[All things considered, Raylan had a fantastic time once he and James found themselves back on the Barge, in that disgustingly cute way that Raylan never talked about because he knew how hard and sometimes overwhelming it could be for literally everyone who was made to listen to it.
But he wasn't about to abandon any responsibilities and was already dressed, ironically on his way to track down Roman to have a chat about how he felt about SPACE.
It was something of a surprise to hear Roman's knock, and the word 'important' in a tone that Raylan didn't often hear. The door was promptly pulled open and he looked Roman up and down by habit, immediately noting his side.]
What happened, [he asks, gesturing Roman in, hand hovering over his shoulder as a 'helpful guide' before he glances down the hallway and closes the door.]
[ Thank God Raylan's there. Probably, he should have called ahead, but that didn't really occur to him. It's not every day this mess of a situation happens, especially not back home. He's got security. He's also not purposefully starting shit that's getting him stabbed, but he also doesn't think posting something mildly embarrassing on the internet is prime shanking material.
Roman hisses as he moves again, heading into the room. Despite his tone his eyes are red and glassy with tears, body unused to anything remotely resembling this. ]
I fucked up--I, uh--I fucked up, pretty bad, with the--I got fucking stabbed. [ The confession sounds strangely detached about the situation, Roman wincing as he pushes the coat away to reveal the wound. ]
[Raylan took it all in, in a glance before nodding shortly and getting right down to business.]
Take off your jacket, pull your shirt up, and keep pressure on that wound.
[The first aid kit and stitch tools out from the kitchen cabniet and strides back over, a handful of kitchen towels in his hand, sitting down on the coffee table and gesturing for Roman to get on with it.]
That's an apt description but not what I'm askin' Roman. Who stabbed you and why?
[ There's absolutely no fuss this time around, no jokes or quips--Roman winces and does what he's told, taking off the jacket, undoing the buttons on his expensive, crisp white button down and sliding it off, barely hesitating when he lifts plain white t-shirt. ]
Before--uh, the breach--this fucking hurts, Raylan--Izzy was in the speakeasy.
[ One plus one equals two: Roman carefully omits anything like 'I was egging him on' or 'apparently when you laugh in people's faces they get upset' and especially 'he wouldn't have noticed he was being humiliated if I hadn't straight up showed him.' ]
[There was no wincing at the ugliness of it, or at the blood. He'd seen worse but he also knows this isn't some little scratch. Roman should be going to the infirmary. Izzy could wait a goddamned minute. Raylan looks up at him, not stern or steely, but calm and reasonable.]
Your options are pretty straightforward here, Rome. Either you let me take you up to the infirmary so someone can stitch you up and give you some decent drugs, or I hand you a bottle and stitch you up myself.
[ He's not going to cry. Crying is weak. The problem is that it's hard not too: Roman's been hit and slapped and smacked around on more than one occasion, but usually only when he's the nearest person for his father's ire. Never like this. Never stabbed. John nearly broke his nose, too. Izzy smashed it after, but this? This is a whole other level. He can't help how glassy his eyes are, how he's already in a high level of pain. ]
What-- [ He knows that that means. He also knows he doesn't think he can handle either the embarrassment if he goes to the hospital, but he's not entirely sure he can handle pain without anything for it--and of course, of course, he's always been a fucking baby. He grinds his teeth, shooting a panicked look over at Raylan, desperate.
Roman's reputation comes first. Even if his reputation is to never take anything seriously--he's a Roy. ]
I don't--I don't want anyone to know, no one can find out. No infirmary.
Even I go to the hospital when I'm shot, Rome- [It's said in that same calm manner. The harder Roman freaked out, the harder his heart pumped blood.] But- [Raylan pulls off his flannel and draps it over a cushion on the couch.]
Lay yourself down, propped up enough that you can drink from a bottle, huh? You're gonna need it. [He pushes to his feet to grab a tea towel and one of his rare bottles of Jim Beam before coming back, handing the latter to Roman.]
I'm not stupid enough to ask the why. I'm more interested in the how. Start from the top, take it slow, and don't leave anythin' out. [There was a very good reason for this. It was good mental work while he got on with the bloody business. Raylan tosses the tea towel over his shoulder and starts pulling out the emergency stiches kit, the thin leather needle curved enough to make the work of it easier.]
[ The reality of the situation hits him full force again--it's coming and going in waves, but this one's really hitting hard. He feels dizzy even thinking about it, and he's never been able to control his face: he's looking at the couch and the flannel with nervous apprehension. It's the bottle of Jim Beam that does it: Raylan's actual factual booze. Not the magic bottle. It's that serious. Roman thinks he's going to throw up. ]
I don't want this to hurt.
[ He knows it's going to anyway, but he has to say it out loud before he starts explaining himself. ]
[It was also one of the rare times where Raylan got to see this side of Roman, what he was like when he was pushed against the wall of Real Life. Raylan sympathizes, he really does, but there's no avoiding Reality.]
Yeah. [He knew. Sorry Rome.] Drink up.
[It was only after Roman had taken a drink that Raylan would take the bottle back, abruptly pouring some onto the wound, only to hand it back to Roman once more.]
Keep your shirt up where it is and don't watch, okay. Count the imperfections on my ceiling or somethin' as you talk.
Oohh, fuck. [ It's more to himself than anything: the consequences of his actions are full force, that same wave rippling through him. Roman's dimly aware he has a headache now, either from the stress of the situation or the pain of the situation or, you know, because a pirate he's been bullying didn't hesitate to fight back.
Roman can still feel the weight of the older man on his body, those hands trying to pry at his mouth, effective and iron like in their strength. How close they'd been, how The sharp pang of his side pulls him from the thought and he winces, finally doing what Raylan says to do. He manages to find a place to rest on the touch, keeping his shirt up, grabbing the bottle with a ferver spurred on by anxiety rather than entitlement. ]
[He makes sure to talk as he starts the first stitch, not letting his tone give away what he was doing to better help Roman not focus on it. He was only entertaining this because Roman was bleeding on his couch.]
Suppose if I had a gun to my head.. Fuck Red, kill Eiffel and marry Neal. Eiffel's gettin' the raw end of the stick - the way he talks might annoy me a little, but that's no reason to murder a man. [It was the only pass on Raylan pushing the point that Roman would get. The start is always hard.]
[ He's thankful for Raylan, even if he doesn't actively say it--it's in the way Roman looks at him, focusing on his face and not his hands, lower lip jutting out into a childish pout, worry and anticipation creasing his angular features. ]
You'd murder Eiffel? Y-- [ he'd already started speaking over Raylan before he finished his sentence, but it's just as well: Raylan's begin, and Roman's childhood bumps and scrapes and broken bones from climbing trees (and refusing to get down) were met with hospitals and fancy doctors. Not this. He lets out a whine, folllowed by a hiss and a half-yell in rapid succession, blindly gripping for the bottle of Jim Beam he hadn't yet touched. He's already crying and it's barely been the first stitch. Angrily, he's wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. ]
I think I'm gonna throw up. Uuuh--okay--ow, fuck you, fuck--uh--Fuck Sweeney, uh--marry Eiffel, and, uh, kill Neal 'cause I know him the least, but I'd p--Fuck--I'd make out with him first.
[ Sorry, Raylan. Roman's half-chugging that bottle of booze you've been saving for a special occasion. ]
[He couldn't help but huff a little smile at Roman's interruption but it slipped back into serious focus as he tried to make this as quick and painless as was physically possible, considering. ]
Breathe, [he admonishes lightly.] but good on Red, getting two oughta two. And you never said makin' out was on the table here, I didn't know we were adjusting rules.
[He pulls back only to almost comically take the bottle from Roman's lips, splashing another bit on his wound and shoving it back into Roman's hand. That needed a few seconds to settle and Roman a few seconds to catch his breath.]
We gonna ignore the fact that we're openly talkin' about fuckin' guys and get into how this came about happenin', Roman, or am I gonna have to point that out.
[ Raylan grabs the bottle--rude, fucking atrocious manners--and Roman doesn't have time to process because some of that alcohol is getting splashed on him and he can't help himself: his body arches in pain, letting out a surprised yell as his hands grip at the nearest anything: it winds up being the couch's back and part of the shirt Raylan had left down, grabbing the fabric in a panic that only lessons once the bottle is handed back.
(He's not crying at all about this. Shut the fuck up.) ]
Because I--I fucked up, okay? I thought it would be funny to see the look on Izzy's stupid face when I showed him the video.
Yeah, hur-hur, Roman's an idiot, thank you. [ It's the immediate snippy response from hearing the way the other drawls Jesus out, but he's not exactly making a move to run away despite the sudden flare-up of annoyance. He's fully aware this is his own mistake and any reminder that someone else knows it is, too, is a little too much for his brain at the moment.
Even if they're right. ]
...I may or may not have, uh, egged him on. It happened fast, but the weird port-flood-space-life-thing happened and when we came too I sort of kicked him off and then he threw the knife at me and-- [ Fuck. He hisses, unable to hide a whimper as Raylan goes for round two. This sucks. He can feel everything. He takes another swig of the bottle.
He needs to do something. Say something. This can't be wholly serious, Roman can't feel like it's his fault even if he knows it is. He can't feel like he's got the blame, that's impossible, it doesn't feel very Roy-ish. He pivots to something else entirely. ]
It would have been hot if he didn't have a voice that sounded like a helium balloon had nails in it.
['Egged him on' Raylan's hands paused, eyes snapping back up to Roman's briefly before he continues, not wanting for all this to take any longer than it had to. His lips had tightened, but vanished to a while line of nothing as Roman describes the rest.
These fucking thinskinned, weak ass people. At least Izzy should have shouldered the repercussions of his shit without trying to gut anyone who knew about it.]
Don't tell me your cock is rollin' over for the dude that tried to spill your belly across the floor.
[Onto stitch three.]
How'd you egg him on then, might as well give me details.
[ It's harder and harder to be casual about this, especially when they're getting closer to Roman having to admit he has a fault.
Weird, how he can wear that shit on his sleeve--openly, even--but in moments that matter he's left with not much in terms of armor. He's quiet for a few seconds, save for the hiss and half-whine as Raylan continues to stitch him up, pained but stubborn, until he eventually answers. ]
I went up to him in the Speakeasy and showed him the video 'cause he hadn't seen it. I didn't think it would be a big deal, okay?
[Raylan clucks again, a not so faint sucking of his teeth. A host of opinions and admonishment.]
Very least your narrow ass deserves is a broken jaw. Not.. not all this but fuckin' somethin'. That was about the stupidest thing you coulda done, Romulus.
[It was as close as he'd tonally gotten to yelling, volume still cool and even.]
Lucky he wasn't a better shot, the fuckin' asshole. What the hell did you hope to achieve doin' that?
[ Romulus. Roman would be pissed about it if he wasn't too caught up with the fact that Raylan is, as annoyingly usual, completely right. It's getting harder and harder to avoid that thought completely, wincing as Raylan almost-not-quite yells, his whole body bunching up in surprise despite the fact that he'd been anticipating it. ]
I don't know! I- [ he twists his shoulders up again, his whole body shrugging elaborately only for him to remember courtesy of a sharp jolt of pain that he's getting his wounds stictched up. He yelps, whimper shortly following as his hands move back down to where they had been. ]
[His hands pause during the worst of Roman's writhing, giving the man a few seconds to breathe before he continued the slick bloody work. Raylan let a few long seconds of silence linger between them.]
You're real weird about the shit that you care about doin' you harm. You're not untouchable and assholes here aim to fuck around and find out.
[He finally manages the last stitch and ties it off, making sure it's secure before getting the scissors and snipping off the tail. The bottle was grabbed again and poured over the wound.]
Stay there. [It was his turn to pull deep from the bottle, bloody fingerprints already soaking into the label paper. He swallows and just stares at the wound, jaw working.]
You're still gonna have to go to the infirmary. But at least now you won't bleed out. I'm gonna havta refill my first aid kit if you're comin' home with shit like this.
Are you gonna leave that man alone now? [Izzy that is; Raylan's brain was doing a few tasks at the current moment, too many thoughts produced this.]
[ He might have started to protest about going to the infirmary--hell no, absolutely not, if Misty's there he's never going to hear the end of it--but he's still a bit rattled from Raylan calling him out seconds before. That, and the alcohol being poured over his body, which makes him yelp in a rather undignified, pained way.
He presses his lips into a thin line, looking down at his (gross) wound and trying his best not to throw up about it. That's a lot of blood, and sure, he won't die, but it's still his blood... ]
I won't start shit with him. [ It's not a no, but Roman's genuine about his word choice at least. He frowns, forcing his gaze away from his wounds and back up at Raylan. That's too difficult, too, so he settles for a nice spot just above Raylan's eyes so it's not complete eye contact. ]
[Raylan takes a deep breath and sighs it out his nose, nodding shallowly as he studies Roman's face, fully cognizant of the fact that Roman wasn't quite meeting his eye.
There were some easy concessions that could be made. Roman was going through a lot right now.]
Okay. [He wouldn't make Roman Promise. Not this time. This time, Roman was going to get the benefit of the doubt that he was, in fact, promising to not start shit.] And don't let him get within arm's reach again. Don't sit with your back towards a public door neither. Don't leave a drink out around him - if he's in the bar or somethin' get your drink to go. No chance for him to go all Jonestown on ya.
[ It's not quite like he's being given rules--it seems more like advice. Weird advice, probably useful advice, but Roman finally makes eye contact, more out of the absurdity of it all. Vaguely startled into having manners. ]
I really don't think he's the type of guy to go roofie. He's way too reactionary for a long-haul.
[ But he's not ruling the rest of the advice out, he's definitely going to steer clear of the speakeasy for a while. ]
And if you die, I'll kill you. [He took another deep breath.]
Now lets get your narrow ass to the infirmary so a real medical professional can take a look at that. I'll ask 'em for the good drugs too, put you on cloud 9 or somethin'.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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But he wasn't about to abandon any responsibilities and was already dressed, ironically on his way to track down Roman to have a chat about how he felt about SPACE.
It was something of a surprise to hear Roman's knock, and the word 'important' in a tone that Raylan didn't often hear. The door was promptly pulled open and he looked Roman up and down by habit, immediately noting his side.]
What happened, [he asks, gesturing Roman in, hand hovering over his shoulder as a 'helpful guide' before he glances down the hallway and closes the door.]
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Roman hisses as he moves again, heading into the room. Despite his tone his eyes are red and glassy with tears, body unused to anything remotely resembling this. ]
I fucked up--I, uh--I fucked up, pretty bad, with the--I got fucking stabbed. [ The confession sounds strangely detached about the situation, Roman wincing as he pushes the coat away to reveal the wound. ]
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Take off your jacket, pull your shirt up, and keep pressure on that wound.
[The first aid kit and stitch tools out from the kitchen cabniet and strides back over, a handful of kitchen towels in his hand, sitting down on the coffee table and gesturing for Roman to get on with it.]
That's an apt description but not what I'm askin' Roman. Who stabbed you and why?
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Before--uh, the breach--this fucking hurts, Raylan--Izzy was in the speakeasy.
[ One plus one equals two: Roman carefully omits anything like 'I was egging him on' or 'apparently when you laugh in people's faces they get upset' and especially 'he wouldn't have noticed he was being humiliated if I hadn't straight up showed him.' ]
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Your options are pretty straightforward here, Rome. Either you let me take you up to the infirmary so someone can stitch you up and give you some decent drugs, or I hand you a bottle and stitch you up myself.
tw child abuse
What-- [ He knows that that means. He also knows he doesn't think he can handle either the embarrassment if he goes to the hospital, but he's not entirely sure he can handle pain without anything for it--and of course, of course, he's always been a fucking baby. He grinds his teeth, shooting a panicked look over at Raylan, desperate.
Roman's reputation comes first. Even if his reputation is to never take anything seriously--he's a Roy. ]
I don't--I don't want anyone to know, no one can find out. No infirmary.
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Lay yourself down, propped up enough that you can drink from a bottle, huh? You're gonna need it. [He pushes to his feet to grab a tea towel and one of his rare bottles of Jim Beam before coming back, handing the latter to Roman.]
I'm not stupid enough to ask the why. I'm more interested in the how. Start from the top, take it slow, and don't leave anythin' out. [There was a very good reason for this. It was good mental work while he got on with the bloody business. Raylan tosses the tea towel over his shoulder and starts pulling out the emergency stiches kit, the thin leather needle curved enough to make the work of it easier.]
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I don't want this to hurt.
[ He knows it's going to anyway, but he has to say it out loud before he starts explaining himself. ]
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Yeah. [He knew. Sorry Rome.] Drink up.
[It was only after Roman had taken a drink that Raylan would take the bottle back, abruptly pouring some onto the wound, only to hand it back to Roman once more.]
Keep your shirt up where it is and don't watch, okay. Count the imperfections on my ceiling or somethin' as you talk.
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Roman can still feel the weight of the older man on his body, those hands trying to pry at his mouth, effective and iron like in their strength. How close they'd been, how The sharp pang of his side pulls him from the thought and he winces, finally doing what Raylan says to do. He manages to find a place to rest on the touch, keeping his shirt up, grabbing the bottle with a ferver spurred on by anxiety rather than entitlement. ]
Um. Okay. Fuck Marry Kill: Eiffel, Sweeney, Neal Caffrey.
[ Is he dodging questions again? A little bit, but not intentionally. Mostly, he's trying to focus on keeping himself busy. ]
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[He makes sure to talk as he starts the first stitch, not letting his tone give away what he was doing to better help Roman not focus on it. He was only entertaining this because Roman was bleeding on his couch.]
Suppose if I had a gun to my head.. Fuck Red, kill Eiffel and marry Neal. Eiffel's gettin' the raw end of the stick - the way he talks might annoy me a little, but that's no reason to murder a man. [It was the only pass on Raylan pushing the point that Roman would get. The start is always hard.]
What about you?
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You'd murder Eiffel? Y-- [ he'd already started speaking over Raylan before he finished his sentence, but it's just as well: Raylan's begin, and Roman's childhood bumps and scrapes and broken bones from climbing trees (and refusing to get down) were met with hospitals and fancy doctors. Not this. He lets out a whine, folllowed by a hiss and a half-yell in rapid succession, blindly gripping for the bottle of Jim Beam he hadn't yet touched. He's already crying and it's barely been the first stitch. Angrily, he's wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. ]
I think I'm gonna throw up. Uuuh--okay--ow, fuck you, fuck--uh--Fuck Sweeney, uh--marry Eiffel, and, uh, kill Neal 'cause I know him the least, but I'd p--Fuck--I'd make out with him first.
[ Sorry, Raylan. Roman's half-chugging that bottle of booze you've been saving for a special occasion. ]
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Breathe, [he admonishes lightly.] but good on Red, getting two oughta two. And you never said makin' out was on the table here, I didn't know we were adjusting rules.
[He pulls back only to almost comically take the bottle from Roman's lips, splashing another bit on his wound and shoving it back into Roman's hand. That needed a few seconds to settle and Roman a few seconds to catch his breath.]
We gonna ignore the fact that we're openly talkin' about fuckin' guys and get into how this came about happenin', Roman, or am I gonna have to point that out.
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(He's not crying at all about this. Shut the fuck up.) ]
Because I--I fucked up, okay? I thought it would be funny to see the look on Izzy's stupid face when I showed him the video.
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Raylan's eyebrows lifted, chin jutting out a little.]
You fuckin' showed him? Jesus, Roman.
[He shakes his head a little, leaning forward again to start work on the next stitch.]
Where? Did he go straight for tryin' to gut you?
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Even if they're right. ]
...I may or may not have, uh, egged him on. It happened fast, but the weird port-flood-space-life-thing happened and when we came too I sort of kicked him off and then he threw the knife at me and-- [ Fuck. He hisses, unable to hide a whimper as Raylan goes for round two. This sucks. He can feel everything. He takes another swig of the bottle.
He needs to do something. Say something. This can't be wholly serious, Roman can't feel like it's his fault even if he knows it is. He can't feel like he's got the blame, that's impossible, it doesn't feel very Roy-ish. He pivots to something else entirely. ]
It would have been hot if he didn't have a voice that sounded like a helium balloon had nails in it.
[ Yeah. There. Deflect: say something weird. ]
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These fucking thinskinned, weak ass people. At least Izzy should have shouldered the repercussions of his shit without trying to gut anyone who knew about it.]
Don't tell me your cock is rollin' over for the dude that tried to spill your belly across the floor.
[Onto stitch three.]
How'd you egg him on then, might as well give me details.
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Weird, how he can wear that shit on his sleeve--openly, even--but in moments that matter he's left with not much in terms of armor. He's quiet for a few seconds, save for the hiss and half-whine as Raylan continues to stitch him up, pained but stubborn, until he eventually answers. ]
I went up to him in the Speakeasy and showed him the video 'cause he hadn't seen it. I didn't think it would be a big deal, okay?
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Very least your narrow ass deserves is a broken jaw. Not.. not all this but fuckin' somethin'. That was about the stupidest thing you coulda done, Romulus.
[It was as close as he'd tonally gotten to yelling, volume still cool and even.]
Lucky he wasn't a better shot, the fuckin' asshole. What the hell did you hope to achieve doin' that?
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I don't know! I- [ he twists his shoulders up again, his whole body shrugging elaborately only for him to remember courtesy of a sharp jolt of pain that he's getting his wounds stictched up. He yelps, whimper shortly following as his hands move back down to where they had been. ]
I don't know.
[ Quieter. Morose. ]
It felt good to do it. In the moment.
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You're real weird about the shit that you care about doin' you harm. You're not untouchable and assholes here aim to fuck around and find out.
[He finally manages the last stitch and ties it off, making sure it's secure before getting the scissors and snipping off the tail. The bottle was grabbed again and poured over the wound.]
Stay there. [It was his turn to pull deep from the bottle, bloody fingerprints already soaking into the label paper. He swallows and just stares at the wound, jaw working.]
You're still gonna have to go to the infirmary. But at least now you won't bleed out. I'm gonna havta refill my first aid kit if you're comin' home with shit like this.
Are you gonna leave that man alone now? [Izzy that is; Raylan's brain was doing a few tasks at the current moment, too many thoughts produced this.]
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He presses his lips into a thin line, looking down at his (gross) wound and trying his best not to throw up about it. That's a lot of blood, and sure, he won't die, but it's still his blood... ]
I won't start shit with him. [ It's not a no, but Roman's genuine about his word choice at least. He frowns, forcing his gaze away from his wounds and back up at Raylan. That's too difficult, too, so he settles for a nice spot just above Raylan's eyes so it's not complete eye contact. ]
Lesson learned, okay?
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There were some easy concessions that could be made. Roman was going through a lot right now.]
Okay. [He wouldn't make Roman Promise. Not this time. This time, Roman was going to get the benefit of the doubt that he was, in fact, promising to not start shit.] And don't let him get within arm's reach again. Don't sit with your back towards a public door neither. Don't leave a drink out around him - if he's in the bar or somethin' get your drink to go. No chance for him to go all Jonestown on ya.
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I really don't think he's the type of guy to go roofie. He's way too reactionary for a long-haul.
[ But he's not ruling the rest of the advice out, he's definitely going to steer clear of the speakeasy for a while. ]
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And if you die, I'll kill you. [He took another deep breath.]
Now lets get your narrow ass to the infirmary so a real medical professional can take a look at that. I'll ask 'em for the good drugs too, put you on cloud 9 or somethin'.
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