"It's open," Raylan calls, himself sat on the side of his bed, barefoot and in nothing but his jeans and ribbed tanktop, but as the door came open, he was painfully pulling on a plaid tshirt button up on to hide the bulkiness of his chest wrappings. His bruises were uglier than when Flint first found him, as most bruises tended to do.
Raylan lifts an eyebrow at the bottle at the man that's holding it and nods towards the chairs.
"Pardon my not gettin' up," he starts. "Everythin' still fuckin' hurts."
Flint doesn't hesitate once he's told the door is open, taking it as his only invitation to come in. He watches as the other moves to painfully put on that plaid tee-shirt and part of his wincing is due to sympathy pangs. He would've told the other not to bother, honestly, but just the slightest glimpse of him, even with the bulky bandages is enough to give him some steamy flashbacks. He was wearing something very, very similar when they hooked up in college and he's desperately trying not to think about it. He's been trying not to think about any of what happened in the Breach, but it really wasn't that simple.
"Typically, on the sea, you can see when a storm is heading straight for you. The sky doesn't just open up and ravage your ship on a whim." He makes idle conversation as he moves to grab a chair and pull it closer to the bed. He'd ask for a glass but chooses to just pick up the coffee mug by Raylan's nightstand to pour a few fingers out and set it back down. By the small whiff he got, it wasn't being used for coffee anyway. He'll settle for drinking from the bottle himself.
"Given time and preparation, most men tether themselves to the deck so they don't get thrown over, or go sliding into the rail. A lot can go wrong with a slick deck and the sea tossing you around. A strong storm can kill a ship or leave you stranded and well off course. It takes a lot of skill and practice when you can see a threat and prepare for it." This all had a point really, he was trying to soothe Raylan's ego in his own way.
"You were lucky she didn't throw you over. I don't think I could've got to you in time."
The overshirt was a point of manners - it hadn't escaped Raylan's attention that his current dress was.. very familiar to that One Time. That One Time that he had also been trying to not think about as well, and something that had gotten harder to ignore over the past few days. There was just nothing to do about the fact that Raylan, in most all of his iterations so far, kept to a very specific fashion type. Farm Casual.
Raylan watches him sit and pour silently, hazel eyes not moving away from him even as he reached for the mug with his closer hand, only to switch it to his left. Reaching anywhere was hard.
"That I am. Though there's a debate to be had over the pains of death tollin' against that of some broken ribs...I'm actually aware of everythin' you just told me; Istak was a good sailor, but.. Ya know, in the heat of it, he was no where to be found." Which. Wasn't wholly a bad thing. Separation could still happen. In moments of distress, Raylan was driving his boat himself. Just the way he wanted it.
He peers into his mug, taking a shallow sip as the half pulled smirk ran away, teeth bearing slightly as he swallows before he continues.
"I didn't see it come up, myself. I was in the greenhouse, tendin' to the chickens. And then the air.. changed. Like it used to back home before a tornado. Wet and heavy and sharp on the nose..." He looks up over at Flint side long.
"I ain't complainin' but I'll be honest with ya. I can't quite figure out why you pulled me out of it." Flint had expressed his opinions on dying here - it didn't much matter when they all turned back up in the infirmary, and for all the romanticism in Raylan, he didn't think Flint.. tender enough a man to let a sweetly innocent, however lewd it actually was, roll in the closet get in the way of those established principals.
"Right, of course." Istak, how could he forget. But it seems that particular alternate self was forgotten when he was most needed. Or maybe it's the only reason Raylan wasn't tossed over the rail. He could've somehow saved himself from much worse.
As for the last statement, not quite a question, though he can see that curious spark in Raylan's eyes. He honestly doesn't have an answer either. And it shows in the way the silence drags on almost a little too long.
"Instinct. Perhaps." It's, something... "I would've helped others but they had everything well in hand. It was a familiar situation even if it was unnatural. If one of my crew had fallen as you did I would've done the same, I didn't see it as any different." Instinct was a good excuse and maybe that is a majority of what happened. But he doesn't want to address the fact he might care just a little bit. Even if he's told a few people by now that he cares about the people on this Barge in his own way. By rights, Raylan should be... not an enemy, but he is someone that would stand in his way if he tried to mutiny against the Admiral. He was a man of the law. But he was also someone that has shown to be genuine and who cares. They may have their differences but they could be friends. Perhaps there is a part of him that wants to be. Even ignoring the things they've been through together thus far. Raylan could be good for him. Like how Gates had been good for him.
It was something that had passed his mind a time or two in all this time that he had to himself now. All of B's suggestions about what the breaches and floods meant, how much of themselves were in it. How much difference they, the root Them, could really make. How much of it was meant to be a lesson.
He really needed to get that journal that was suggested to him.
While this wasn't an interrogation, some things wouldn't ever leave him, such as the need to make eye contact, to see the full facial picture. Everything he needed to suss out a lie or an emotion or a hook behind the door that everyone had and used as their front facing bastion. He doubted how much of that answer was true - Flint had made some very clear ideas on death here. And yet all he could find his side processes doing was marveling at how well Flint had grown into himself. A slippery slope.
Raylan nods slowly, and empties his mug, holding it out to Flint for more.
"I appreciate you not lettin' me go over the side. I've been told that it's less casual than everyone's treatin' it. I'll take the broken ribs instead. Just a little unexpected."
Flint chews on his thoughts for a moment, feeling the need to explain a little further but knowing he wants to choose his words wisely lest he give the other the wrong impression. But also, he's trying to sort himself out all the same.
As that cup is set down he'll reach for it to pour more in and hand it back.
"It's likely no surprise to you that I really don't know that many people on this barge. I like even less." He takes a swig from the bottle and sets it between his knees.
"You..." He doesn't know what to think really, he supposes some of his protectiveness was some bleed from the Breach but they had talked and spent some time together.
"You may be one of the closest things to a friend I have so far." Between the training, they'd done and his passionate desire to understand, to be there for him when very few would, showing up with sandwiches and checking in on him. He knows Raylan cares for one reason or another. Even if it is out of obligation to do the right thing. The man was genuine and that was hard to come by.
"I'm not saying we're friends of course, but you have stood by me even when I murdered someone and you stood up to me to try and set me straight. I respect that." Even if that's sometimes a bit harder to show and swallow his pride.
Which, he takes another long drag on that bottle of rum.
A 'Thank you' was murmured out as he took the cup back - manners were a default setting for the Southerner, but his gaze settled back on his company.
Raylan had chased and anticipated and interrogated more men than Flint had killed in his lifetime, so it was easy for him to guess what might come next. That didn't stop the subtle surprise of it being uttered into the air. Doing that kind of stuff makes it reality, you know.
He couldn't help the pull of his smile into his cup or how secretly pleased he was to not be hated or worse, looked at with ambivalence.
"Of course," he agreed quietly just after, amusement crinkling his features.
"Just cause everyone you're used to calls you a pirate don't make you any less of a regular man. Just one that rides seas instead of horses. The situation is different here and I've been on friendly terms with all sorts. Last guy I went after, I grew up with since middle school. We dug coal together, our daddies ran the criminal element of the county. Not all people that commit crimes are 'bad', in such a way. Even if the rest of society chooses to put them under an umbrella assumption."
He wasn't here to judge Flint.
"And you're good company, generally speaking." IE when he wasn't calling for getting punched or murdering men.
Maybe it's the rum, maybe it's just missing having a partner or a companion like Gates, like Silver, like Thomas or Miranda. Maybe it's the Breach time, maybe it's the days spent training together after Flotilla. Maybe it was the sandwiches, understanding, and kindness. Maybe it was a lot of things, things that had been screaming deep within his soul and desperately trying not to be swallowed up by his darkness.
But when Raylan continues to be one of a very, very few people that chooses to see him for the man he is and not the monster, to believe in something better in him when he struggles to do the same it... it breaks down his walls a little easier than he could've imagined. He's been hard and cold and ruthless for so long but he hated that part of himself.
"We really are from very different times." He takes another deep swig then sets the bottle aside with a sigh. The exhale seems to deflate him.
"I have done... awful things, terrible things, but the truth is I hate it. I hate this man, this monster I've created and this mask I wear. Flint is... he's not me. Not really. And before... before things changed and I died, I admitted to someone very, very dear to me that I wished to let go of Flint. For good. I just I wanted to be free of him of the weight of it all. I loathed him more and more every day I wore the name." He swallows raggedly staring at his hands and turning the ring on his pinky.
"I'm just afraid that maybe he is more me than I want to admit and I can't let him go. I've been lost coming here. Or maybe I've been lost for a long time. Flint is what I've created to survive." His voice through all of this, if Raylan is paying attention has evened out and softened compared to the gruff, snarly and deeper tones of Flint.
"But this darkness, it's been here," He points to his chest, tapping his finger firmly on his sternum.
"It's always been a part of me, long before Flint. He was born from it and from my deep, unfathomable rage." And his pain. His absolutely devistating loss of someone he loved.
They were slipping into something serious now. Not small talk, not light conversation, but shit that matters and Raylan, while he couldn't sit up anymore, paid his quiet rapt attention. There was no missing the way Flint's voice and posturing softened, like a man tired of running.
'Not really me' has Raylan's eyes narrowing fractionally, a note of confusion but he doesn't interrupt. He's got a feeling that if he did, Flint wouldn't start talking again. He'd dealt with men like that - ones who let their jaw crack open rarely and would close it with a stiff breeze. And the further the man got, the more Raylan's curiosity eased into a rough shape of understanding.
So he lets the silence sit for a beat or two before he starts talking, studying the shadows in his cup.
"In my experience, once somethin' like that is in your craw, there's little chance of gettin' it out. Darkness breeds darkness breeds darkness. You might not ever be able to get rid of him... But that don't mean you can't revive the man you want to be underneath it all."
Raylan finally looks over again.
"I don't know how close to the Flint that Francis knew is to how you mighta been when you were younger. But if these breaches are all based off the root of us... You weren't always dark." He let another beat pass. They were getting dangerously close to Feelings Territory.
"Have you ever thought about goin' by a different name? Goin' by your name?"
Once Flint has gotten to a point of comfort that he's made up his mind to tell someone close to him about himself or anything deep he holds in, he's not as quick to clam up. That isn't to say it won't happen, but he has tended to be rather forthcoming when it came to questions or discussion once he's willing to be open. He becomes like an open book. Raylan has shown enough compassion and honesty that somehow, someway he feels safe sharing these parts of him. He doesn't believe the other will run off and tell anyone or use his emotions against him. He could trust Raylan with his life, either to pull him out of harm's way or to put a bullet in him if it meant saving him from himself or others, of that he was sure.
Maybe that was just another reason he felt compelled to save Raylan from going over. Only one other person on this barge knew his story or knew more about him than Raylan and he wasn't even entirely sure how much he could really trust Norton. Or if the guy would lift a finger to save him if the time ever called for it.
As the other mentions Francis and the Flint he knew in that alternate universe, he can't help but snap his eyes to Raylan with a little surprise and a tinge of color warming his ears. He'd hoped that somehow the other wouldn't remember what had happened between them, that maybe he'd be the only one plagued with heated memories together in a dim, red-lit closet. He casts his eyes away in embarrassment, reaching for that bottle again for another swig to swallow everything down. At least it made that uncomfortable lump go down a little more smoothly.
"James." He starts, "My name is James McGraw." Only Miranda had known him by his real name.
"Flint was created from a story my Grandfather once told me about a man that appeared seemingly out of nowhere and then disappeared all the same like the sea had just conjured him up out of thin air and took him back when it was done." He sighs.
"It wasn't meant to be like this." He rubs a hand over his neck. "I died... Flint should've gone with it but the truth of it is when I was taken from my world I had left a war behind. So much I still wanted to do. I don't have any real purpose here, I don't even know who I am anymore." He sighs.
"But I can tell you that... Flint, the boy you met as Francis was so far removed from anything I would have been as a young man. Mostly because there's no way I would have had that kind of freedom, and there's no way my Grandfather would've ever been able to afford to send me to college." He gives a small, dry smile and a chuckle at that.
"I used to be a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy. Until I was discharged and exiled over an affair."
Raylan couldn't help the small crook of his smile as Fli- James gives his name. This past Collage Experience had taught him about names and the importance of them. It gave them more value than he'd granted them before.
"There are worse things to be discharged for." But he knew there was more to it. He didn't know What, but he Knew. Nothing was ever that simple. Affair only meant a few things. Either he had an inner office romance, whatever that meant for the 1700's, or he had an affair with a married woman.
"Wars. Purpose.. They're hard to leave behind. You're not alone in that here, though I'm certain your war is much, much more literal than mine. Different times, indeed. Just a new corner.. Somethin' new we're forced to adapt to.." Magic, Time travel, mermaids, second chances, impossible worlds.
"Francis wasn't any- Well," he huffs, "Wasn't too close to the young man I once was. Sure as shit wasn't that bright an innocent, that's for sure... it's my middle name, Francis. And my mother's name. Just spelled different. I did happen to go to collage, but only 'cause my Aunt Helen saved me and managed to get me the money. Saved my life, if I'm honest."
He looks over again. "Any objection to me callin' you James? James - never Jim or any of that shit. Can't quite see you as a Jim." He didn't know why, but it felt like it should start with what the man was called. So much sense of self was anchored in it.
James shakes his head, "Not the kind of thing I'd done, not where and when I'm from."
He can't look Raylan in the eyes now as he wrestles with just telling the truth of it. This thing which was abhorrent to society and to those who knew him, so much so that he was exiled from England. But considering what happened between them it really was no secret what he liked.
He could lie about it, of course, say it was just that alternate version of himself. But then Miranda's words are echoing in his head and all he can think of is the words scrawled in Thomas' handwriting Know No Shame. Except that he did. He fought with that shame every day. And then there was Norton, who was trying to help him feel safe here. To help him understand that he would not be judged here. Even less so with Raylan.
He takes what the other says about himself and his alternate counterpart to heart, debating deviating from the topic of himself.
"You are welcome to call me James, yes." He confirms. There's a short moment of uncomfortable fidgeting before he just bites the bullet.
"I worked with a man, a young lord named Thomas Hamilton to come up with a plan to save Nassau and pardon the pirates. He was married to a woman named Miranda Barlow, she and I did grow close, we did sleep together and Thomas knew of it, they had a sort of... open thing..." Because Thomas was gay and the son of a very powerful man.
"But We--he and I--we grew closer still and..." There's a motion of his hand to silently indicate they slept together. He reaches for that bottle of rum and drinks heavily. There won't be much left after this if they don't manage to kick it tonight.
"His father found out, we were betrayed by a close friend of ours we thought we could trust. I was discharged from the navy, Miranda and I were exiled, and Thomas was taken away to a Mental Hospital. He ah..." He swallows raggedly, jaw tensing.
"He died in that hospital, alone. And to this day I won't forgive myself for having never tried to save him." His voice is breaking and he drinks again. A shorter swig that is thrown back into his throat.
"Sorry, I uh..." he clears his throat, "Now, now you know about... nearly everything. Before... before I became Flint or maybe more of an idea of why." In short, it was one of the worst things that had happened to him.
Raylan had a habit sometimes of injecting levity in non-job conversations, a lift, an opening, a break away path from what felt, in the moment, dangerously too contentious. If he were honest, he didn't want to be alone and didn't want to drive James off. But those paths, those outs were just and option. While he would never use the term 'Safe space', he wanted for himself what he wanted for everyone else. Security. A place to sit without fear of getting kicked or feeling a need to defend yourself.
He smiles briefly with his faint nod, pleased at James's agreement, head tilting slightly as he waits, sitting in the indecision. If there was one thing that Raylan understood, it was not being allowed to be anything other than like everyone around you, under pain of death or worse.
Somethings though. Well, they never seemed to change. One day, he'd tell him about Don't Ask Don't Tell.
There was no stopping the hoisting of his eyebrows in surprise as Flint gets to the threesome - maybe the 1700's did know how to have a few wild and liberal households. That didn't make anything Simple by any stretch. By the way that Flint tilted that bottle, by the way his face got more tormented, that Growing Closer wasn't just sex. It was More. Likely demanded to be More, considering how rare it must have been to find someone who wouldn't abuse the privilege of that intimacy.
Raylan frowns as James continues, emptying his own cup and shaking his head at the apology. Hitching to hold his breath, Raylan pulled himself upright and swung his feet back off the bed. There was no leaning on his knees right now, but he could sit up.
"Don't be sorry for tellin' the tale. That kinda betrayal and the fall out is.. Horrible," he continues, eyes having lifted to look him in the face. Of course, he assumes that Thomas was killed, by malpractice or overmedication or whatever else they did in those institutions, and that makes it all the more tragic.
"I-.. Havin' that kind of relationship is brave. Even in my time, it's frowned upon. Bein' with men too. You'll find pockets of acceptance, all over the top in glitter and pride but.. there's not enough of 'em... And I've got no inclinations towards glitter but. Harlan wouldn't have accepted it either."
Raylan shook his head a little and reaches over into his sidetable drawer to pull out a full bottle of whiskey, studying the label as he spoke like he was talking about the weather.
"Exile isn't somethin' that gets put on the table anymore. Harlan would have.." He took a deep breath in through his nose and pushed to his feet slowly to amble just as slowly over towards the expanded kitchenette and it's added island counter, sliding the bottle along until it's close to the edge as he lets it go in favor of opening one of the two cabinets on the wall.
"It'd tear someone apart. Place is full of uneducated, backwards, hateful religious folk and anythin' that ain't God Bless America and White Picket Fences with your wife, going to church. To hell with women, homosexuals, athiests and communists."
He turned back with a tightening of his jaw as he shook his head again, grabbing the bottle and coming back to set it all on the little table.
"Doesn't make any of it okay. People got a right to happiness." After grabbing his cup, he slowly set himself down into the chair opposite and sighed sourly. "But you got to have it. Any amount ain't ever gonna be enough. Everythin's unfinished. You've gotten somethin' other folks ain't ever seen."
Flint listens intently, watching as the other moves slowly and painfully out of bed. He nearly rises to help or stop him, but thinks better of it, just watching him go through the motions and focusing more on his words. Or the meaning behind some of it that aren't being said. He could sense a bitterness there, a sort of pain that he recognized.
As Raylan gathered up some things to set on the table nearby, he'll move his chair back over to join him. He mulls over his words a little confused at first, but in that brief time he'd had with Thomas and Miranda, they were happy. They were safe. But he blames himself for it all going to shit.
"What about you? Did you have someone?" There was something there he couldn't quite put his finger on. Raylan had been sulking and there was more to it than just his injuries laying him up and making him useless.
It was nothing more than a sound, but one that came with a tightening and thinning of his lips as he opened his bottle and poured himself a good three fingers, tapping on the bottle with his off hand to draw Flint's attention to the way the bottle looked fully fresh and untouched, despite his pour.
"I was.. married for a time. Round about 6 years. It.." He sighs out his nose, jaw tightening. His story was no great tragedy, no Shakspearian loss. His was so basic and common a story he felt it wasn't really worth the telling. From Arlo to Winona, to any of his relationships. To Tim.
"It didn't end well. She left me for the man sellin' our house while I was in Miami." He sucks his teeth shortly. "Didn't even get askin' price for the house." He shook his head and took a deep drink, trying to pretend like that was it, he'd answered the question, it was done, but-
"I don't.. Get to have that, historically speakin'. Hell, I just ran the shortest fuckin' relationship I've had since highschool.. Some two weeks on top of six years of workin' with the man.." His head was shaking again, jaw tight and the impulse to throw his mug right under his skin.
"Tim's gone, if you didn't know. Our uh.. former Theater Professor, as you might know him." That had to be washed down with the warm sting of top shelf whiskey, it hurt to bear the words to air, like freshly opened wounds.
Flint listens quietly, taking it all in, watching the pain twist in Raylan's features. He notes the bottle that doesn't empty, quirking a brow and setting his bottle aside in favor of sharing that bottle of unending whiskey if Raylan wanted to.
As for Tim, there is a little flicker of confusion, he didn't meet Tim on the barge. But their Theater Professor, sure, he knew him well enough from that Alternate world they shared. He wracks his brain around it a little, surprised that that is the sort he'd go for, but then remembering how vastly different they all were. Now he wonders what Tim was really like.
"I'm sorry, for what it's worth." Which he knows isn't a whole lot but it's generally what people say when you lose someone.
"He was a Warden, right?" Just a shot in the dark if they worked together.
"So you'll see him again when you go back? And your ex-wife? She's alive? Surely there's some solace in that. Those people you love may not be here with you but it's something you have to go back to." He doesn't say it, he doesn't want to taint the positive, but he doesn't have any of that to go back to.
Raylan's head starts shaking as soon as James gets halfway through 'Sorry'. "Don't be."
Letting the man finish, Raylan pours him a few fingers of the whiskey in the spare cup he'd brought before topping off his own.
"He was. US Army Ranger, Sniper. But - he said he'd been in love with me for years and I've never been in a relationship with a guy. I never got allowed the chance to-" Acclimate. Learn to trust or love him back. Feel okay. He shakes his head again. Being blunt and open about this was not natural, and it felt like the words stacked upon themselves in the back of his throat.
"I won't be seein' him, no. He won't remember this place and I left the Lexington Office a few months ago back home. And yeah, Winona is still alive. Until some shit for brains mob thug decides to go after her to get my attention.. That's part of my deal. Winona and I got back together for a few months and she got pregnant. Left me two months into that but.. Eventually my daughter Willa was born." Willa at least, gets a pointed softening of his eyes and features, faint smile a little broader and a lot more easily brought, even if it didn't stay long.
"My deal is their safety. That none of the ugly people I've pissed off and arrested, shot, gotten in the way of come after her and her mother ever again. When I go back, I'll have Willa and the lucky opportunity to watch her mother try to be happy with whatever line of gentleman she decides to try out next," he ends drily.
Sure, he'd know that Winona was alive. For Willa's sake, he's glad she was. For his own sake? At least if she were in the ground, she couldn't hurt him anymore. At least then she wouldn't be able to jerk him around anymore. It was. Complicated.
"That's something good at least." A relationship with his daughter and a guarantee for their safety. He studies the other curiously as he picks up his glass and has a sip of the whiskey, letting it burn its way down his throat.
"Are you alright?" It was only two weeks but it was clear something was eating at Raylan and if he'd had feelings but been unable to share them all this time. Only to finally get to do so and have the man taken from him a few weeks later, that's rough. Especially knowing he won't be able to see him or that Tim won't remember anything.
"Wouldn't trade that little girl for the world," he granted easily. No matter what shit happened, Willa was in the world now and Raylan would turn over hell to keep her safe if he had to.
Raylan sighs quietly into his cup.
"Objectively? Close enough for government work. Anything else-" Raylan shrugged one shoulder, head shaking shallowly. "Few more days of self abuse and I'm sure I'll get there. Nothin' that whiskey hasn't been able to bandaid before." Huffing a bare breath of a sardonic sound out of his nose, Raylan rubs at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose for a long moment before his hand dropped.
"Guess it's my turn to say sorry. Not much of anythin' I can think can be done about it, but you sure didn't have to spend your evenin' bein' a sad sack with me." He appreciated the company.
"Are you alright? After the breach and everythin' - I know the first few runs tend to be the weirdest, considerin' that most of us have never done anything like this before."
Flint shakes his head and waves a hand this time. "Frankly, I think this might've been a long time coming for both of us."
He drinks his whiskey as the rum mixes in his blood and he feels all of it starting to rush to his head, putting him in a nice comfortable buzz. He studies the other some more, mulling over what he's about to offer. He's not sure if it's just the alcohol bringing out more warmth and compassion, or maybe parts of himself leftover from the Alternate version that cares about Raylan, it's hard to tell so fresh from the breach with rum in his belly. But he supposes in the end it doesn't matter. No one outside this room would know or needed to know any of it. And maybe there's something to this companionship they both desperately needed.
"I could stay." He offers. "I don't think you should be alone, especially with you still healing." Sure he'd got up and wandered around just fine but he should be resting and Flint could help. It was a good excuse to stay if Raylan didn't want to be alone.
"Sayin' shit about it not really a thing folk like us are allowed to do, is it." Except behind closed doors with people they trusted.
The rise of heat in Raylan's chest at the offer was immediately attributed to the whiskey in his hand and not the flash of memories of their younger possible selves grinning like fools as they snuck into Flint's bedroom and into his bed. Certainly couldn't be because no matter what Raylan's Front brain said, the drunk, honest core of him had enjoyed it more than he'd say.
Swallowing thickly, an action that had his head dropping a fraction, he considered the safety of the inside of his cup. All logical rational pointed to the obvious. Demuring, making it light.. drinking himself into another blackout of a night. Which, considering his condition, was doubly stupid and he knew it.
"Alls I got is the one bed. If that ain't a problem," he finally says. "Place is based off where I was livin' in Lexington and wasn't built for more than one kinda entertainin'." If he was less busted up, he could too easily see this whole suggestion going towards that kind of entertainment, but at this exact moment, heavy pants would be distractingly painful. And the whole sentiment was probably the whiskey and rum talking.
He wasn't used to people caring about him or his wellbeing beyond whether or not he was still drawing breath and he felt a little awkward and.. not weak but. Something, for not arguing against it harder.
"Not really, no. Showing any kind of feeling other than pure rage might be considered a weakness. Can't have that can we?" He sips the whiskey again and watches it as he swirls it in the glass in thought.
"I think something from that other world has stuck with me, something I'm still sorting out on top of everything else. But it's..." He shakes his head, running a hand over his peach fuzz. A lot about Flint from that time was so very different and yet he could remember all of it. That feeling of freedom, of feeling accepted and happy. Genuinely happy and loved. It had been a mirror image. It was something he wasn't sure he wanted to let go of. And it was something many others had tried to tell him he could have on this Barge. That this place was different. And it could be something both he and Raylan could have again. A safe space away from the suffering they'd endured back home for just being who they were and who they wanted to love. Experiences they weren't allowed to have they could have here. Maybe it might help him return to himself if he could just be James in every sense of the name. He didn't need Flint anymore that much was becoming more and more obvious.
"It's a glimmer of something that might fight off this darkness in me." His shame, his rage, and his pain he's been carrying and using as a weapon to survive. He didn't need it. This Barge and the people on it like Raylan were disarming him. Making him strip off his armor to the bare scars beneath. So he could maybe heal from them instead of being haunted by them. Moreover, he didn't want others to suffer as he did and if he could help soothe the ache of someone he has come to care for, all the better. They both could be better for it. And he remembered all the things his alternate self tried to do for others and all the good it did for everyone, including himself. There was so much from this Breach that has given him a new perspective.
"One bed is fine." Though he sees the way the other seems to shift a little uncomfortably, recognizes that heated embarrassment for what it is. He knows where his mind is going and Flint would be lying if he hadn't been thinking about any of it all this time. But Raylan was wounded and he'd behave.
"I can sleep elsewhere if need be. A chair, the floor. I could even go get the extra hammock from my room." He pauses as he considers, "Which, after you're all healed up, that hammock is yours if ever you want the company."
Another sip to finish his glass and slid it forward, "You and I have been through enough now and heaven knows you took care of me and looked after me when you didn't have to. I want to return the favor. I'd like to call you my brother, or my friend."
He thinks once more about College!Flint and how he'd been with others when they clearly needed help or guidance. "I'm here for a drink, an ear, for a fight, a distraction. For a familiar place to sleep when you don't want to be alone."
Raylan had met a good number of people on board, all colorful characters - Tim Stoker, Jacobi, Sweeney, Steve - all folks who understood that rule, regardless of if they chose to break it or not, but James was the only one he felt really understood the root place of toxic masculinity that did nothing but damage the people that had to withstand it. Sure, it got shit done, but there were other options. He'd spent his life trying to walk that line, keeping the demand of respect without tearing down everything around him. He'd managed to mostly spare everyone else, but it meant he fell self-victim to the engrained culture.
There was a respect being given to how shitty it was. He hadn't realized that respect was lacking from some others before until hearing it now.
He looks over again as James talks about something sticking with him, unable to stop the warm tug of his lips as he continues. The voice of punishing self-loathing in the back of his head was quick to point out that maybe Tim did have a reason to be concerned but- Raylan wouldn't have any need for companionship if Tim hadn't left. What was so wrong in taking the offered comfort that they both wanted and needed? What was so wrong with just being comfortable in their own skin for a few fucking minutes.
The glass was slid over and Raylan shifted in his seat a little to pour James another two fingers.
"Watch out, with talk like that, you might never get rid of me," he threatens playfully as he tops off his cup, eyes crinkling around the edges as he sits back in his chair. The smile stayed, even as teasing nature fell a little back into the soft seriousness of Raylan daring to continue on this two way street of opening up.
"I've been alone a lot and for a long time. And somehow it's. Sharper here. Heavier with no place to run from it. I imagine that's worse in Zero." Flint deserved the visit there, but he didn't deserve to be isolated. Tantamount to torture. He shook his head a little. "I don't wanna be alone. Least not tonight. No need at all for you sleepin' anywhere else either. Floor is uncomfortable as hell an' I know that from experience.." His lips curled a little again.
"Might be weird if brothers shared a bed though an' where I from, incest gets a lotta actual action. Better if we avoid 'brothers'. Hope you know this means that this road works both ways then.. You could use some lookin' out for. That glimmer you mention could use some encouagin' too."
In for a penny, in for a pound, right? He knew in his gut that James wasn't a bad guy. Capable of bad things, yes, just like Raylan was, but full of good intent. Good intentions might pave the road to hell, but they were on a barge meant for it.
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Deck 8, room 7
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[But since you sound like you're feeling really sorry for yourself he'll bring his personal stash along when he comes knocking at the door.]
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Raylan lifts an eyebrow at the bottle at the man that's holding it and nods towards the chairs.
"Pardon my not gettin' up," he starts. "Everythin' still fuckin' hurts."
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"Typically, on the sea, you can see when a storm is heading straight for you. The sky doesn't just open up and ravage your ship on a whim." He makes idle conversation as he moves to grab a chair and pull it closer to the bed. He'd ask for a glass but chooses to just pick up the coffee mug by Raylan's nightstand to pour a few fingers out and set it back down. By the small whiff he got, it wasn't being used for coffee anyway. He'll settle for drinking from the bottle himself.
"Given time and preparation, most men tether themselves to the deck so they don't get thrown over, or go sliding into the rail. A lot can go wrong with a slick deck and the sea tossing you around. A strong storm can kill a ship or leave you stranded and well off course. It takes a lot of skill and practice when you can see a threat and prepare for it." This all had a point really, he was trying to soothe Raylan's ego in his own way.
"You were lucky she didn't throw you over. I don't think I could've got to you in time."
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Raylan watches him sit and pour silently, hazel eyes not moving away from him even as he reached for the mug with his closer hand, only to switch it to his left. Reaching anywhere was hard.
"That I am. Though there's a debate to be had over the pains of death tollin' against that of some broken ribs...I'm actually aware of everythin' you just told me; Istak was a good sailor, but.. Ya know, in the heat of it, he was no where to be found." Which. Wasn't wholly a bad thing. Separation could still happen. In moments of distress, Raylan was driving his boat himself. Just the way he wanted it.
He peers into his mug, taking a shallow sip as the half pulled smirk ran away, teeth bearing slightly as he swallows before he continues.
"I didn't see it come up, myself. I was in the greenhouse, tendin' to the chickens. And then the air.. changed. Like it used to back home before a tornado. Wet and heavy and sharp on the nose..." He looks up over at Flint side long.
"I ain't complainin' but I'll be honest with ya. I can't quite figure out why you pulled me out of it." Flint had expressed his opinions on dying here - it didn't much matter when they all turned back up in the infirmary, and for all the romanticism in Raylan, he didn't think Flint.. tender enough a man to let a sweetly innocent, however lewd it actually was, roll in the closet get in the way of those established principals.
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As for the last statement, not quite a question, though he can see that curious spark in Raylan's eyes. He honestly doesn't have an answer either. And it shows in the way the silence drags on almost a little too long.
"Instinct. Perhaps." It's, something... "I would've helped others but they had everything well in hand. It was a familiar situation even if it was unnatural. If one of my crew had fallen as you did I would've done the same, I didn't see it as any different." Instinct was a good excuse and maybe that is a majority of what happened. But he doesn't want to address the fact he might care just a little bit. Even if he's told a few people by now that he cares about the people on this Barge in his own way. By rights, Raylan should be... not an enemy, but he is someone that would stand in his way if he tried to mutiny against the Admiral. He was a man of the law. But he was also someone that has shown to be genuine and who cares. They may have their differences but they could be friends. Perhaps there is a part of him that wants to be. Even ignoring the things they've been through together thus far. Raylan could be good for him. Like how Gates had been good for him.
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He really needed to get that journal that was suggested to him.
While this wasn't an interrogation, some things wouldn't ever leave him, such as the need to make eye contact, to see the full facial picture. Everything he needed to suss out a lie or an emotion or a hook behind the door that everyone had and used as their front facing bastion. He doubted how much of that answer was true - Flint had made some very clear ideas on death here. And yet all he could find his side processes doing was marveling at how well Flint had grown into himself. A slippery slope.
Raylan nods slowly, and empties his mug, holding it out to Flint for more.
"I appreciate you not lettin' me go over the side. I've been told that it's less casual than everyone's treatin' it. I'll take the broken ribs instead. Just a little unexpected."
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As that cup is set down he'll reach for it to pour more in and hand it back.
"It's likely no surprise to you that I really don't know that many people on this barge. I like even less." He takes a swig from the bottle and sets it between his knees.
"You..." He doesn't know what to think really, he supposes some of his protectiveness was some bleed from the Breach but they had talked and spent some time together.
"You may be one of the closest things to a friend I have so far." Between the training, they'd done and his passionate desire to understand, to be there for him when very few would, showing up with sandwiches and checking in on him. He knows Raylan cares for one reason or another. Even if it is out of obligation to do the right thing. The man was genuine and that was hard to come by.
"I'm not saying we're friends of course, but you have stood by me even when I murdered someone and you stood up to me to try and set me straight. I respect that." Even if that's sometimes a bit harder to show and swallow his pride.
Which, he takes another long drag on that bottle of rum.
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Raylan had chased and anticipated and interrogated more men than Flint had killed in his lifetime, so it was easy for him to guess what might come next. That didn't stop the subtle surprise of it being uttered into the air. Doing that kind of stuff makes it reality, you know.
He couldn't help the pull of his smile into his cup or how secretly pleased he was to not be hated or worse, looked at with ambivalence.
"Of course," he agreed quietly just after, amusement crinkling his features.
"Just cause everyone you're used to calls you a pirate don't make you any less of a regular man. Just one that rides seas instead of horses. The situation is different here and I've been on friendly terms with all sorts. Last guy I went after, I grew up with since middle school. We dug coal together, our daddies ran the criminal element of the county. Not all people that commit crimes are 'bad', in such a way. Even if the rest of society chooses to put them under an umbrella assumption."
He wasn't here to judge Flint.
"And you're good company, generally speaking." IE when he wasn't calling for getting punched or murdering men.
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But when Raylan continues to be one of a very, very few people that chooses to see him for the man he is and not the monster, to believe in something better in him when he struggles to do the same it... it breaks down his walls a little easier than he could've imagined. He's been hard and cold and ruthless for so long but he hated that part of himself.
"We really are from very different times." He takes another deep swig then sets the bottle aside with a sigh. The exhale seems to deflate him.
"I have done... awful things, terrible things, but the truth is I hate it. I hate this man, this monster I've created and this mask I wear. Flint is... he's not me. Not really. And before... before things changed and I died, I admitted to someone very, very dear to me that I wished to let go of Flint. For good. I just I wanted to be free of him of the weight of it all. I loathed him more and more every day I wore the name." He swallows raggedly staring at his hands and turning the ring on his pinky.
"I'm just afraid that maybe he is more me than I want to admit and I can't let him go. I've been lost coming here. Or maybe I've been lost for a long time. Flint is what I've created to survive." His voice through all of this, if Raylan is paying attention has evened out and softened compared to the gruff, snarly and deeper tones of Flint.
"But this darkness, it's been here," He points to his chest, tapping his finger firmly on his sternum.
"It's always been a part of me, long before Flint. He was born from it and from my deep, unfathomable rage." And his pain. His absolutely devistating loss of someone he loved.
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'Not really me' has Raylan's eyes narrowing fractionally, a note of confusion but he doesn't interrupt. He's got a feeling that if he did, Flint wouldn't start talking again. He'd dealt with men like that - ones who let their jaw crack open rarely and would close it with a stiff breeze. And the further the man got, the more Raylan's curiosity eased into a rough shape of understanding.
So he lets the silence sit for a beat or two before he starts talking, studying the shadows in his cup.
"In my experience, once somethin' like that is in your craw, there's little chance of gettin' it out. Darkness breeds darkness breeds darkness. You might not ever be able to get rid of him... But that don't mean you can't revive the man you want to be underneath it all."
Raylan finally looks over again.
"I don't know how close to the Flint that Francis knew is to how you mighta been when you were younger. But if these breaches are all based off the root of us... You weren't always dark." He let another beat pass. They were getting dangerously close to Feelings Territory.
"Have you ever thought about goin' by a different name? Goin' by your name?"
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Maybe that was just another reason he felt compelled to save Raylan from going over. Only one other person on this barge knew his story or knew more about him than Raylan and he wasn't even entirely sure how much he could really trust Norton. Or if the guy would lift a finger to save him if the time ever called for it.
As the other mentions Francis and the Flint he knew in that alternate universe, he can't help but snap his eyes to Raylan with a little surprise and a tinge of color warming his ears. He'd hoped that somehow the other wouldn't remember what had happened between them, that maybe he'd be the only one plagued with heated memories together in a dim, red-lit closet. He casts his eyes away in embarrassment, reaching for that bottle again for another swig to swallow everything down. At least it made that uncomfortable lump go down a little more smoothly.
"James." He starts, "My name is James McGraw." Only Miranda had known him by his real name.
"Flint was created from a story my Grandfather once told me about a man that appeared seemingly out of nowhere and then disappeared all the same like the sea had just conjured him up out of thin air and took him back when it was done." He sighs.
"It wasn't meant to be like this." He rubs a hand over his neck. "I died... Flint should've gone with it but the truth of it is when I was taken from my world I had left a war behind. So much I still wanted to do. I don't have any real purpose here, I don't even know who I am anymore." He sighs.
"But I can tell you that... Flint, the boy you met as Francis was so far removed from anything I would have been as a young man. Mostly because there's no way I would have had that kind of freedom, and there's no way my Grandfather would've ever been able to afford to send me to college." He gives a small, dry smile and a chuckle at that.
"I used to be a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy. Until I was discharged and exiled over an affair."
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"There are worse things to be discharged for." But he knew there was more to it. He didn't know What, but he Knew. Nothing was ever that simple. Affair only meant a few things. Either he had an inner office romance, whatever that meant for the 1700's, or he had an affair with a married woman.
"Wars. Purpose.. They're hard to leave behind. You're not alone in that here, though I'm certain your war is much, much more literal than mine. Different times, indeed. Just a new corner.. Somethin' new we're forced to adapt to.." Magic, Time travel, mermaids, second chances, impossible worlds.
"Francis wasn't any- Well," he huffs, "Wasn't too close to the young man I once was. Sure as shit wasn't that bright an innocent, that's for sure... it's my middle name, Francis. And my mother's name. Just spelled different. I did happen to go to collage, but only 'cause my Aunt Helen saved me and managed to get me the money. Saved my life, if I'm honest."
He looks over again. "Any objection to me callin' you James? James - never Jim or any of that shit. Can't quite see you as a Jim." He didn't know why, but it felt like it should start with what the man was called. So much sense of self was anchored in it.
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He can't look Raylan in the eyes now as he wrestles with just telling the truth of it. This thing which was abhorrent to society and to those who knew him, so much so that he was exiled from England. But considering what happened between them it really was no secret what he liked.
He could lie about it, of course, say it was just that alternate version of himself. But then Miranda's words are echoing in his head and all he can think of is the words scrawled in Thomas' handwriting Know No Shame. Except that he did. He fought with that shame every day. And then there was Norton, who was trying to help him feel safe here. To help him understand that he would not be judged here. Even less so with Raylan.
He takes what the other says about himself and his alternate counterpart to heart, debating deviating from the topic of himself.
"You are welcome to call me James, yes." He confirms. There's a short moment of uncomfortable fidgeting before he just bites the bullet.
"I worked with a man, a young lord named Thomas Hamilton to come up with a plan to save Nassau and pardon the pirates. He was married to a woman named Miranda Barlow, she and I did grow close, we did sleep together and Thomas knew of it, they had a sort of... open thing..." Because Thomas was gay and the son of a very powerful man.
"But We--he and I--we grew closer still and..." There's a motion of his hand to silently indicate they slept together. He reaches for that bottle of rum and drinks heavily. There won't be much left after this if they don't manage to kick it tonight.
"His father found out, we were betrayed by a close friend of ours we thought we could trust. I was discharged from the navy, Miranda and I were exiled, and Thomas was taken away to a Mental Hospital. He ah..." He swallows raggedly, jaw tensing.
"He died in that hospital, alone. And to this day I won't forgive myself for having never tried to save him." His voice is breaking and he drinks again. A shorter swig that is thrown back into his throat.
"Sorry, I uh..." he clears his throat, "Now, now you know about... nearly everything. Before... before I became Flint or maybe more of an idea of why." In short, it was one of the worst things that had happened to him.
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He smiles briefly with his faint nod, pleased at James's agreement, head tilting slightly as he waits, sitting in the indecision. If there was one thing that Raylan understood, it was not being allowed to be anything other than like everyone around you, under pain of death or worse.
Somethings though. Well, they never seemed to change. One day, he'd tell him about Don't Ask Don't Tell.
There was no stopping the hoisting of his eyebrows in surprise as Flint gets to the threesome - maybe the 1700's did know how to have a few wild and liberal households. That didn't make anything Simple by any stretch. By the way that Flint tilted that bottle, by the way his face got more tormented, that Growing Closer wasn't just sex. It was More. Likely demanded to be More, considering how rare it must have been to find someone who wouldn't abuse the privilege of that intimacy.
Raylan frowns as James continues, emptying his own cup and shaking his head at the apology. Hitching to hold his breath, Raylan pulled himself upright and swung his feet back off the bed. There was no leaning on his knees right now, but he could sit up.
"Don't be sorry for tellin' the tale. That kinda betrayal and the fall out is.. Horrible," he continues, eyes having lifted to look him in the face. Of course, he assumes that Thomas was killed, by malpractice or overmedication or whatever else they did in those institutions, and that makes it all the more tragic.
"I-.. Havin' that kind of relationship is brave. Even in my time, it's frowned upon. Bein' with men too. You'll find pockets of acceptance, all over the top in glitter and pride but.. there's not enough of 'em... And I've got no inclinations towards glitter but. Harlan wouldn't have accepted it either."
Raylan shook his head a little and reaches over into his sidetable drawer to pull out a full bottle of whiskey, studying the label as he spoke like he was talking about the weather.
"Exile isn't somethin' that gets put on the table anymore. Harlan would have.." He took a deep breath in through his nose and pushed to his feet slowly to amble just as slowly over towards the expanded kitchenette and it's added island counter, sliding the bottle along until it's close to the edge as he lets it go in favor of opening one of the two cabinets on the wall.
"It'd tear someone apart. Place is full of uneducated, backwards, hateful religious folk and anythin' that ain't God Bless America and White Picket Fences with your wife, going to church. To hell with women, homosexuals, athiests and communists."
He turned back with a tightening of his jaw as he shook his head again, grabbing the bottle and coming back to set it all on the little table.
"Doesn't make any of it okay. People got a right to happiness." After grabbing his cup, he slowly set himself down into the chair opposite and sighed sourly. "But you got to have it. Any amount ain't ever gonna be enough. Everythin's unfinished. You've gotten somethin' other folks ain't ever seen."
If only for a moment.
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As Raylan gathered up some things to set on the table nearby, he'll move his chair back over to join him. He mulls over his words a little confused at first, but in that brief time he'd had with Thomas and Miranda, they were happy. They were safe. But he blames himself for it all going to shit.
"What about you? Did you have someone?" There was something there he couldn't quite put his finger on. Raylan had been sulking and there was more to it than just his injuries laying him up and making him useless.
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It was nothing more than a sound, but one that came with a tightening and thinning of his lips as he opened his bottle and poured himself a good three fingers, tapping on the bottle with his off hand to draw Flint's attention to the way the bottle looked fully fresh and untouched, despite his pour.
"I was.. married for a time. Round about 6 years. It.." He sighs out his nose, jaw tightening. His story was no great tragedy, no Shakspearian loss. His was so basic and common a story he felt it wasn't really worth the telling. From Arlo to Winona, to any of his relationships. To Tim.
"It didn't end well. She left me for the man sellin' our house while I was in Miami." He sucks his teeth shortly. "Didn't even get askin' price for the house." He shook his head and took a deep drink, trying to pretend like that was it, he'd answered the question, it was done, but-
"I don't.. Get to have that, historically speakin'. Hell, I just ran the shortest fuckin' relationship I've had since highschool.. Some two weeks on top of six years of workin' with the man.." His head was shaking again, jaw tight and the impulse to throw his mug right under his skin.
"Tim's gone, if you didn't know. Our uh.. former Theater Professor, as you might know him." That had to be washed down with the warm sting of top shelf whiskey, it hurt to bear the words to air, like freshly opened wounds.
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As for Tim, there is a little flicker of confusion, he didn't meet Tim on the barge. But their Theater Professor, sure, he knew him well enough from that Alternate world they shared. He wracks his brain around it a little, surprised that that is the sort he'd go for, but then remembering how vastly different they all were. Now he wonders what Tim was really like.
"I'm sorry, for what it's worth." Which he knows isn't a whole lot but it's generally what people say when you lose someone.
"He was a Warden, right?" Just a shot in the dark if they worked together.
"So you'll see him again when you go back? And your ex-wife? She's alive? Surely there's some solace in that. Those people you love may not be here with you but it's something you have to go back to." He doesn't say it, he doesn't want to taint the positive, but he doesn't have any of that to go back to.
"What was your deal with the Admiral?"
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Letting the man finish, Raylan pours him a few fingers of the whiskey in the spare cup he'd brought before topping off his own.
"He was. US Army Ranger, Sniper. But - he said he'd been in love with me for years and I've never been in a relationship with a guy. I never got allowed the chance to-" Acclimate. Learn to trust or love him back. Feel okay. He shakes his head again. Being blunt and open about this was not natural, and it felt like the words stacked upon themselves in the back of his throat.
"I won't be seein' him, no. He won't remember this place and I left the Lexington Office a few months ago back home. And yeah, Winona is still alive. Until some shit for brains mob thug decides to go after her to get my attention.. That's part of my deal. Winona and I got back together for a few months and she got pregnant. Left me two months into that but.. Eventually my daughter Willa was born." Willa at least, gets a pointed softening of his eyes and features, faint smile a little broader and a lot more easily brought, even if it didn't stay long.
"My deal is their safety. That none of the ugly people I've pissed off and arrested, shot, gotten in the way of come after her and her mother ever again. When I go back, I'll have Willa and the lucky opportunity to watch her mother try to be happy with whatever line of gentleman she decides to try out next," he ends drily.
Sure, he'd know that Winona was alive. For Willa's sake, he's glad she was. For his own sake? At least if she were in the ground, she couldn't hurt him anymore. At least then she wouldn't be able to jerk him around anymore. It was. Complicated.
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"Are you alright?" It was only two weeks but it was clear something was eating at Raylan and if he'd had feelings but been unable to share them all this time. Only to finally get to do so and have the man taken from him a few weeks later, that's rough. Especially knowing he won't be able to see him or that Tim won't remember anything.
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Raylan sighs quietly into his cup.
"Objectively? Close enough for government work. Anything else-" Raylan shrugged one shoulder, head shaking shallowly. "Few more days of self abuse and I'm sure I'll get there. Nothin' that whiskey hasn't been able to bandaid before." Huffing a bare breath of a sardonic sound out of his nose, Raylan rubs at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose for a long moment before his hand dropped.
"Guess it's my turn to say sorry. Not much of anythin' I can think can be done about it, but you sure didn't have to spend your evenin' bein' a sad sack with me." He appreciated the company.
"Are you alright? After the breach and everythin' - I know the first few runs tend to be the weirdest, considerin' that most of us have never done anything like this before."
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He drinks his whiskey as the rum mixes in his blood and he feels all of it starting to rush to his head, putting him in a nice comfortable buzz. He studies the other some more, mulling over what he's about to offer. He's not sure if it's just the alcohol bringing out more warmth and compassion, or maybe parts of himself leftover from the Alternate version that cares about Raylan, it's hard to tell so fresh from the breach with rum in his belly. But he supposes in the end it doesn't matter. No one outside this room would know or needed to know any of it. And maybe there's something to this companionship they both desperately needed.
"I could stay." He offers. "I don't think you should be alone, especially with you still healing." Sure he'd got up and wandered around just fine but he should be resting and Flint could help. It was a good excuse to stay if Raylan didn't want to be alone.
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The rise of heat in Raylan's chest at the offer was immediately attributed to the whiskey in his hand and not the flash of memories of their younger possible selves grinning like fools as they snuck into Flint's bedroom and into his bed. Certainly couldn't be because no matter what Raylan's Front brain said, the drunk, honest core of him had enjoyed it more than he'd say.
Swallowing thickly, an action that had his head dropping a fraction, he considered the safety of the inside of his cup. All logical rational pointed to the obvious. Demuring, making it light.. drinking himself into another blackout of a night. Which, considering his condition, was doubly stupid and he knew it.
"Alls I got is the one bed. If that ain't a problem," he finally says. "Place is based off where I was livin' in Lexington and wasn't built for more than one kinda entertainin'." If he was less busted up, he could too easily see this whole suggestion going towards that kind of entertainment, but at this exact moment, heavy pants would be distractingly painful. And the whole sentiment was probably the whiskey and rum talking.
He wasn't used to people caring about him or his wellbeing beyond whether or not he was still drawing breath and he felt a little awkward and.. not weak but. Something, for not arguing against it harder.
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"I think something from that other world has stuck with me, something I'm still sorting out on top of everything else. But it's..." He shakes his head, running a hand over his peach fuzz. A lot about Flint from that time was so very different and yet he could remember all of it. That feeling of freedom, of feeling accepted and happy. Genuinely happy and loved. It had been a mirror image. It was something he wasn't sure he wanted to let go of. And it was something many others had tried to tell him he could have on this Barge. That this place was different. And it could be something both he and Raylan could have again. A safe space away from the suffering they'd endured back home for just being who they were and who they wanted to love. Experiences they weren't allowed to have they could have here. Maybe it might help him return to himself if he could just be James in every sense of the name. He didn't need Flint anymore that much was becoming more and more obvious.
"It's a glimmer of something that might fight off this darkness in me." His shame, his rage, and his pain he's been carrying and using as a weapon to survive. He didn't need it. This Barge and the people on it like Raylan were disarming him. Making him strip off his armor to the bare scars beneath. So he could maybe heal from them instead of being haunted by them. Moreover, he didn't want others to suffer as he did and if he could help soothe the ache of someone he has come to care for, all the better. They both could be better for it. And he remembered all the things his alternate self tried to do for others and all the good it did for everyone, including himself. There was so much from this Breach that has given him a new perspective.
"One bed is fine." Though he sees the way the other seems to shift a little uncomfortably, recognizes that heated embarrassment for what it is. He knows where his mind is going and Flint would be lying if he hadn't been thinking about any of it all this time. But Raylan was wounded and he'd behave.
"I can sleep elsewhere if need be. A chair, the floor. I could even go get the extra hammock from my room." He pauses as he considers, "Which, after you're all healed up, that hammock is yours if ever you want the company."
Another sip to finish his glass and slid it forward, "You and I have been through enough now and heaven knows you took care of me and looked after me when you didn't have to. I want to return the favor. I'd like to call you my brother, or my friend."
He thinks once more about College!Flint and how he'd been with others when they clearly needed help or guidance. "I'm here for a drink, an ear, for a fight, a distraction. For a familiar place to sleep when you don't want to be alone."
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There was a respect being given to how shitty it was. He hadn't realized that respect was lacking from some others before until hearing it now.
He looks over again as James talks about something sticking with him, unable to stop the warm tug of his lips as he continues. The voice of punishing self-loathing in the back of his head was quick to point out that maybe Tim did have a reason to be concerned but- Raylan wouldn't have any need for companionship if Tim hadn't left. What was so wrong in taking the offered comfort that they both wanted and needed? What was so wrong with just being comfortable in their own skin for a few fucking minutes.
The glass was slid over and Raylan shifted in his seat a little to pour James another two fingers.
"Watch out, with talk like that, you might never get rid of me," he threatens playfully as he tops off his cup, eyes crinkling around the edges as he sits back in his chair. The smile stayed, even as teasing nature fell a little back into the soft seriousness of Raylan daring to continue on this two way street of opening up.
"I've been alone a lot and for a long time. And somehow it's. Sharper here. Heavier with no place to run from it. I imagine that's worse in Zero." Flint deserved the visit there, but he didn't deserve to be isolated. Tantamount to torture. He shook his head a little. "I don't wanna be alone. Least not tonight. No need at all for you sleepin' anywhere else either. Floor is uncomfortable as hell an' I know that from experience.." His lips curled a little again.
"Might be weird if brothers shared a bed though an' where I from, incest gets a lotta actual action. Better if we avoid 'brothers'. Hope you know this means that this road works both ways then.. You could use some lookin' out for. That glimmer you mention could use some encouagin' too."
In for a penny, in for a pound, right? He knew in his gut that James wasn't a bad guy. Capable of bad things, yes, just like Raylan was, but full of good intent. Good intentions might pave the road to hell, but they were on a barge meant for it.
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CW: Terrifying corpse imagery, death, nightmare
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NSFW after this - Naughty Dreams
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