It's open. Roman's penthouse-turned-small-cabin is still pretty pristine and surprisingly neat despite the fact that he doesn't have anything even remotely resembling a maid.
Roman, however, is anything but clean and tidy: his hair is skewed, flopping half in his face. He's not wearing a shirt because he's using the garment as a makeshift towel, holding it to his nose. A rather large amount of blood has soaked through, but Roman, keeping his head tilted up--this isn't his first rodeo--shoots a warning look in Raylan's direction.
Smart enough to keep half an eye on the network after Roman's text, he both was and wasn't surprised that Roman jumped to immediately running his mouth. Something had happened with John Seed then. Busy boy. But the question of What was answered as soon as Raylan took Roman and his bloody mess.
His brow furrows at dramatic speeds as he shuts the door.
"Jesus Christ, Roman. Shoulda told me to bring ice." Stepping over, he gestures at him. "Lift it, let me see how bad he popped ya."
The why wasn't as important as the blood gushing out of Roman's nose. What would looking do? Not much, but it was habit and a look at how severe the break was, wasn't worthless.
"It's fine. I'm fine," Roman insists, though it sounds an awful lot like he's miserable. There's still a strange sort of scrappy defiance that's in his eyes, a glint--don't test me, motherfucker--but he scoots over so Raylan can actually see. The tough guy act isn't lasting very long at all, either: as soon as he lifts the shirt to show Raylan he lets out a high whimper, wincing.
"It's nothing plastic surgery won't fix, who gives a shit." He very much does. Every single ounce of scrappiness or actual anger has seeped out. He's in too much pain to sound like he's feeling anything else.
"If you're not going to give me a gun, shoot John Seed instead."
"Uh-huh," he grunts in automatic response, not believing the bullshit line in the slightest and wholly used to that particular flex. Raylan winces as Roman gives him a peek and he gestures for him to put that shirt back. He had a feeling, with the way Roman's head was kept tilted back, that this wasn't his first broken nose.
"I'm not shootin' anyone today and we ain't got plastic surgery here. It's not the worst broken nose I've ever seen, but you need to be comin' with me to the infirmary. You're bleedin' a lot and you wanna break it back into position while it's fresh, 'fore anything else starts to try to heal the split." He didn't know if Roman would listen with the first push of the idea but he was happy to press more.
"What happened? Why'd he hit you?" A distraction - to give Roman a choice, a way to circle back around without having to feel like he's dancing for it.
There's wild panic in his eyes the moment Raylan starts to go on about the infirmary--it's a hard no, and he's about to say as much and open his mouth in protest when Raylan's re-direction works almost perfectly. He swallows, tasting copper (or is that his imagination), and barely bites back a whimper.
He's never done pain well.
"He fucking--fuck--" he's getting riled up thinking about it, now, and he lets out a noise that's somewhere between a shout and another swear word.
"--Goddamn asshole wants to fuck the stigmata out of Jesus Christ he's so batshit insane, that's why, he fucking--"
He's talking, his brain is telling him to keep at it, to keep insulting him even as he's visibly trying to find a way to articulate what he actually says. Eventually he throws one hand up in surrender, gesturing wildly.
"...he was saying some stupid fucking bullshit about Kendall and I hit him, okay? Are you happy? Fuck you."
The wild panic was noted and Raylan was glad he gave Roman a distraction to the suggestion. They'd have to come at it at a curve - he could handle that. The outbursts were taken with no real reaction as he was patient enough to let the chaotic overflow of emotions culminate in an actual answer. It was hard to be reasonable when you had a broken nose.
Once he got his answer, he raised his eyebrows with a faint tilt of his head and a more genuine smile.
"No shame in gettin' your nose broke defendin' family." He was sure his approval would only piss Roman off more, but that was okay. Raylan wasn't a Kindergartener Teacher here to make sure everyone learned to keep their hands to themselves.
"I'm surprised he didn't kill you. You know John Seed's the guy who killed and carved up Fitz for fun just after I got here and as I recall, Fitz didn't even do anything to him."
"Oh, god--no--stop," Roman's voice sounds lackluster, more tired than annoyed, and he waves a half-hand in a slightly effeminate way. He can feel that smile without looking up.
"You're doing it. You're doing that thing. Knock it off."
"Sure thing," he replies with absolutely no bite, fully leaning into the smile that Roman feels.
He will actually not knock it off, thank you.
"You know, you're gonna have a hard time havin' a drink when your nose is a fountain. We got fixes for that - it ain't the stone age. 'Sides, blood stains are a bitch to get out and you're dangerously close to gettin' it all over your floors."
"It's not my real penthouse anyway," Roman grumbles, though he does sit up a little more and seems to at least be slowly starting to maybe get up. A process. He'd huff if he wasn't worried about moving his nose with the inhale.
"Temp-warden inmate privilege is like, a thing here, right?" He asks it before he actually says anything, scrutinizing Raylan and his dumb smile and his stupid hat. "If I say some shit you can't tell anyone? Like an NDA."
"If I were a smarter man, I'd lie and tell you 'Yeah, sure'. But there's no privacy rights, no miranda rights, none of that here. That doesn't mean I'm gonna do the same kinda jaw flappin' all over the network like you were."
He gave Roman a Look.
"I know how to keep my mouth shut." Being viable for Top Secret clearance and maintaining that was required for the sake of his badge. Raylan meant what he said.
That's a Look Roman's surprisingly familiar with, and one he seems to take at face value after a few silent beats of staring.
"Seed's good," he confesses, and it feels weird that he's saying that to someone he barely knows about someone he barely knows, admitting it like it's some sort of secret. The eye contact he'd held while scrutinizing the other is gone.
"I'm good, but he's--he's on another level. He knew exactly what to say to get me to swing--I just don't do that shit. I fire people and I make them cry but I don't..." he mimes throwing a punch. His hand hurts but he hadn't put enough force behind it while swinging at John to break any skin or bruise his knuckles. He is, after all, part of corporate america.
"If I didn't hate him with every fiber of my being--still want your gun by the way--I'd be impressed. Is he psychic? He knew--" Roman trials off for a brief second, the hand that fake punched moving to tug at his ear.
Raylan takes it all in with the same serious face he was wearing before. He wasn't gonna judge Roman for whatever came out of his mouth. That wasn't what this was ever about, no matter the man's likely well founded suspicions. If his daddy made him jump as much as Kendall suggested, Roman was used to trust being offered and then violated.
He'd spoken with Roman enough times to be aware of the point of the digs, the skill of standing up against the objections about what he was saying, so he understood what Roman meant when he said they were 'good'.
"I've got a good feelin' that he's been doin' this as a bloody lifestyle for a good long while. And no offense, but a lot can be hit with a few wild guesses. Have.. you ever hit anyone before?"
"Sure," Roman says, but his voice is light enough that it's easy to tell it's nothing beyond a few little scraps--wrestling with his sister when they disagree, getting into a few scraps when he was younger because someone wanted to play with his toy, that sort of thing. He's used to goading people, not actually swinging.
Roman takes a deep breath but that hurts like hell. After a wince and a hissing inhale, he speaks again.
"I don't give a shit what everyone says about me--I'm the best and I know I'm the best--but, uh, Kendall, he... uh..." He pulls a face. It's hard to look Raylan in the eye.
"He's... He's not as okay as he thinks he is. And I think Seed knows that now."
Raylan is pretty sure that Roman was lying or didn't understand what he meant in the question. But he could put a pin in it. That wasn't the important bit.
"You're worried Seed is gonna go pokin' Kendall," he surmises with a shallow nod of his head. That wasn't an unreasonable guess. "I know you mentioned that he was the one with the coke problem - somehow I got a feeling that's not as far as this goes." He also knew that it was hard to attack those subjects head on.
He levels a serious but gentle look over at the bleeding man. "You can't help him or help me help you help him with that nose the way it is. You can tell me the details I need in the waitin' times. So much for a magical barge, right?"
"I was on a yacht when my dad was trying to figure out which one of us he should send to prison," Roman's voice is casual as he slides off of the bed. Raylan's second comment is better than acknowledging that Raylan's right about Kendall. It's not really much of a stretch, nor is it a secret or something Roman thinks is a family shame--not entirely--but he's had just about enough of heart to hearts with the lankiest cowboy in West Texas.
"That was way less stressful than this bullshit. C'mon, gringo." He's ready to go to the medical ward. It's now or never.
"You'd better," Roman says, and it's the furthest thing from a threat in the universe. He's almost whining. He's too tired to be obstinate right now--it's too much effort, he's in too much pain, and he's never really been good with things like this. Picking himself off the floor.
It could be worse, he thinks. Kendall was there. For all of the shit he gives his older brother, there's genuine love there when push comes to shove. It doesn't mean he isn't miserable now, but it's a nice thought.
"I don't suppose it's Japanese whiskey?" He asks, because that's easier than hissing l like a feral cat as his nose is looked over.
Not much was a threat when your nose was broken and even breathing made you whine a little; not that Roman on his best day would be much of a threat to Raylan personally.
"What like Saki? No, it's a Scotch, but one of the good labels. Got it for Christmas. Trust me, it's on your chosen level of shelf." He wouldn't offer Roman Jim Beam in a case like this. That's every day whiskey and also on the significantly cheaper side.
"Actually got a bottle that'll never run out, which is somethin' of a ride to watch happen."
Roman's about to rip into Raylan about how Suntory is the superior alcohol in almost any way, actually, he just doesn't have taste when the other keeps talking.
Hey. Top shelf. Roman feels the need to complain zip right through him, fizzling out like an antacid tablet in water. Crimes against booze forgiven, Mr. Givens. Especially since the phrase 'never run out' has been uttered. It seems to have settled him down almost entirely, enough that he lets people fuss over him with only minor griping.
"Do you have any idea how easy it would be to commodify that shit in this hellhole?"
Top Shelf always calms the entitled rich around. He knew the base he was playing to, though he honestly wouldn't mind picking Roman's mind about whiskey. The man might not have taste, but he could appreciate good whiskey at the very least.
Raylan grins at the question, eyebrows lifting with the bob of agreement of his head. "If any of these people had anythin' I wanted, you might be right. Shit, back home, it'd be a whole business. Except it'd be moonshine. You ever been unfortunate enough to have that?"
Distracting talk was helpful when people were getting tended to and thankfully, that was a general rule that applied to most people. Raylan was happy to do it if it meant Roman letting his nose get looked at in relative peace.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
yea
Roman, however, is anything but clean and tidy: his hair is skewed, flopping half in his face. He's not wearing a shirt because he's using the garment as a makeshift towel, holding it to his nose. A rather large amount of blood has soaked through, but Roman, keeping his head tilted up--this isn't his first rodeo--shoots a warning look in Raylan's direction.
str8 into daddy mode
His brow furrows at dramatic speeds as he shuts the door.
"Jesus Christ, Roman. Shoulda told me to bring ice." Stepping over, he gestures at him. "Lift it, let me see how bad he popped ya."
The why wasn't as important as the blood gushing out of Roman's nose. What would looking do? Not much, but it was habit and a look at how severe the break was, wasn't worthless.
no subject
"It's nothing plastic surgery won't fix, who gives a shit." He very much does. Every single ounce of scrappiness or actual anger has seeped out. He's in too much pain to sound like he's feeling anything else.
"If you're not going to give me a gun, shoot John Seed instead."
no subject
"I'm not shootin' anyone today and we ain't got plastic surgery here. It's not the worst broken nose I've ever seen, but you need to be comin' with me to the infirmary. You're bleedin' a lot and you wanna break it back into position while it's fresh, 'fore anything else starts to try to heal the split." He didn't know if Roman would listen with the first push of the idea but he was happy to press more.
"What happened? Why'd he hit you?" A distraction - to give Roman a choice, a way to circle back around without having to feel like he's dancing for it.
no subject
He's never done pain well.
"He fucking--fuck--" he's getting riled up thinking about it, now, and he lets out a noise that's somewhere between a shout and another swear word.
"--Goddamn asshole wants to fuck the stigmata out of Jesus Christ he's so batshit insane, that's why, he fucking--"
He's talking, his brain is telling him to keep at it, to keep insulting him even as he's visibly trying to find a way to articulate what he actually says. Eventually he throws one hand up in surrender, gesturing wildly.
"...he was saying some stupid fucking bullshit about Kendall and I hit him, okay? Are you happy? Fuck you."
no subject
Once he got his answer, he raised his eyebrows with a faint tilt of his head and a more genuine smile.
"No shame in gettin' your nose broke defendin' family." He was sure his approval would only piss Roman off more, but that was okay. Raylan wasn't a Kindergartener Teacher here to make sure everyone learned to keep their hands to themselves.
"I'm surprised he didn't kill you. You know John Seed's the guy who killed and carved up Fitz for fun just after I got here and as I recall, Fitz didn't even do anything to him."
no subject
"You're doing it. You're doing that thing. Knock it off."
no subject
He will actually not knock it off, thank you.
"You know, you're gonna have a hard time havin' a drink when your nose is a fountain. We got fixes for that - it ain't the stone age. 'Sides, blood stains are a bitch to get out and you're dangerously close to gettin' it all over your floors."
no subject
"Temp-warden inmate privilege is like, a thing here, right?" He asks it before he actually says anything, scrutinizing Raylan and his dumb smile and his stupid hat. "If I say some shit you can't tell anyone? Like an NDA."
no subject
He gave Roman a Look.
"I know how to keep my mouth shut." Being viable for Top Secret clearance and maintaining that was required for the sake of his badge. Raylan meant what he said.
no subject
"Seed's good," he confesses, and it feels weird that he's saying that to someone he barely knows about someone he barely knows, admitting it like it's some sort of secret. The eye contact he'd held while scrutinizing the other is gone.
"I'm good, but he's--he's on another level. He knew exactly what to say to get me to swing--I just don't do that shit. I fire people and I make them cry but I don't..." he mimes throwing a punch. His hand hurts but he hadn't put enough force behind it while swinging at John to break any skin or bruise his knuckles. He is, after all, part of corporate america.
"If I didn't hate him with every fiber of my being--still want your gun by the way--I'd be impressed. Is he psychic? He knew--" Roman trials off for a brief second, the hand that fake punched moving to tug at his ear.
"He knew exactly what to say to me."
no subject
Raylan takes it all in with the same serious face he was wearing before. He wasn't gonna judge Roman for whatever came out of his mouth. That wasn't what this was ever about, no matter the man's likely well founded suspicions. If his daddy made him jump as much as Kendall suggested, Roman was used to trust being offered and then violated.
He'd spoken with Roman enough times to be aware of the point of the digs, the skill of standing up against the objections about what he was saying, so he understood what Roman meant when he said they were 'good'.
"I've got a good feelin' that he's been doin' this as a bloody lifestyle for a good long while. And no offense, but a lot can be hit with a few wild guesses. Have.. you ever hit anyone before?"
no subject
Roman takes a deep breath but that hurts like hell. After a wince and a hissing inhale, he speaks again.
"I don't give a shit what everyone says about me--I'm the best and I know I'm the best--but, uh, Kendall, he... uh..." He pulls a face. It's hard to look Raylan in the eye.
"He's... He's not as okay as he thinks he is. And I think Seed knows that now."
And it's Roman's fucking fault.
no subject
"You're worried Seed is gonna go pokin' Kendall," he surmises with a shallow nod of his head. That wasn't an unreasonable guess. "I know you mentioned that he was the one with the coke problem - somehow I got a feeling that's not as far as this goes." He also knew that it was hard to attack those subjects head on.
He levels a serious but gentle look over at the bleeding man. "You can't help him or help me help you help him with that nose the way it is. You can tell me the details I need in the waitin' times. So much for a magical barge, right?"
no subject
"That was way less stressful than this bullshit. C'mon, gringo." He's ready to go to the medical ward. It's now or never.
no subject
Raylan opens the door for him and walks with him up to the Infirmary and stands off to the side, arms crossed and silent as Roman is tended to.
"After this, I'll pour you a drink from the good bottle, if you like."
no subject
It could be worse, he thinks. Kendall was there. For all of the shit he gives his older brother, there's genuine love there when push comes to shove. It doesn't mean he isn't miserable now, but it's a nice thought.
"I don't suppose it's Japanese whiskey?" He asks, because that's easier than hissing l like a feral cat as his nose is looked over.
no subject
"What like Saki? No, it's a Scotch, but one of the good labels. Got it for Christmas. Trust me, it's on your chosen level of shelf." He wouldn't offer Roman Jim Beam in a case like this. That's every day whiskey and also on the significantly cheaper side.
"Actually got a bottle that'll never run out, which is somethin' of a ride to watch happen."
no subject
Hey. Top shelf. Roman feels the need to complain zip right through him, fizzling out like an antacid tablet in water. Crimes against booze forgiven, Mr. Givens. Especially since the phrase 'never run out' has been uttered. It seems to have settled him down almost entirely, enough that he lets people fuss over him with only minor griping.
"Do you have any idea how easy it would be to commodify that shit in this hellhole?"
no subject
Raylan grins at the question, eyebrows lifting with the bob of agreement of his head. "If any of these people had anythin' I wanted, you might be right. Shit, back home, it'd be a whole business. Except it'd be moonshine. You ever been unfortunate enough to have that?"
Distracting talk was helpful when people were getting tended to and thankfully, that was a general rule that applied to most people. Raylan was happy to do it if it meant Roman letting his nose get looked at in relative peace.