It was good Flint caught him otherwise there was a chance Raylan would have gone down. As it was, his off hand hand to grab and fist into James's shirt to help keep his weight where it belonged. It worked for him sliding that hand around James's neck, but he was already shaking his head.
"No. No, no. This is-" He breathes heavily. "I just need to sit down. So do you. Let's. Let's do that instead. I know we got thread and needle in the cabin somewhere- That'll.." His vision was starting to warble in that familiar way around the edges.
When Raylan's hand twists into the front of his shirt, his fingers unintentionally scrape through the fresh burn wound that had opened up on his chest, over his heart and the tugging of fabric, tightening against his skin made everything flare up all over. He can't fight back the pained growl, clenching his teeth as he tries not to cry out in agony. He's more worried about Raylan as he feels him wobble and struggle to stay upright.
"Shit." He curses, looking up and around frantically. Where could they go? He's not even entirely sure they're going to make it to the Elevator let alone the Infirmary.
"Stay with me." Panic is setting in hard, helping to drown out his own pain. This can't be happening.
"Just stay with me." He's not sure what to do so he'll keep moving until they both just have to stop and rest. He gently sets Raylan down against the wall, on the deck. It's not far to the elevator if they can get a second wind. Meanwhile, his hands are shaking, but moving over the other, trying to look at the wounds, his face, anything else, trying to take stock and figure out what to do.
"Breathe, darlin'." That's what he was trying to focus on under the worry over them both. It was impossible to miss the pained growl or what it meant; he felt bad that he'd scraped over something but finding out what was going to have to wait.
His unstableness was largely due to shock, not blood loss but he moves with James until they hit the wall, his one hand leaving James's shoulder to hold onto the wall and help his weight slide down with a gust of air out of him as his ass finds the floor.
"Hey, hey," he says, tone going a bit firmer as his free hand stops to cup James's face and gently force him to look up. "I need you to take a deep breath okay? Whatever this is; it ain't gutshot. Too far to the side. Nothin' vital hit, I can almost promise you that, alright?"
James's hands are starting to carefully, but quickly pluck at Raylan's shirt to push it aside and lift up the edges to see the gunshot wound more clearly, ignoring how his breathing has picked up or his hands shake a little. That is until Raylan's voice cuts through his panic and the hand cups his face to force his gaze up. His breaths stop altogether as he speaks, swallowing and swallowing the lump in his throat. His one good eye searched those pained, familiar but strong orbs. He presses his cheek into the touch and gives a short little nod. He closes his eye and tries to breathe.
"Still have to stop the bleeding, get it cleaned and keep it clean, we can't have you getting an infection." He's still working on the fears and instincts from a time that didn't have magical healing or modern medicines. He thinks for a moment then pulls back just enough to pull at his own shirt. There's a stop, a hiss, followed by another pained growl as he pushes through the discomfort of removing his shirt. Jaw still working, grinding his teeth. The damage on his torso is more obvious, the new tattoos carved or burned into his skin. He doesn't notice or care as he's tearing up his shirt to use so he can start wrapping up Raylan's torso.
"We just... we need to get somewhere to take care of this properly."
There wasn't any stopping James's hands, Raylan's own lifting here and there as things were tugged mainly because the drag of fabric against freshly raw skin was more painful than the gunshot itself. But that didn't stop Raylan's instance and he nods back, thumb stroking James's face a little before pulling back as the Captain did.
As his shirt comes off though, Raylan's eyes widen again.
"Jesus baby. Wait, wait-" he says, hand coming to cover one of James's working hands. "Look." Look.
"We don't get sick here, don't worry about infection, look. Somethin's happenin'. This- It'll be fine. You-" He didn't realize how bad his own face looked, but his gunshot and the stinging on his back had stopped registering, brain more focused on trying to solve the puzzle they'd just been presented with.
James starts to protest as the other firmly demands he stop, gripping his hand to slow him down and get his attention fixed on himself. He frowns, wanting to argue about 'not getting sick' but he takes a moment to take in Raylan's reaction and concern. His eyes move down to look at the angry, open, seeping burn wound of a barbed wire heart tattoo pressed into his flesh. Or the Scorpion carved near one hip low on his stomach. He tilts his shoulders to look at the chains and skull. He can feel another on his back.
"...I've never seen these before, why--how?" He shakes his head, "They aren't that bad, I'm not bleeding as much as you."
But he is bleeding in small rivulets, oozing plasma, though overall, without his shirt pressed to them and pulling at the raw skin, he feels relief in the open air.
"You should see your face, it looks like someone beat the shit out of you. Where else do you hurt?" He's slowly, gingerly trying to wrap up that gunshot wound and make a makeshift bandage of his shirt around Raylan's waist.
It was with some obvious reluctance that Raylan's hand didn't stop James's any further, torso lifting a little to allow the wrapping of the shirt, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the weeping wounds. What is going on.
"M-my back. Tender as shit for some reason." His hand lifts to touch gently at his face, wincing as fingertips brush broken, swollen skin.
"Okay, let's think this through - I sure as shit didn't actually get shot, so that rules out needin' to get any bullet out. You sure didn't get these tattoos inside two minutes." His eyes roamed over the new markings. "Let me see your back?"
"Your back..." He murmurs tilting his head as if Raylan were going to show him, but then his focus is pulled back to the things his lover is trying to puzzle out.
"And I didn't beat the shit out of you, so unless there's some supernaturally fast, invisible asshole doing this to us..." Or the Barge is somehow doing this to them. But why?
He frowns softly, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
And he'll shift around so he can twist at the waist enough to show Raylan his back and the tattoo over his right shoulder, the heart-shaped clock with a weeping eye on it's face. The eye is weeping blood at this point and it's running down his back.
Raylan nods shortly. He can do a 'you show me yours' situation. There's a soft hiss of sympathy as Flint turns but he's smart enough to not reach out and touch anything.
"You're gonna have to help me with the shirt," he comments, already leaning forward as much as he could, one hand clawing and gathering up one side. Once James helps him peel it up and Raylan turns, folding into himself as much as he could to let his lover give it all a glance. What it was was unquestionable. They were deep welts, the bruised skin broken here and there for a soft weeping of blood from a couple of them, likely made from a thick belt.
He waits for the verdict before saying anything more.
"I don't understand it. Any of those tattoos mean anythin' to you?"
James is careful with the shirt as he sees how something has started to seep into it and discolor it with spots of blood. He'll gently pull it up, taking it slow and holding his breath as he gets a good look at the damage underneath. He feels his anger rising, coiling, twisting in his stomach. He knows what those marks are, he knows them well and some of the pieces of the puzzle are making a little more sense, at least for the evidence he's finding on Raylan. His jaw is clenched, teeth grinding. No one has physically hurt Raylan, but he knows someone in his life has done this to him. Likely his father. And it's just too fucking bad the piece of shit wasn't around for him to destroy for this.
He's tense, brow knitted in sympathy and concern, his one good eye looking over Raylan's face.
"No, I... I'm sure there's probably some kind of meaning to them but I-it's not as apparent as what I'm seeing on you." He frowns.
"Maybe we should try to get home... see if we can't clean you up or, something. I don't know why your old wounds are now blooming all over you." How do they stop it? how does he fix it? is he just meant to take care of him until this goes away?
Raylan's eyes were ink black in the light they were in, blown out with the pain he was currently managing, but they were still focused and sure as they studied James's features, brow smooth over the pointedly calm look he forced himself to maintain. There was no breaking down; if that happened, death was sure to follow somehow. He saw the fury in his lover's face but didn't understand why. It was more than the wound itself it seemed but Raylan couldn't pin down what.
Not as apparent as what I'm seeing on you. What did that mean. Raylan frowns in kind, not quite catching the hook in 'old wounds'. The gunshot, he knew. A man didn't get shot without remembering it vividly. Loretta. Willa.
Raylan pulled in a deep breath, and gave a sure nod as he lifts his hand. "Hand only," if that wasn't obvious. "Just help me up, we can get to the elevator."
James can see it in those dark blown eyes, the darkening under them even with the way his face was puffy, swollen and bruised. He could see the pain in every line despite how Raylan tried to seem like he was managing. The pain was taking a toll on him and he was worried sick, so much so he barely noticed his own discomfort. He'll very carefully, and very gently brush Raylan's hair back off of his face and lean in to kiss his forehead. He'll then take his hand and rise to get his feet under him so he can firmly pull his lover up off the deck.
He wants to wrap an arm around him but with his back the way it is he's not sure where he can touch him now. Is his waist a safe spot? Or would the lower back and ass be just as bad? He decides to just keep a firm grip on his hand, try to use his other to brace under his arm, and help Raylan walk if he needs it. His shoulders are there to lean on and throw an arm around. One arm is safe, and the tattoo on his upper shoulder blade is low enough an arm around his shoulders, or high enough an arm around his back is safe.
He waits till he can get Raylan into the elevator and they're alone before he asks.
"I know Arlo was a terrible, fucking asshole to you." He starts, chewing on his words as that anger and sympathetic pain twists in his throat so it tightens and makes his words squeeze past his lips.
"Did he... beat you? And I don't mean with just his fists." A pause to swallow the lump and just get the words out even if it's hard.
"Your back is full of some really angry, deep welts." There's a look there, genuinely concerned, "I've seen men flogged within an inch of their life and it didn't look half as bad."
It all came down to something very basic - could he move or not. Not 'could he move without pain', only 'would his legs carry him'. Stubborn to a fault, Raylan Givens wasn't going to let a little blood and pain get in his way, if he could help it. With all their new wounds and agonies, Raylan was happy James didn't argue with his one hand rule. It kept them upright, able to lean on each other if needed, without a new wave of pain on them both.
And there was at least a little bit of leaning by the time they got to the elevator.
Once inside, Raylan propped himself on one hand on the elevators rail, bangs falling back into his eyes despite the brush and kiss that displaced them earlier. His eyes dart over to James at the mention of Arlo, walls up by habit and survivalism alone.
Welts. He should have fucking known. Raylan sucks his teeth a little as his eyes drop back down to the elevator floor, the safer option at the sudden, unexpected turn. He couldn't let his temper and the kneejerk indignation, the shame, take over.
It took a long moment before Raylan could answer and when he did, his voice was cold and tight, sharply threateningly in its own way.
"Even Harlan has it's Child Protective Services. Show up at school with black eyes, people might ask questions. Though a wife comin' into the salon with a black eye was fine as long as she lied right..." His jaw worked, like he was working on cracking walnuts as he considered what he wanted to share. How much. .. But he was in this full tilt, why not.
"After a point, my mama didn't hang around the house after Arlo took a shot or two.. More often than not, she'd run up to Nobel's holler. The Black Holler; land white men weren't allowed on." He was ashamed of the racial tones that his homeland took but that didn't stop those tensions from being there.
"Didn't much matter how old that man was. So I was left home with a drunk and feelin' wrong Arlo.." He couldn't just come out and say 'yes' and even this made him visibly uncomfortable, like he could crawl away from the topic despite everything.
There's some hesitation, considering just going directly to the infirmary but, if Raylan wasn't concerned about the wound not being a gutshot, then maybe they could just handle it at home. There was always calling someone to their room if it didn't work, or heading to the infirmary after. So he'll hit the button for their level and stand back to stay beside Raylan in arms reach.
He waits patiently and quietly, letting Raylan stew and absorb and wrestle with his answer. He's still concerned a bit by the sudden edge to his voice, wondering if it was just for the line of discussion and the rage he clings to when speaking about what his father did to him. Or if he was angling to tell Flint to back off the line of questioning.
As he speaks he'll reach over to rest his hand on Raylan's own, gently gripping the hand holding onto the rail in support. He knew what a lonely, drunk, angry man could do to a child who they could place the blame on for all their hurts.
"It wasn't your fault." He murmurs, "And if I ever meet your old man I can't promise I won't find ways to make him suffer a slow and painful death."
Raylan was trying to balance being honest with giving enough information that he didn't have to talk about it ever again. The fury was all pointed at the pain of the welts and the man that put them there in the first place.
The Marshal didn't want to lift his gaze as James's hand settles on his, jaw working a little despite himself. He uses his thumb to brush back and forth over the back of James's hand, but the forgiving murmur and everything else makes him wince a little, straightening as he shakes his head like he could avoid all of it with that alone.
"I don't-" It was the verbal equivalent to pulling back, curling into himself. "You don't need to do that." He'd had enough of that with Malcolm; it was nice to say but Raylan was incapable of actually processing and dealing with it all in a healthy manner. That would include tears and those weren't welcome here. Coming undone wasn't welcome in the Givens sanctum.
"Arlo's already dead. Shanked in the prison I put him away in. Exactly the way I knew he'd end up goin'. That bein' said, if he does show up somehow, please feel free to relieve him from life again."
There's something he can't quite describe, but he feels Raylan pulling away from him even if he doesn't physically do so. His brow knits, wishing he could find the right words or know exactly what to do. He knows Raylan doesn't feel safe allowing his emotions to run freely, not as often as Flint finds comfort and safety in Raylan's arms. He wishes he could give Raylan that space to welcome whatever feelings he needs to feel. Maybe if they weren't in an elevator where anyone could wander in and see them, but he knows it's a defense that runs deeper than just public spaces. A toxic, painful mask Raylan feels like he has to wear, even for James.
He wants to echo that he understands the pain Raylan's gone through, at least to some degree. He may not have got it as bad, but his life with his grandfather and what little he saw of his father wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. He was neglected and occasionally abused, his grandfather was a hard man, strict and cold at times, and more often than not, drunk. That's what the life of a poor fisherman from Padstow would do to a man. He'd been in the navy, he'd lived on the ocean most of his life and he certainly had never wanted to take care of his son's child.
But he knows Raylan knows and he's not sure how sympathizing with him would help. Prodding about it doesn't feel like it would help either but there's something nagging at him. Between Raylan's wounds, and his cropping up on his skin like tattoos... what was the reason behind it? Was there some kind of meaning they weren't seeing? What were they supposed to do with this hurt and pain? Was there some kind of point to it?
"Why now?" He echoes his thoughts out loud, "He's dead and gone, and he's not here, why the hell are you covered in welts and bruises? Why were you shot?"
There was no describing the measure of relief that came as James shifted questions to something more palatable to work on solving. Raylan felt he was too old to be changed, too old to be dwelling on a past he couldn't change, too old to be having any deep feelings about a man he happily put in the ground in the cheapest pine box that the Marshal could buy.
He'd also already been married for 6 years, been through a handful of failed dating relationships and it wasn't James's fault, wasn't even fair to the Pirate but Raylan had learned that when things were good, they were good, but when they were bad, all of his deepest scars and feelings were used against him and it was bad. Winona had started out nice, but the longer they were together, the more she took swipes at him. So his deep brain worked that it was just a matter of time before James did the same. A much harder beast to vanquish.
"Loretta McCreedy."
The door dings and Raylan lifts his chin with a little jut towards it.
"I'm gonna need a shot down my throat, you keep askin' these questions. What about your tattoos? Teardrop tattoos are normally prison tats, for murderers.. But the one on your back has it too.. A heart shaped clock with a weepin' eye in it."
James nods and he'll move with Raylan, staying close to his side and keeping pace. His wounds ache, like any fresh cut and/or burn will, but he's clearly in better shape than Raylan with that gunshot wound in his side.
"Well, I suppose that makes sense, I have killed a lot of people." One single tear doesn't seem to do it justice.
"Sailors, especially pirates, they get different tattoos to represent something or as a symbol of where they've been." He shakes his head, "But none of these are anything like what I've seen before, other than maybe the skull."
He considers, "But if they're anything like what you've got maybe they mean something or represent something or someone that's hurt me in some way?"
A sigh, "Though a drink is sounding really good right now to help grease the thought process."
They'd both killed a lot of people. That alone meant that their reasons for their wounds weren't the same - Raylan was fresh outta teartrop tattoos. Or at least he assumed. It only hurt to talk, after all. Gunshot and whipping wounds aside.
"Could be.. Barbed wire around a wounded heart.. Weepin' heart clock. Those make sense in the context of people hurtin' your heart. Losing Thomas and then Miranda.." He glances over. "Everythin' that followed after.."
Thankfully, their door wasn't really that far to get to, and Raylan lets James lead them in, greeted immediately with a mewling cat who had started to be bothered when they vanished for too long.
Were their wounds punishment for the people they killed? Were they being forced to suffer and deal with their hurts as some kind of penance? Flint's mind is still trying to figure out some kind of meaning or reason for any of this when there may not be any.
"This wounded heart feels like it's on fire, this one's more like a brand..." He's ruminating as they walk down the way to stop at their door to head inside.
"You said the other is a clock? And a weeping eye... maybe that's more to represent loss." Especially when putting two and two together as Raylan mentions the people he's loved and lost.
"The clock... the clock makes me think of..." He swallows, his shoulder aches almost bitterly to remind him it's there as if it knows he's speaking about it.
"Drinks first." If they're going to get into the details of his hurts and perhaps some of the things he's been avoiding talking about or remembering, he's going to need drinks. And giving Pumpkin a little attention. Or food, whichever came first.
He nods shortly, trying to keep the curl of worry and sympathy out of his swollen features. Drinks were definitely called for; it would make everything hurt a little less. They could both use a little of that.
Pumpkin got a faint smile and a grunt as he works his way in and closes the door behind them, making his slow way over to the kitchen table. He was sure James could handle the getting and pouring of whiskey, and all Raylan wanted to do was sit down and try to breathe normally through the pain.
"Drinks and onna those metal serving spoons, heated over the stove. Gotta stem the bleedin' and cauterizing the wound will probably be easiest. I'll do it, if you can get the spoon hot enough for me." Pumpkin immediately jumped up on the table, with a sense of worry that Raylan tried to assuage with a little scratch on her head.
Flint gets to work, he pulls the whiskey out and two glasses, bringing them over to the table first. He'll then get a bag of ice, wrap it in a towel and wander over to give that to Raylan for his face. He leaves to find more towels, and a candle, returns, lights it on the stove, and melts the bottom to stick it to a paper plate. He sets the spoon on the plate, gently puts Pumpkin on the floor and then sets the lit candle on the table.
"Might take a few." It's better than walking it back and forth and using the steady candle flame will heat the metal and keep it hot.
"And I know what you're doing Raylan, don't think we aren't making a pass back to you then." He wanders off one last time to find a sewing kit, just in case there's things they gotta stitch up once wounds are cleaned. And even if the alcohol is neverending he's going to get a bowl of warm soapy water too. Once satisfied with what he's gathered, he'll pour a drink, swig a good bit and move to help Raylan get his shirt off and his make-shift bandage off.
"It...reminds me of Charlestown, where I lost Miranda." A pause as he's looking over those welts and wounds again, reaching for one of the rags to gently soak in the warm water so he can start gently dabbing at where there are breaks in the skin, taking it very slow knowing Raylan's doing what he needs to cauterize his wounds and he doesn't want to overwhelm or make him jump while doing it. But it gives him something else to focus on as he talks.
"It's the last place I was before I died and was brought here." He's being vague and he sighs.
"We had gone there to speak with Lord Ashe, a former friend of ours, and Thomas. He knew nearly everything about us. We'd trusted him. But a man can change a lot in a decade. We went to him to return his daughter to him and propose a plan to end the struggles with Nassau and get everyone the freedom we'd been fighting for. To get pardons." He's getting to the point.
"We were discussing terms and Lord Ashe thought I should go in front of everyone and tell them the truth about Thomas and I, about everything to ask their forgiveness and... before that moment, that forgiveness was something I never wanted, but at that moment... I-I don't know I was ready to do anything, give anything." He shakes his head.
"Miranda fought us on it knowing how it would destroy me. And in her last moments, she pointed out a clock in the dining room. A grandfather clock that had once belonged to Thomas and was last seen in his home when we fled. A home that had been given to Thomas' Father. And it was then we realized what a snake Ashe had been all along." He steps back to give Raylan a little break and to rinse out the rag.
"Ashe had been the one to tell the Earl about us, to save his own skin. And Thomas' father greased his palms, gave him the clock, and made him a Governor in the new world. All at the expense of our lives and our happiness. Miranda... Miranda raged... stood, got too close screaming at Ashe, and... His-His fucking bodyguard shot her. I--" His hands are shaking and he takes a moment to sit, reaching for the whiskey again.
"I still feel the blood on my face from where he shot her in the head. It haunts me. Not near as much as it did, but it's still so vivid and fresh." His gaze has drifted out the fake window by the dining room table.
While James gets the ice and the other goods, Raylan unscrews the bottlecap with one hand, sending the cap clattering across the table, and pours them out a few fingers. He doesn't hesitate in drinking deep from his, only to refill it a moment later. There was no shame in this kind of drinking, to be sure.
"I ain't doin' nothin'," He protests gently. "But if I'm gonna give you mine.." It seemed only fair. Finally, he lets James help him get his shirt off, hissing through his teeth at the painful scrape of fabric and sighing at the relief of it being off his skin. He tries to keep his eyes on James, but the positioning makes it hard and with a breath, grabs the spoon and holds it over the candle flame as he listens.
Miranda. James didn't talk about her often, but Raylan remembers everything he'd been told when James had shared Nassau's beach and their little cottage next to the sea. There was still a pang of guilt in the fact that they'd made love there, like he was encroaching on a place that wasn't welcoming for him, but it was always less about how Raylan felt and more about how James felt about it.
He listens silently, spoon wavering off the flame as he's drawn into the sad story, the attentive dabs against his skin sharp but not enough to make him whine and interrupt in any way. James pulls away and Raylan uses the opportunity to look back up at him as he sits down. The spoon is abandoned so that Raylan can offer a hand for the gripping over the table. It wasn't exactly what he wanted to do, but considering the state they were in, it was the best option.
"Forgiveness isn't somethin' you need. There's nothin' to forgive." And he was fairly sure that James knew that, but hearing something said out loud might help.
"She died on her feet and standing up for the men she loved. There's pride to be had in that kind of end, regardless of how unjust her murder was. Stupid of them to do it in front of you. Hard to do anythin' but relive those moments... Did you kill them for it? Or were you let in only after you surrendered your weapons?"
His eye flicks to the touch on his hand and he'll shift his fingers to take Raylan's grip firmly, using it as an anchor. He pulls himself away from the memory of Miranda's eyes staring at him on the floor as the light left them, the hole straight through her skull...
He closes his eyes and shakes his head, "No, I know."
It's gentle, not correcting, just agreeing, "The thought behind it was that if England saw a man as terrible as Captain Flint, come before them, penitent, bearing his soul and all his truths to beg forgiveness that maybe we might be able the secure the pardons for the others. So they... they could be free."
His sacrifice for the greater good. His soul laid bare, his life ruined and in the wreckage and he would be a shameful laughing stock. He doesn't know what his life would have been if he were even allowed to leave England to slink back to his life in Nassau after that. He'd be lucky if they didn't make him a Martyr and hang him.
"She saved me a life of torment." Even if he later died from his wounds, he was here now, given a better life, another chance at a good life.
"We were barely guests in his home, I didn't have any weapons. I lunged at the man who murdered Miranda with the intent to strangle the life out of him and beat him bloody with my bare hands but I was swarmed and struck down before I could. I was put on trial, set on silently taking whatever they threw at me when Vane and our combined crews showed up. Broke me free of my bonds and it was our intent to run. But I chose to stay and level the whole fucking town." There's a familiar fire of hatred, something cold and calculating and mad.
"They should've never, ever desecrated Miranda's body. They wanted a monster, I gave them one." Standing trial was a farce.
"I made it out alive, but some shrapnel was lodged in my body, poisoning me. I couldn't die in Charlestown. So I stubbornly kept going until I succumbed to it in my cabin on my ship. That's when I ended up here." He wasn't sure if he'd ever told anyone that before.
Raylan squeezes his hand, knowing it wasn't much more than that anchor. But what mattered was that James took it, that James was letting him help insomuch as listening to it all could.
He kept his opinion of that plan, the whole 'Penitent Son' act, to himself. It was stupid on its face; it would only serve to betray the pirates that were following Flint, and only serve to disgust the 'good people' that they were aiming to persuade. Not meant to serve anyone but the man demanding it.
"That's not an uncommon idea you know. Razin' a town for a few men's mistakes." One that left a wicked bad taste in his mouth. He couldn't help but think about the families that had nothing to do with Flint or piracy acts. Folks just trying to live. But Raylan chooses to set that aside - no need for him to get on his high horse over this.
"That's why you're so worried about infection," he says with a soft realization. It wasn't just the general state of the 1800's. "Hellva trauma to be showin' up here off of.. Hard thing to live with too."
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"No. No, no. This is-" He breathes heavily. "I just need to sit down. So do you. Let's. Let's do that instead. I know we got thread and needle in the cabin somewhere- That'll.." His vision was starting to warble in that familiar way around the edges.
"Maybe it's all a hallucination."
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"Shit." He curses, looking up and around frantically. Where could they go? He's not even entirely sure they're going to make it to the Elevator let alone the Infirmary.
"Stay with me." Panic is setting in hard, helping to drown out his own pain. This can't be happening.
"Just stay with me." He's not sure what to do so he'll keep moving until they both just have to stop and rest. He gently sets Raylan down against the wall, on the deck. It's not far to the elevator if they can get a second wind. Meanwhile, his hands are shaking, but moving over the other, trying to look at the wounds, his face, anything else, trying to take stock and figure out what to do.
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His unstableness was largely due to shock, not blood loss but he moves with James until they hit the wall, his one hand leaving James's shoulder to hold onto the wall and help his weight slide down with a gust of air out of him as his ass finds the floor.
"Hey, hey," he says, tone going a bit firmer as his free hand stops to cup James's face and gently force him to look up. "I need you to take a deep breath okay? Whatever this is; it ain't gutshot. Too far to the side. Nothin' vital hit, I can almost promise you that, alright?"
First things first.
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"Still have to stop the bleeding, get it cleaned and keep it clean, we can't have you getting an infection." He's still working on the fears and instincts from a time that didn't have magical healing or modern medicines. He thinks for a moment then pulls back just enough to pull at his own shirt. There's a stop, a hiss, followed by another pained growl as he pushes through the discomfort of removing his shirt. Jaw still working, grinding his teeth. The damage on his torso is more obvious, the new tattoos carved or burned into his skin. He doesn't notice or care as he's tearing up his shirt to use so he can start wrapping up Raylan's torso.
"We just... we need to get somewhere to take care of this properly."
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As his shirt comes off though, Raylan's eyes widen again.
"Jesus baby. Wait, wait-" he says, hand coming to cover one of James's working hands. "Look." Look.
"We don't get sick here, don't worry about infection, look. Somethin's happenin'. This- It'll be fine. You-" He didn't realize how bad his own face looked, but his gunshot and the stinging on his back had stopped registering, brain more focused on trying to solve the puzzle they'd just been presented with.
cw; description of wounds etc
"...I've never seen these before, why--how?" He shakes his head, "They aren't that bad, I'm not bleeding as much as you."
But he is bleeding in small rivulets, oozing plasma, though overall, without his shirt pressed to them and pulling at the raw skin, he feels relief in the open air.
"You should see your face, it looks like someone beat the shit out of you. Where else do you hurt?" He's slowly, gingerly trying to wrap up that gunshot wound and make a makeshift bandage of his shirt around Raylan's waist.
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"M-my back. Tender as shit for some reason." His hand lifts to touch gently at his face, wincing as fingertips brush broken, swollen skin.
"Okay, let's think this through - I sure as shit didn't actually get shot, so that rules out needin' to get any bullet out. You sure didn't get these tattoos inside two minutes." His eyes roamed over the new markings. "Let me see your back?"
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"And I didn't beat the shit out of you, so unless there's some supernaturally fast, invisible asshole doing this to us..." Or the Barge is somehow doing this to them. But why?
He frowns softly, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
And he'll shift around so he can twist at the waist enough to show Raylan his back and the tattoo over his right shoulder, the heart-shaped clock with a weeping eye on it's face. The eye is weeping blood at this point and it's running down his back.
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"You're gonna have to help me with the shirt," he comments, already leaning forward as much as he could, one hand clawing and gathering up one side. Once James helps him peel it up and Raylan turns, folding into himself as much as he could to let his lover give it all a glance. What it was was unquestionable. They were deep welts, the bruised skin broken here and there for a soft weeping of blood from a couple of them, likely made from a thick belt.
He waits for the verdict before saying anything more.
"I don't understand it. Any of those tattoos mean anythin' to you?"
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He's tense, brow knitted in sympathy and concern, his one good eye looking over Raylan's face.
"No, I... I'm sure there's probably some kind of meaning to them but I-it's not as apparent as what I'm seeing on you." He frowns.
"Maybe we should try to get home... see if we can't clean you up or, something. I don't know why your old wounds are now blooming all over you." How do they stop it? how does he fix it? is he just meant to take care of him until this goes away?
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Not as apparent as what I'm seeing on you. What did that mean. Raylan frowns in kind, not quite catching the hook in 'old wounds'. The gunshot, he knew. A man didn't get shot without remembering it vividly. Loretta. Willa.
Raylan pulled in a deep breath, and gave a sure nod as he lifts his hand. "Hand only," if that wasn't obvious. "Just help me up, we can get to the elevator."
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He wants to wrap an arm around him but with his back the way it is he's not sure where he can touch him now. Is his waist a safe spot? Or would the lower back and ass be just as bad? He decides to just keep a firm grip on his hand, try to use his other to brace under his arm, and help Raylan walk if he needs it. His shoulders are there to lean on and throw an arm around. One arm is safe, and the tattoo on his upper shoulder blade is low enough an arm around his shoulders, or high enough an arm around his back is safe.
He waits till he can get Raylan into the elevator and they're alone before he asks.
"I know Arlo was a terrible, fucking asshole to you." He starts, chewing on his words as that anger and sympathetic pain twists in his throat so it tightens and makes his words squeeze past his lips.
"Did he... beat you? And I don't mean with just his fists." A pause to swallow the lump and just get the words out even if it's hard.
"Your back is full of some really angry, deep welts." There's a look there, genuinely concerned, "I've seen men flogged within an inch of their life and it didn't look half as bad."
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And there was at least a little bit of leaning by the time they got to the elevator.
Once inside, Raylan propped himself on one hand on the elevators rail, bangs falling back into his eyes despite the brush and kiss that displaced them earlier. His eyes dart over to James at the mention of Arlo, walls up by habit and survivalism alone.
Welts. He should have fucking known. Raylan sucks his teeth a little as his eyes drop back down to the elevator floor, the safer option at the sudden, unexpected turn. He couldn't let his temper and the kneejerk indignation, the shame, take over.
It took a long moment before Raylan could answer and when he did, his voice was cold and tight, sharply threateningly in its own way.
"Even Harlan has it's Child Protective Services. Show up at school with black eyes, people might ask questions. Though a wife comin' into the salon with a black eye was fine as long as she lied right..." His jaw worked, like he was working on cracking walnuts as he considered what he wanted to share. How much. .. But he was in this full tilt, why not.
"After a point, my mama didn't hang around the house after Arlo took a shot or two.. More often than not, she'd run up to Nobel's holler. The Black Holler; land white men weren't allowed on." He was ashamed of the racial tones that his homeland took but that didn't stop those tensions from being there.
"Didn't much matter how old that man was. So I was left home with a drunk and feelin' wrong Arlo.." He couldn't just come out and say 'yes' and even this made him visibly uncomfortable, like he could crawl away from the topic despite everything.
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He waits patiently and quietly, letting Raylan stew and absorb and wrestle with his answer. He's still concerned a bit by the sudden edge to his voice, wondering if it was just for the line of discussion and the rage he clings to when speaking about what his father did to him. Or if he was angling to tell Flint to back off the line of questioning.
As he speaks he'll reach over to rest his hand on Raylan's own, gently gripping the hand holding onto the rail in support. He knew what a lonely, drunk, angry man could do to a child who they could place the blame on for all their hurts.
"It wasn't your fault." He murmurs, "And if I ever meet your old man I can't promise I won't find ways to make him suffer a slow and painful death."
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The Marshal didn't want to lift his gaze as James's hand settles on his, jaw working a little despite himself. He uses his thumb to brush back and forth over the back of James's hand, but the forgiving murmur and everything else makes him wince a little, straightening as he shakes his head like he could avoid all of it with that alone.
"I don't-" It was the verbal equivalent to pulling back, curling into himself. "You don't need to do that." He'd had enough of that with Malcolm; it was nice to say but Raylan was incapable of actually processing and dealing with it all in a healthy manner. That would include tears and those weren't welcome here. Coming undone wasn't welcome in the Givens sanctum.
"Arlo's already dead. Shanked in the prison I put him away in. Exactly the way I knew he'd end up goin'. That bein' said, if he does show up somehow, please feel free to relieve him from life again."
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He wants to echo that he understands the pain Raylan's gone through, at least to some degree. He may not have got it as bad, but his life with his grandfather and what little he saw of his father wasn't all sunshine and rainbows. He was neglected and occasionally abused, his grandfather was a hard man, strict and cold at times, and more often than not, drunk. That's what the life of a poor fisherman from Padstow would do to a man. He'd been in the navy, he'd lived on the ocean most of his life and he certainly had never wanted to take care of his son's child.
But he knows Raylan knows and he's not sure how sympathizing with him would help. Prodding about it doesn't feel like it would help either but there's something nagging at him. Between Raylan's wounds, and his cropping up on his skin like tattoos... what was the reason behind it? Was there some kind of meaning they weren't seeing? What were they supposed to do with this hurt and pain? Was there some kind of point to it?
"Why now?" He echoes his thoughts out loud, "He's dead and gone, and he's not here, why the hell are you covered in welts and bruises? Why were you shot?"
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He'd also already been married for 6 years, been through a handful of failed dating relationships and it wasn't James's fault, wasn't even fair to the Pirate but Raylan had learned that when things were good, they were good, but when they were bad, all of his deepest scars and feelings were used against him and it was bad. Winona had started out nice, but the longer they were together, the more she took swipes at him. So his deep brain worked that it was just a matter of time before James did the same. A much harder beast to vanquish.
"Loretta McCreedy."
The door dings and Raylan lifts his chin with a little jut towards it.
"I'm gonna need a shot down my throat, you keep askin' these questions. What about your tattoos? Teardrop tattoos are normally prison tats, for murderers.. But the one on your back has it too.. A heart shaped clock with a weepin' eye in it."
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"Well, I suppose that makes sense, I have killed a lot of people." One single tear doesn't seem to do it justice.
"Sailors, especially pirates, they get different tattoos to represent something or as a symbol of where they've been." He shakes his head, "But none of these are anything like what I've seen before, other than maybe the skull."
He considers, "But if they're anything like what you've got maybe they mean something or represent something or someone that's hurt me in some way?"
A sigh, "Though a drink is sounding really good right now to help grease the thought process."
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"Could be.. Barbed wire around a wounded heart.. Weepin' heart clock. Those make sense in the context of people hurtin' your heart. Losing Thomas and then Miranda.." He glances over. "Everythin' that followed after.."
Thankfully, their door wasn't really that far to get to, and Raylan lets James lead them in, greeted immediately with a mewling cat who had started to be bothered when they vanished for too long.
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"This wounded heart feels like it's on fire, this one's more like a brand..." He's ruminating as they walk down the way to stop at their door to head inside.
"You said the other is a clock? And a weeping eye... maybe that's more to represent loss." Especially when putting two and two together as Raylan mentions the people he's loved and lost.
"The clock... the clock makes me think of..." He swallows, his shoulder aches almost bitterly to remind him it's there as if it knows he's speaking about it.
"Drinks first." If they're going to get into the details of his hurts and perhaps some of the things he's been avoiding talking about or remembering, he's going to need drinks. And giving Pumpkin a little attention. Or food, whichever came first.
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Pumpkin got a faint smile and a grunt as he works his way in and closes the door behind them, making his slow way over to the kitchen table. He was sure James could handle the getting and pouring of whiskey, and all Raylan wanted to do was sit down and try to breathe normally through the pain.
"Drinks and onna those metal serving spoons, heated over the stove. Gotta stem the bleedin' and cauterizing the wound will probably be easiest. I'll do it, if you can get the spoon hot enough for me." Pumpkin immediately jumped up on the table, with a sense of worry that Raylan tried to assuage with a little scratch on her head.
"What does the clock make you think of, love."
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"Might take a few." It's better than walking it back and forth and using the steady candle flame will heat the metal and keep it hot.
"And I know what you're doing Raylan, don't think we aren't making a pass back to you then." He wanders off one last time to find a sewing kit, just in case there's things they gotta stitch up once wounds are cleaned. And even if the alcohol is neverending he's going to get a bowl of warm soapy water too. Once satisfied with what he's gathered, he'll pour a drink, swig a good bit and move to help Raylan get his shirt off and his make-shift bandage off.
"It...reminds me of Charlestown, where I lost Miranda." A pause as he's looking over those welts and wounds again, reaching for one of the rags to gently soak in the warm water so he can start gently dabbing at where there are breaks in the skin, taking it very slow knowing Raylan's doing what he needs to cauterize his wounds and he doesn't want to overwhelm or make him jump while doing it. But it gives him something else to focus on as he talks.
"It's the last place I was before I died and was brought here." He's being vague and he sighs.
"We had gone there to speak with Lord Ashe, a former friend of ours, and Thomas. He knew nearly everything about us. We'd trusted him. But a man can change a lot in a decade. We went to him to return his daughter to him and propose a plan to end the struggles with Nassau and get everyone the freedom we'd been fighting for. To get pardons." He's getting to the point.
"We were discussing terms and Lord Ashe thought I should go in front of everyone and tell them the truth about Thomas and I, about everything to ask their forgiveness and... before that moment, that forgiveness was something I never wanted, but at that moment... I-I don't know I was ready to do anything, give anything." He shakes his head.
"Miranda fought us on it knowing how it would destroy me. And in her last moments, she pointed out a clock in the dining room. A grandfather clock that had once belonged to Thomas and was last seen in his home when we fled. A home that had been given to Thomas' Father. And it was then we realized what a snake Ashe had been all along." He steps back to give Raylan a little break and to rinse out the rag.
"Ashe had been the one to tell the Earl about us, to save his own skin. And Thomas' father greased his palms, gave him the clock, and made him a Governor in the new world. All at the expense of our lives and our happiness. Miranda... Miranda raged... stood, got too close screaming at Ashe, and... His-His fucking bodyguard shot her. I--" His hands are shaking and he takes a moment to sit, reaching for the whiskey again.
"I still feel the blood on my face from where he shot her in the head. It haunts me. Not near as much as it did, but it's still so vivid and fresh." His gaze has drifted out the fake window by the dining room table.
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"I ain't doin' nothin'," He protests gently. "But if I'm gonna give you mine.." It seemed only fair. Finally, he lets James help him get his shirt off, hissing through his teeth at the painful scrape of fabric and sighing at the relief of it being off his skin. He tries to keep his eyes on James, but the positioning makes it hard and with a breath, grabs the spoon and holds it over the candle flame as he listens.
Miranda. James didn't talk about her often, but Raylan remembers everything he'd been told when James had shared Nassau's beach and their little cottage next to the sea. There was still a pang of guilt in the fact that they'd made love there, like he was encroaching on a place that wasn't welcoming for him, but it was always less about how Raylan felt and more about how James felt about it.
He listens silently, spoon wavering off the flame as he's drawn into the sad story, the attentive dabs against his skin sharp but not enough to make him whine and interrupt in any way. James pulls away and Raylan uses the opportunity to look back up at him as he sits down. The spoon is abandoned so that Raylan can offer a hand for the gripping over the table. It wasn't exactly what he wanted to do, but considering the state they were in, it was the best option.
"Forgiveness isn't somethin' you need. There's nothin' to forgive." And he was fairly sure that James knew that, but hearing something said out loud might help.
"She died on her feet and standing up for the men she loved. There's pride to be had in that kind of end, regardless of how unjust her murder was. Stupid of them to do it in front of you. Hard to do anythin' but relive those moments... Did you kill them for it? Or were you let in only after you surrendered your weapons?"
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He closes his eyes and shakes his head, "No, I know."
It's gentle, not correcting, just agreeing, "The thought behind it was that if England saw a man as terrible as Captain Flint, come before them, penitent, bearing his soul and all his truths to beg forgiveness that maybe we might be able the secure the pardons for the others. So they... they could be free."
His sacrifice for the greater good. His soul laid bare, his life ruined and in the wreckage and he would be a shameful laughing stock. He doesn't know what his life would have been if he were even allowed to leave England to slink back to his life in Nassau after that. He'd be lucky if they didn't make him a Martyr and hang him.
"She saved me a life of torment." Even if he later died from his wounds, he was here now, given a better life, another chance at a good life.
"We were barely guests in his home, I didn't have any weapons. I lunged at the man who murdered Miranda with the intent to strangle the life out of him and beat him bloody with my bare hands but I was swarmed and struck down before I could. I was put on trial, set on silently taking whatever they threw at me when Vane and our combined crews showed up. Broke me free of my bonds and it was our intent to run. But I chose to stay and level the whole fucking town." There's a familiar fire of hatred, something cold and calculating and mad.
"They should've never, ever desecrated Miranda's body. They wanted a monster, I gave them one." Standing trial was a farce.
"I made it out alive, but some shrapnel was lodged in my body, poisoning me. I couldn't die in Charlestown. So I stubbornly kept going until I succumbed to it in my cabin on my ship. That's when I ended up here." He wasn't sure if he'd ever told anyone that before.
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He kept his opinion of that plan, the whole 'Penitent Son' act, to himself. It was stupid on its face; it would only serve to betray the pirates that were following Flint, and only serve to disgust the 'good people' that they were aiming to persuade. Not meant to serve anyone but the man demanding it.
"That's not an uncommon idea you know. Razin' a town for a few men's mistakes." One that left a wicked bad taste in his mouth. He couldn't help but think about the families that had nothing to do with Flint or piracy acts. Folks just trying to live. But Raylan chooses to set that aside - no need for him to get on his high horse over this.
"That's why you're so worried about infection," he says with a soft realization. It wasn't just the general state of the 1800's. "Hellva trauma to be showin' up here off of.. Hard thing to live with too."
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