service. Taught at Glynco for 8 or so years as an expert marksman. Let's leave the guns to a professional, shotgun or otherwise." He looked at the road again, face still curled in amusement. "Besides, the paperwork for you shooting someone would be a massive pain in my ass."

One day, one day Raylan will see him off his meds and see the vast difference between Jonathan and his other-side. Despite the fact he likes to pretend it doesn't exsist it was always scratching at the back of his mind. Sometimes the ill pays the bills.

He couldn't help an amused as he finished off his coffee, putting the empty cup in the cup holder and looking over at Raylan.

"I am almost certain of it. One never knows though." He admitted. "No shit? Down in the mines? I always assumed it was an older generation that worked the mines." He admitted as he looked to the other. "My first job was tending the farm from... well before I can remember quite honestly. After Granny died I took any job I could until I got to college." Then he realized what Raylan said and looked his way. "Glynco? No shit. I'm from Arlan, a stone's throw away from there." Everything else didn't matter at the moment. In the big city no one knew the cesspool that was south eastern Georgia.

Raylan would bet otherwise, but he wasn't a bragging man, so Crane could think what he wanted.. As long as he stayed behind Raylan's gun.

"Georgia isn't much better than Kentucky," he admitted in return. "Nice enough place I guess, but the same kinda poor country hill people." Another hole for people to try and escape from. Which is why he pushed against accepting Glynco's open invitation for him to come back to instructing. "No offense."

"And the mines worked hard on killing the older generation. Left the younger ones to step in. I only did it for a few montes before I opted for something better."

And this, for all it's shit, was infinitely better.

He would be staying behind Raylan's gun, unless shit went sideways then its every man for himself.

"No, I suppose it isn't." He admitted "I have only driven through Kentucky before, but it does seem much the same." He then added "And, no offense taken."

He nodded some as he leaned down to pull the thick text book looking book and started to open it to a page that was marked. "At least you got away from that. I hear it is quite bad for the body, leaves some people with Claustrophobia and Taphophobia, not to mention the black lung."

One of those lone bony legs was propped on the glove box so he can lean his book on it and read while he speaks. He's one of those people that can divide his attention.

Raylan glanced at the book between the road and Crane himself. "Left for the Marshal's service when I was 19. Didn't have any plans dying in any mines or ruining my lungs." He gave Helen no end of shit for her smoking - the only bad habit he indulged in was drinking. For the most part.

"That doesn't make you car sick? Reading on the road? What did you teach again? Psychology?" What made you want to be a shrink?"

The good doctor beside him smokes, but he tends to save it for when he's stressed or lacking inspiration... or after really good food. "Sounds like you were smarter than those we are after today." He spoke, with his eyes on the pages instead of the road.

"Not really, and any usable minute is time to read and learn more." He explained, before looking up again, for a moment. "Yes, psychology. I choose it trying to understand human nature. At first to understand how people could treat one another as they do. Then I learned how truly amazing it is. Had I had the money I would have remained in academia, but as I was offered a position to teach I took it instead." He explained as he looked at Raylan, and closed his book again, sitting it on the Dash as he looked at the other, silently sizing him up again.

"You don't trust Psychiatrists, do you? Even ones who have had their licences revoked?"

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

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God they're so similar in roots!!

I love it so much

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