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."
Oddly enough, the varying pains on his body from the tattoos and the wounds they made seemed to dull down a little to a softer ache. The open, weeping, slowly bleeding wounds had stopped. They were still open and raw, but somehow were looking a little better, a little less angry. Each of the things in his story was etched into each of his tattoos. His anger, his violence, his pain, his loss and heartache, Thomas and Miranda, his death, at least one of them, all of them were pieces of each wound and ink carved in his skin.
The plan Ashe had proposed was a terrible one, but after everything he'd tried, after the choices they were left with at the time, and realizing how... tired he was. How much he just wanted to let Flint go, he'd been worn down and very nearly agreed to it.
As for leveling the town, Flint admittedly had been in a place of anger, loss, and hurt, pushed to the brink and beyond. But his hurt against those innocent families and all of English society wasn't entirely unfounded. He knew they would all look at him as a monster, regardless. He knew they were brainwashed by the church and the government. He knew they would turn their back on him, judge him, curse him and leave him to die or watch as he was hanged if given the chance. If they knew what he was. If they knew who he loved... he would be ostracized or worse. Those innocent people would be guilty of doing nothing to better their world, too comfy in their ignorance.
"More than a few men, more than just that moment lead to it." He notes but he'll leave it. He doesn't want to fight about a decision and actions that were long past.
"It's an excruciating way to go. And regardless of whatever magic is here or how quickly someone can heal us, it's a very real possibility. Bleeding out is...maddening." Raylan should know. He'll untangle their hands so he can get up and rewet the cloth so he can go back to work on Raylan's body.
"It's still fresh, that's why it sticks with me." Nothing about looking into Miranda's dead eyes...
"But there are deeper wounds and trauma left on our soul that will always stick with us." He's of course talking about the clear abuse currently staring him in the face.
Arguing wasn't the point here and it was the last thing that he wanted to do. More than just a few men, more than just that moment - that was built into the equation, but it still didn't change what caused the snap. A few men. One bad decision, followed by a damning decision. But Raylan understood that James saw the enemy of England would always be larger than her agents.
But regarding the bleeding out, yeah. Raylan knew. His empty had and the comment has him focusing back on the gunshot wound still slowly bleeding under his fingers. Right. The spoon. Back over the heat it goes.
"I don't think that's the only reason it sticks, love."
He takes a deep breath as James goes back to dabbing him. He could hear the question under that statement, and the soft stings of contact felt like they were screaming at him to pay attention.
"It was never about the pain of bein' hit, ya know... It was always about him swinging. About him driving off my mother.." His gaze stayed steady on the flame. "About her leavin' me there with him. About bein' scared that he was gonna kill me one night, and no one was gonna do anythin' about it.."
He took a deep breath. "Okay, hold off, I need to-" He pulls away Flint's bloodied shirt and has to take another deep breath at the gush of blood that comes before he presses the spoon to the wound. His skin sizzled as he firmly plants the curve of the spoon, the pain of it making him hiss as he lifts his head, free and bloodied hand gripping and fisting into his jeans.
"I couldn't leave Loretta to the same kinda life, with no one to take care of her and lookout. Couldn't let her get bloods on her had at twelve years old."
Their situations had been vastly different and yet had a lot of the same painful threads interwoven into each other. Being abandoned by one or more parents, and left to another who was barely equipped or mentally stable enough to handle a child who was innocent. A child who became a whipping boy, a scapegoat for those hurts and emotions the unstable and immature adult couldn't handle. There had been times he was scared he'd drown in the ocean and no one would have known or cared. There were times he worried his Grandfather would just leave him too, despite how terrible the man could be, he didn't want to be alone.
He stops when asked and rests his hands on Raylan's bare shoulders in some form of comfort and support. He raises one hand as the Marshal's head comes back in pain and he'll bows his own to press his lips to his pained brow, fingers combing through his hair as he felt sympathy pangs and stayed with him through it.
"So Loretta wasn't the one that shot you?" He reaches for the whiskey to pour more for Raylan.
The physical reassurance helped more than Raylan thought it would, weight leaning back slightly into him as he focuses on his breathing before looking back down to peel the spoon off. He re-covers the wound with the shirt, putting the spoon back over the flame for another re-heat and hopes that James doesn't mind the sweat beading on his brow.
"No. Sheriff Doyle Bennet did, posted up with about eight other guys outside his mama's house, keepin' everyone out while Mags and Loretta talked. Loretta had stolen a gun from her foster parents house, gone with the aim of revenge for her daddy. Only reason I didn't get more than one bullet is cause-" The shirt was abandoned so that he could grab his glass and slings it down with another different kind of hiss.
"Winona got the Marshal's. Tim took him down before he could tell anyone to shoot.. When I got in, this.. little 14 year old girl has a snub nosed pointed at Mags... An' all I saw was a little girl who wanted nothin' more than the one person who was supposed to love her the most there to tell her it was okay.." He covered the pain of his shared gut wrenching need for family by pressing the spoon back to his wound.
"We got her out. Then Mags sat me down for a shot of her apple pie, and poisoned herself with cyanide in her glass." His skin was burning too much to really notice that the blood had slowed, but the wound was starting to close a little.
James chews on some choice words he had about Winona and Tim, of the things he's learned or how they hurt Raylan. He didn't know much about them, but he knew enough and the thought At least they did one thing right by you for a change crossed his mind. Both had saved his life in some way that day, as bitter as that was.
As for the rest he just silently listens and mulls over what to say about it. He'd saved that little girl, but that wasn't the part that hurt. All he can think about are the words a little girl who wanted nothin' more than the one person who was supposed to love her the most there to tell her it was okay. How many times had the people that were supposed to love and care for Raylan hurt him or let him down? How often was he abandoned by them? He'd seen what leaving did to him. He'd seen so much of Raylan's insecurities. And despite all his own flaws and his demons, Raylan was still here for him, pulling for him, having faith in him and in them.
"It's going to be okay." He murmurs before he can think about it, hand soothingly brushing through Raylan's hair.
"We're going to get through all of this." He swallows hard, realizing how he'd been less than great at supporting Raylan through all of this. How badly he needed to say they'd be okay. Even if he was terrified of what was happening or what could happen. Terrified of himself, afraid he's going to mess up all the good things they had. He needed to have faith they'd pull through all of this.
"We're going to be okay."
He knew Raylan was likely still dealing with his own death, the coma, and being separated, on top of dealing with Flint and his own insecurities and rage. They were both so messed up and maybe all this event was, was that mess coming to the surface so they had to stop ignoring it.
With a deep breath as he finishes his tale, the spoon clatters back onto the table as Raylan lays his head back against James's chest again, freeing that hand up to reach up and grab the closest hand on his shoulder so he could squeeze and keep it.
'It's going to be okay' was something that Raylan Givens didn't get told. It was always him saying it to people who needed it more, and for so many years that he was certain he could live without it. He could, technically speaking, but that didn't mean that he didn't still want and need it. It didn't stop the near palpable wash of touched warmth (and some kind of involuntary relief) that spread through him that had nothing to do with the pain he was managing.
He takes another uneven and shaky breath, pulling and turning James's hand so he could press his lips against James's fingers. It takes him another few seconds before he actually presses a proper kiss there and he's still not ready to let go.
"I wouldn't want to face them with anyone else," Raylan says quietly. The swelling and bruises on his face start to lessen now, and Raylan looks up at James from where he was sat. "And I mean that, darlin'. No regrets and with no apology for it."
He couldn't do or say much about what James had been through, but he could be there, unashamedly, unapologetically, and steadfast without any doubts or fear for as long as James would let him. He could be the unwavering force that he'd been known to be his whole life. He could promise to never leave James's side willingly.
He'll squeeze Raylan's hand when he grips it, and let it be picked up and his fingers kissed. And when Raylan looks up at him he smooths the other hand over his hair and bows his head to first place a kiss on his forehead affectionately. His fingers on his face, near his lips will brush and caress that bruised jaw and cheek gently.
"I love you so much." It's a little awkward but he kisses him sweetly even if it's upside down.
"And maybe it's me but your face looks better." He'll have to go refresh that bowl of water.
"I should get you to lay on the couch or the bed so I can clean your back properly." He tilts his head, trying to look for an exit wound.
He closes his eyes briefly at the kiss, opening them just in time to catch the signs he needed to lean his head back a little more to meet the sweet expression. Raylan's face was all softness, as much as it could be, eyes warm and crinkled around the edges despite the slight pain it caused.
His brow furrows at the observation though, hand coming up to brush gently across the new landscape of his face. "Is it?" He had no idea.
"If I lay down in bed, there's no gettin' back up, if I'm being honest. Lemme-" He lifts, free hand catching James's bloodied shirt and pressing it back to his side, turning the chair so it's back is at his side instead and sitting back down.
"Not historically. I spent 45 minutes in surgery gettin' the bullet removed, last time. I'd prefer it just went all the way through - At least there's no diggin' around afterwards." He looks over at James again. "Might be your turn to sit down, Captain, you're bleedin'.. well not as much, but-"
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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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The plan Ashe had proposed was a terrible one, but after everything he'd tried, after the choices they were left with at the time, and realizing how... tired he was. How much he just wanted to let Flint go, he'd been worn down and very nearly agreed to it.
As for leveling the town, Flint admittedly had been in a place of anger, loss, and hurt, pushed to the brink and beyond. But his hurt against those innocent families and all of English society wasn't entirely unfounded. He knew they would all look at him as a monster, regardless. He knew they were brainwashed by the church and the government. He knew they would turn their back on him, judge him, curse him and leave him to die or watch as he was hanged if given the chance. If they knew what he was. If they knew who he loved... he would be ostracized or worse. Those innocent people would be guilty of doing nothing to better their world, too comfy in their ignorance.
"More than a few men, more than just that moment lead to it." He notes but he'll leave it. He doesn't want to fight about a decision and actions that were long past.
"It's an excruciating way to go. And regardless of whatever magic is here or how quickly someone can heal us, it's a very real possibility. Bleeding out is...maddening." Raylan should know. He'll untangle their hands so he can get up and rewet the cloth so he can go back to work on Raylan's body.
"It's still fresh, that's why it sticks with me." Nothing about looking into Miranda's dead eyes...
"But there are deeper wounds and trauma left on our soul that will always stick with us." He's of course talking about the clear abuse currently staring him in the face.
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But regarding the bleeding out, yeah. Raylan knew. His empty had and the comment has him focusing back on the gunshot wound still slowly bleeding under his fingers. Right. The spoon. Back over the heat it goes.
"I don't think that's the only reason it sticks, love."
He takes a deep breath as James goes back to dabbing him. He could hear the question under that statement, and the soft stings of contact felt like they were screaming at him to pay attention.
"It was never about the pain of bein' hit, ya know... It was always about him swinging. About him driving off my mother.." His gaze stayed steady on the flame. "About her leavin' me there with him. About bein' scared that he was gonna kill me one night, and no one was gonna do anythin' about it.."
He took a deep breath. "Okay, hold off, I need to-" He pulls away Flint's bloodied shirt and has to take another deep breath at the gush of blood that comes before he presses the spoon to the wound. His skin sizzled as he firmly plants the curve of the spoon, the pain of it making him hiss as he lifts his head, free and bloodied hand gripping and fisting into his jeans.
"I couldn't leave Loretta to the same kinda life, with no one to take care of her and lookout. Couldn't let her get bloods on her had at twelve years old."
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He stops when asked and rests his hands on Raylan's bare shoulders in some form of comfort and support. He raises one hand as the Marshal's head comes back in pain and he'll bows his own to press his lips to his pained brow, fingers combing through his hair as he felt sympathy pangs and stayed with him through it.
"So Loretta wasn't the one that shot you?" He reaches for the whiskey to pour more for Raylan.
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"No. Sheriff Doyle Bennet did, posted up with about eight other guys outside his mama's house, keepin' everyone out while Mags and Loretta talked. Loretta had stolen a gun from her foster parents house, gone with the aim of revenge for her daddy. Only reason I didn't get more than one bullet is cause-" The shirt was abandoned so that he could grab his glass and slings it down with another different kind of hiss.
"Winona got the Marshal's. Tim took him down before he could tell anyone to shoot.. When I got in, this.. little 14 year old girl has a snub nosed pointed at Mags... An' all I saw was a little girl who wanted nothin' more than the one person who was supposed to love her the most there to tell her it was okay.." He covered the pain of his shared gut wrenching need for family by pressing the spoon back to his wound.
"We got her out. Then Mags sat me down for a shot of her apple pie, and poisoned herself with cyanide in her glass." His skin was burning too much to really notice that the blood had slowed, but the wound was starting to close a little.
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As for the rest he just silently listens and mulls over what to say about it. He'd saved that little girl, but that wasn't the part that hurt. All he can think about are the words a little girl who wanted nothin' more than the one person who was supposed to love her the most there to tell her it was okay. How many times had the people that were supposed to love and care for Raylan hurt him or let him down? How often was he abandoned by them? He'd seen what leaving did to him. He'd seen so much of Raylan's insecurities. And despite all his own flaws and his demons, Raylan was still here for him, pulling for him, having faith in him and in them.
"It's going to be okay." He murmurs before he can think about it, hand soothingly brushing through Raylan's hair.
"We're going to get through all of this." He swallows hard, realizing how he'd been less than great at supporting Raylan through all of this. How badly he needed to say they'd be okay. Even if he was terrified of what was happening or what could happen. Terrified of himself, afraid he's going to mess up all the good things they had. He needed to have faith they'd pull through all of this.
"We're going to be okay."
He knew Raylan was likely still dealing with his own death, the coma, and being separated, on top of dealing with Flint and his own insecurities and rage. They were both so messed up and maybe all this event was, was that mess coming to the surface so they had to stop ignoring it.
"We have to face these things together."
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'It's going to be okay' was something that Raylan Givens didn't get told. It was always him saying it to people who needed it more, and for so many years that he was certain he could live without it. He could, technically speaking, but that didn't mean that he didn't still want and need it. It didn't stop the near palpable wash of touched warmth (and some kind of involuntary relief) that spread through him that had nothing to do with the pain he was managing.
He takes another uneven and shaky breath, pulling and turning James's hand so he could press his lips against James's fingers. It takes him another few seconds before he actually presses a proper kiss there and he's still not ready to let go.
"I wouldn't want to face them with anyone else," Raylan says quietly. The swelling and bruises on his face start to lessen now, and Raylan looks up at James from where he was sat. "And I mean that, darlin'. No regrets and with no apology for it."
He couldn't do or say much about what James had been through, but he could be there, unashamedly, unapologetically, and steadfast without any doubts or fear for as long as James would let him. He could be the unwavering force that he'd been known to be his whole life. He could promise to never leave James's side willingly.
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"I love you so much." It's a little awkward but he kisses him sweetly even if it's upside down.
"And maybe it's me but your face looks better." He'll have to go refresh that bowl of water.
"I should get you to lay on the couch or the bed so I can clean your back properly." He tilts his head, trying to look for an exit wound.
"Did the shot go straight through?"
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His brow furrows at the observation though, hand coming up to brush gently across the new landscape of his face. "Is it?" He had no idea.
"If I lay down in bed, there's no gettin' back up, if I'm being honest. Lemme-" He lifts, free hand catching James's bloodied shirt and pressing it back to his side, turning the chair so it's back is at his side instead and sitting back down.
"Not historically. I spent 45 minutes in surgery gettin' the bullet removed, last time. I'd prefer it just went all the way through - At least there's no diggin' around afterwards." He looks over at James again. "Might be your turn to sit down, Captain, you're bleedin'.. well not as much, but-"
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