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-"
He reluctantly releases Raylan's hand in favor of letting him grab up the bloody shirt so he can turn himself to sit sideways on the chair and expose more of his back to him. He'll pick up the bowl and go refresh the warm water with a little more soap. He rinses out the rag and brings over the pile of fresh rags for use instead of a bloody, torn shirt.
"I will, I'm nearly finished." He hands Raylan the bundle of ice for his face. It looked better but wasn't fully healed. He's looking over his back some more, noting the lack of an exit wound from the gunshot. He'll dip the rag into the fresh water, wring it out, and carefully dab at the wounds on his back he couldn't reach before, trying to gently soothe the aching skin.
"I can't tell if it's my eyes and wishful thinking, but it's almost like talking about these things is healing your wounds." He shakes his head.
"Leave it to this place and some supernatural curse on us to try and force us to get shit off our chest, hm? Or maybe I'm just trying to make sense of it all." He'll finish up and set the sewing kit with fresh bandages on the table.
"I don't think the welts need sewing at least, what about your stomach?"
Raylan watches him carefully, watching the way his back moves with the tattoos across his muscles. They did seem like they were weeping a little less, but that did little for the rivulets of blood that were starting to dry along James's freckled skin. He takes the ice and presses it gently against his face with a faint lift of his smile, eyes following James as he settles and continues his work.
"I mean, anythin's possible here... And I suppose we're not the.. most flexible and talkative souls on board." It was a big concession, really. "Not an illogical jump.. You really think they're lookin' better?"
He leans back a little at the question, looking down his chest. "Yeah, might need a few. Guess how quick things heal isn't the same or somethin'." Well, not really, but internals take a lot more anything than the welts of his past.
"Not near as raw and fresh, maybe couple hours old now, maybe more." He finishes his work.
"Do we have any sort of salve?" But Raylan had said he should probably take his turn and rest, so instead of going to hunt for something he'll be good and settle into the chair. He'll pick up the glass of whiskey Raylan poured for him and sip it.
"Not totally healed though. Perhaps you have more you're meant to say." He's certainly not avoiding his own, just his priorities are for getting Raylan in better shape. He'll pick up that rag though and clean up the streaks of blood he can find on his torso or arm. Raylan will have to get his back.
Humming a note of acknowledgement, Raylan rolls that over in his head as his brow furrows for a totally different reason. "I wouldn't even know where to begin in pickin' up anythin' like that. I got Vaseline though." That's probably not what James is suggesting.
He gets up and circles around, gently taking the rag from James's hand with his own settling on the man's broad shoulders. A silent 'let me take it' and when it was relinquished, Raylan starts dabbing at the crying eye clock.
"Maybe," he starts quietly. "Maybe we both do... Can I ask you somethin'?" He waits for a yes before he does. "Do you regret any of it? Any of the ugliness."
There was no judgement in it, no admonishment. Just a gentle question.
James watches with a soft concern knitting his brow as Raylan rises and walks around behind him. He'll relinquish the cleaning rag to him though with a sigh and settle his hand on the table for a little bit of support. There's a low hiss at the first press of warm, soapy water to the open wound, it stings and he can bet a little bit of a baby when he feels like it.
"Of course." He murmurs behind slightly grinding teeth, but with the question, he falls silent, eyes cast down as he stares at his hands as if seeing the blood on them from everyone he'd killed.
"Some." He replies, "Not all of it. I've... I've killed people when I felt like it was necessary, to survive, to protect myself and others, and to make an example. I regret some of the people I've killed or the lengths I needed to go to in my ugliness. But not all of it. Some of it felt good, felt justified..."
Raylan ignored the hiss - the expression was allowed, it was ugly, it sure looked like it hurt, and they were well beyond hiding that kind of vulnerable stuff. Raylan also knew that the question would give James something more to chew on than the stinging pain.
"You know, that's how I've gotten away with shootin' the men I have. It bein' Justified... And I've heard a lotta opinions on it that say that ain't good enough. Doesn't stand up to the reality of hard life, most of the time." He continued to dab gently.
"We do what we feel we have to. It's all a fifty fifty chance of if we're fuckin' something up with that gut."
Flint does chew on the topic and the questions, looking down at the open carved inky symbols in his skin. If they're there to make him talk he wonders what he's meant to say. Is he meant to talk about his ugliness? Admit what he's done? Admit those he regrets killing?
"I... I've told you in broad strokes what I've done. And you know all about my darkness, how deep it runs, and my fears about it." It wasn't long ago he was frightened of whether he might be capable of hurting Raylan. He had good reason for it.
"But if you want to know details of my crimes... at least some of the ones that still haunt me." He turns slightly to look up over his shoulder at his lover.
"I suppose now is the time. If you want to know what you've hitched yourself to."
Raylan glances up, holding that over the shoulder gaze for a long moment like he was deciding how honest James was about the offer before he nods softly.
"Yeah, baby. I do wanna know. It won't change nothin' because I've got blood on my hands too but.. I wanna be prepared for whatever comes up. Whatever might be slung at us, metaphorical or literal. This place has a way of pullin' out the darker bits of us with this kinda bullshit. But it ain't gonna change the way I feel about you. Or This." Them.
"And if that means tellin' you mine in return. I'm okay with doin' that too. Trusting you."
He believes Raylan believes what he's saying, that it won't change anything. He wants to believe it could be that easy. He's worried, of course, that when he learns of the shit he's done, hears it flat out, that it will change something.
Flint is reaching for the whiskey and he's pouring some into his glass before taking a swig. Where to even start?
"I can't remember if I'd told you how Miranda had learned of a ship carrying Thomas' parents, told me about it and where they'd be likely headed. I lied to my men, and had them spend time, hunting down the Maria Aleyne. We lost men taking her, it took resources, they thought it was for the cargo, which had been piss-poor by the way. In reality, it was to feed my desire for revenge. Thomas' parents were hiding away in one of the cabins below, I sought them out myself while my men were busy. They begged me for their lives. I slaughtered them. They were unarmed. But I lied to my men, to Gates about what I'd done. Said they fought back and I did what I had to... he knew though. He'd checked the cabin after I left, and saw there weren't any weapons to be found."
Another swig, "And Gates..."
He runs a hand down his face, hissing when he brushes the raw tear on his cheek that he'd forgotten about until now, it flared like it was on fire. He smeared blood across his skin with his thumb in the process.
"...Gates was my best friend. He'd been the one that helped me become captain and stuck with me through everything. But towards the end, he began to doubt me, and lose faith in me. He knew everything. He was going to tell the crew my plans and they were already close to keel-hauling me as is. I barely had them under my command and he was about to undo everything. I tried to stop him... I tried... He wasn't going to let them kill me, but he was going to destroy our last chance at the Urca, and I..." He has to stop and swallow raggedly, his voice growing tighter and more pained as he speaks.
"I killed him. Attacked him and broke his neck, and he died in my arms. I regret it, almost as much as I regretted never fighting for Thomas. I loved him like a brother." He shakes his head.
"I've done such terrible things. Most of the time I reason it away. Killing men on ships is one thing, but I've helped to slaughter and level a whole town out of pure rage."
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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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"I will, I'm nearly finished." He hands Raylan the bundle of ice for his face. It looked better but wasn't fully healed. He's looking over his back some more, noting the lack of an exit wound from the gunshot. He'll dip the rag into the fresh water, wring it out, and carefully dab at the wounds on his back he couldn't reach before, trying to gently soothe the aching skin.
"I can't tell if it's my eyes and wishful thinking, but it's almost like talking about these things is healing your wounds." He shakes his head.
"Leave it to this place and some supernatural curse on us to try and force us to get shit off our chest, hm? Or maybe I'm just trying to make sense of it all." He'll finish up and set the sewing kit with fresh bandages on the table.
"I don't think the welts need sewing at least, what about your stomach?"
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"I mean, anythin's possible here... And I suppose we're not the.. most flexible and talkative souls on board." It was a big concession, really. "Not an illogical jump.. You really think they're lookin' better?"
He leans back a little at the question, looking down his chest. "Yeah, might need a few. Guess how quick things heal isn't the same or somethin'." Well, not really, but internals take a lot more anything than the welts of his past.
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"Do we have any sort of salve?" But Raylan had said he should probably take his turn and rest, so instead of going to hunt for something he'll be good and settle into the chair. He'll pick up the glass of whiskey Raylan poured for him and sip it.
"Not totally healed though. Perhaps you have more you're meant to say." He's certainly not avoiding his own, just his priorities are for getting Raylan in better shape. He'll pick up that rag though and clean up the streaks of blood he can find on his torso or arm. Raylan will have to get his back.
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He gets up and circles around, gently taking the rag from James's hand with his own settling on the man's broad shoulders. A silent 'let me take it' and when it was relinquished, Raylan starts dabbing at the crying eye clock.
"Maybe," he starts quietly. "Maybe we both do... Can I ask you somethin'?" He waits for a yes before he does. "Do you regret any of it? Any of the ugliness."
There was no judgement in it, no admonishment. Just a gentle question.
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"Of course." He murmurs behind slightly grinding teeth, but with the question, he falls silent, eyes cast down as he stares at his hands as if seeing the blood on them from everyone he'd killed.
"Some." He replies, "Not all of it. I've... I've killed people when I felt like it was necessary, to survive, to protect myself and others, and to make an example. I regret some of the people I've killed or the lengths I needed to go to in my ugliness. But not all of it. Some of it felt good, felt justified..."
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"You know, that's how I've gotten away with shootin' the men I have. It bein' Justified... And I've heard a lotta opinions on it that say that ain't good enough. Doesn't stand up to the reality of hard life, most of the time." He continued to dab gently.
"We do what we feel we have to. It's all a fifty fifty chance of if we're fuckin' something up with that gut."
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"I... I've told you in broad strokes what I've done. And you know all about my darkness, how deep it runs, and my fears about it." It wasn't long ago he was frightened of whether he might be capable of hurting Raylan. He had good reason for it.
"But if you want to know details of my crimes... at least some of the ones that still haunt me." He turns slightly to look up over his shoulder at his lover.
"I suppose now is the time. If you want to know what you've hitched yourself to."
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"Yeah, baby. I do wanna know. It won't change nothin' because I've got blood on my hands too but.. I wanna be prepared for whatever comes up. Whatever might be slung at us, metaphorical or literal. This place has a way of pullin' out the darker bits of us with this kinda bullshit. But it ain't gonna change the way I feel about you. Or This." Them.
"And if that means tellin' you mine in return. I'm okay with doin' that too. Trusting you."
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Flint is reaching for the whiskey and he's pouring some into his glass before taking a swig. Where to even start?
"I can't remember if I'd told you how Miranda had learned of a ship carrying Thomas' parents, told me about it and where they'd be likely headed. I lied to my men, and had them spend time, hunting down the Maria Aleyne. We lost men taking her, it took resources, they thought it was for the cargo, which had been piss-poor by the way. In reality, it was to feed my desire for revenge. Thomas' parents were hiding away in one of the cabins below, I sought them out myself while my men were busy. They begged me for their lives. I slaughtered them. They were unarmed. But I lied to my men, to Gates about what I'd done. Said they fought back and I did what I had to... he knew though. He'd checked the cabin after I left, and saw there weren't any weapons to be found."
Another swig, "And Gates..."
He runs a hand down his face, hissing when he brushes the raw tear on his cheek that he'd forgotten about until now, it flared like it was on fire. He smeared blood across his skin with his thumb in the process.
"...Gates was my best friend. He'd been the one that helped me become captain and stuck with me through everything. But towards the end, he began to doubt me, and lose faith in me. He knew everything. He was going to tell the crew my plans and they were already close to keel-hauling me as is. I barely had them under my command and he was about to undo everything. I tried to stop him... I tried... He wasn't going to let them kill me, but he was going to destroy our last chance at the Urca, and I..." He has to stop and swallow raggedly, his voice growing tighter and more pained as he speaks.
"I killed him. Attacked him and broke his neck, and he died in my arms. I regret it, almost as much as I regretted never fighting for Thomas. I loved him like a brother." He shakes his head.
"I've done such terrible things. Most of the time I reason it away. Killing men on ships is one thing, but I've helped to slaughter and level a whole town out of pure rage."