"I think we've well established how I feel about Arlo Givens. As soon as I set foot back into that state, he was pullin' the same shit he always has. There's no helpin' a man like him."
He takes a drink and shakes his head a little as he sets the glass on the counter next to him.
"It ain't a pretty thing to say, Roman, but I've imprisoned my father more than once, and if he gave me a reason, I'd shoot his ass again. He's my father on paper, and that's about it. So this is a normal Tuesday. He doesn't get any of my sympathy or even a second thought."
"Yeah, but don't you feel guilty about it?" The question comes out of his mouth before he can really reign himself in, not that it matters, because this is Raylan and whatever weird relationship they have, Roman feels okay in asking. His brows lift, expecting an answer, hand still curled over his drink.
"Why should I? The man's got no problem threatening to shoot me as a child and shooting at folks with a similar description now that I'm grown." He lifts one hand, long fingers casting out.
"Let me tell you a story about a State Trooper named Tom. Nice guy, lived in Harlan for thirty years, got a family, nice wife, young kid. Only other man in law enforcement that wears a hat like I do. Arlo shot him dead. When asked why, he said 'I saw a tall man in a white hat'."
Raylan's eyebrows lift over a thinning of his lips like 'can you believe that', and grabs his glass again.
"At least your father seems to leave room for the possibility of carin' about you, even in the event of Boar on the Floor. Which - wild to me how grown men let themselves be debased like that but-" He bobs his head thoughtfully, finally taking a sip of his whiskey again.
Roman's silent for a few moments as he listens, frowning slightly at Raylan's words, how finished it sounds. 'been there, done that, my dad killed someone because he thought it was me.' It's an opening into Raylan's world a lot more than shared drinks and barge floods are: this is real and genuine and he fights off the initial reaction that he doesn't know what to do.
It's a wonder that Raylan isn't on his side of the barge as an inmate, he thinks. Roman's seen the file and wouldn't blame him one single bit. But Raylan mentions something, and Roman's brows knit. He doesn't remember something like boar on the floor, not by name alone, not right away.
(Plus, he's clinging on to Raylan's words. 'Father' and 'care' are both things he wasn't quite expecting in the same sentence.)
"Oh--we don't have to talk about anything my dad's done."
It was a wonder that Raylan wasn't an inmate, something he's openly grateful for every day since the Clipper fiasco but the fact that he wasn't only told the Marshal that he was moderately well adjusted and should keep on keeping on.
"I think we should.. C'mon, Roman. I know your dad ain't sunshine and honey. I knew that before. But when he starts yelling and throwing his power around, you do what I used to. Stay small and quiet and hope that the storm passes over without pickin' you up. Stay on his side so he doesn't make you sit on the floor with Suit one, two, and three." He really did understand. There was part of him that wishes that Roman had gotten one of Arlo's screaming and beating sessions instead.
"You wanna talk about the Pierce Deal that someone tanked? The huntin' trip in Europe?"
Roman watches the other carefully, scrutinizing him despite his slightly boneless posture, watching as the other digs and picks and pulls and Roman's jaw goes carefully slack, a controlled movement that shows he's anything but relaxed.
This sucks. The fact that his memories are with someone else sucks. The fact that he's starting to remember now, how he'd felt so good, so giddy with Karl and Greg and Tom on the floor because it wasn't him, how quickly it had come crashing down--
"Yeah, um, no." he shuts it down as quick as he can, free hand moving to tug at his ear. "I think we should talk about how you keep trying to kill your dad and don't seem to fee bad about it. You know there's something fundamentally wrong and broken about you for doing that, right?"
Raylan's head tilts oh so fractionally, eyes squinting softly and the further Roman got on, the more comfortable the smile on his face got.
"And yet, here I am, a warden." It was the best kind of validation, if he were really being honest. The laissez faire attitude wasn't there, neither was Raylan anywhere near angry, but as he continues, he starts drawing the lines of understanding out for Rome with a finality to his words.
"Here's the thing. I am fully aware of how controversial my relationship with Arlo is as is how I feel about him, and to be plain with you, I. Don't. Give a shit. It doesn't matter. Doesn't change a goddamned thing. He's still a dead asshole an' I'm not." Raylan shrugs and takes a sip from his glass.
"You could probably apply that to all the men I killed, actually," he adds thoughtfully.
"Yeah," Roman agrees, makes the noises humans are suppose to make during conversations where it's not their turn to speak. Nods, even, and his hands slide down to his waist, jaw jutting out somewhat in defiance. "Sure, of course."
He doesn't like feeling cornered.
"But you do give a shit that you're a bad Marshal." His browse raise. A challenge.
His eyebrows lift. He knew what this was, what Roman was doing. He also knew it wouldn't work.
"I think you meant to say 'if'. 'If' I were a bad Marshal. But I'm not. Mainly because I don't go around makin' innocent people feel like shit or takin' any glee in their suffering. Have I been forced to shoot a few men.. and one woman, to protect myself or other Marshal's? Yes. Have I done it for fun or out of a lack of humanity? No."
Sort of, but that's a different topic.
"You enjoyed not gettin' picked for Boar on the Floor. Pleased and relieved that it wasn't you havin' to suffer under your father's humiliation. Kicked at little at the folks down there yourself by documenting it so you could hold it over their heads later. What kinda Marshal do you think you'd make?"
Fuck. Raylan knows him way so well that it's infuriating, and even more so that his usual tactics aren't working. Raylan's cool with it. Raylan's fine with it, and Roman needs to dig more, to dig deeper, to see what'll actually get to him. It's not fair.
He's thinking about maybe Winona, or hell, maybe a jab about Flint, but Raylan either gets lucky and cuts him off or purposefully speaks before Roman's wit catches up with him.
Unfortunately, it's with words that have the same pinpoint accuracy of his shots. Roman's jaw slackens in a practiced pose. He's not bothered by it. He's not bothered by it. He's not bothered by it. See?
"I would never do something as fucking stupid as dedicate my life to the bullshit you're doing."
"Right, cause keepin' people safe, stoppin' bad guys, dealin' with mobs, that's stupid. Peace, security for a normal family - real dumb," he retorts sarcastically. Uh-huh.
"Instead, you've.. what. Dedicated your life to trying to gain your daddy's approval so that you're not barked at until you're on the floor snortin' like a pig for no end other than satin' Logan's taste for humiliation and blood? I'm not sayin' business is a bad thing to dedicate yourself to, hell, I'm not even sayin' that lovin' him is wrong, but your father isn't a role model that anyone oughta be tryin' to live up to. Just like Arlo wasn't. And just because you love him doesn't make him father of the year. Everyone's got flaws. Ignorin' the reality of those flaws, now that's stupid."
Roman can feel the way his stomach drops, his face moving past the practiced blank look and into something else, dark eyes clouding over as Raylan pokes and prods in that completely foreign and alien way of his. Anyone else he can knock it aside. Act like it doesn't bother him.
But Raylan isn't everyone else, and Raylan's seen it first hand now, seen one of his dad's games and how it was supposed to be Roman down there. Seen how Roman had been the one took the call from Pierce, just to try to do something nice. And now Raylan's spinning it in that obnoxious way he does with that stupid fucking southern accent. Roman feels a bit nauseous, and his face says as much, looking pointedly anywhere but his warden.
He hates that Raylan's his warden sometimes, and it's because of shit like this. Because Raylan's good at reading people and Raylan's good at saying things that Roman isn't actively expecting, usually about things he'd rather never talk about.
"I'm not stupid."
It comes out of his mouth before he realizes he's said it.
Raylan didn't enjoy hitting these buttons. He didn't like coming at these things so directly, knowing how Roman squirmed under it and how deep that urge to push it all aside was for the younger man. But he also couldn't let the lesson of it all pass. He wasn't going to be talked down to, struck out at, and just take it. No one should.
"No, you're not. Neither am I. You know exactly what his flaws are. You know the harm it inflicts, on you, on other people around him. Roman, you're better than him. You're better than him because you know that good and lovin' fathers don't make their kids feel the way you feel. I get you don't wanna talk about. I get you don't wanna look at it. I know," he continues, voice a little softer and kinder the more he went on.
"But admittin' the way things are is a solid first step towards actually dealin' with how you feel about it. Don't ignore the reality of the flaws, Roman. That's all I'm sayin'."
Roman falls silent. He's actually listening to Raylan, evident in the way his slouched shoulders aren't purposefully haunching into each other, the way he brings both of his hands together so he can pick at his nails with a keyed-in focus instead of his usual zoning out.
Raylan's right. It's the same song and dance Roman's mind had gone through mere seconds ago, but Raylan keeps continuing to be right. The words even find some sort of weird recess inside of him, digging around and giving Roman a weird feeling he has yet to identify as hope. Just entertaining, however briefly, that someone actually cares about him in this capacity. Even if it's because of their job. That's the easiest way to frame it, not the content of Raylan's words himself. He can't examine those, not yet. He's quiet for a moment longer.
"You know that shit, way back when we were first paired, when I said you were going to be a terrible father and that you were a shitty husband?"
Roman's life had been an exercise in trying to avoid the lash of the whip, to get someone underneath him before they could get him down there and with all this context, Raylan was starting to piece together the raw emotion that underlaid the cracked foundation of the Roy Family. While Raylan's abuse had been a different kind of beast, he understood taking that path. It would be a lie to say he was totally off that path - he used the bad guys in his job to do that, in the most violent and sometimes fatal way.
It seems like they've passed the 'Let's argue and barb until someone bleeds out on the floor' stage and Raylan is grateful for it, watching Roman's shoulders and body language as much as that steady gaze. They could fight, sure, or they could just have a real, honest conversation that might help adjust the way Roman was thinking. Opportunities like this didn't come often and Raylan wasn't going to pass it up.
"I do." It wasn't totally unexpected. He's pretty sure that Roman figured out fairly quickly that getting into a verbal slap fight with him didn't get him very far. But he's sure Roman had a point to follow and didn't want to interrupt.
Roman's brows lift, furrow, and lift again as Raylan says those two simple words as an invitation to get going. There's a lot, this is a lot, not just for Roman but there's something there. A bond, maybe. Or whatever.
Roman stills his hands.
"I do think," he says casually, rolling his eyes as he does so. "That maybe, uh, I might have been a little...you know. Right? Yeah."
He cares about Raylan. Genuinely, and truly, he cares about this guy. It's sickening. He might throw up. He groans, and it's difficult to tell if it's for comedic effect or if he's actually going to hurl for a split second.
"Maybe it was sort of not...cool...and I was a little bit wrong."
It was Raylan's turn for his eyebrows to lift. Roman admitting he was wrong, in any way, in any facet, was ground breaking. He knew it wasn't easy. Slowly, a smile crawled across Raylan's face, soft and fond and crooked.
"I won't rub it in. It's okay to be wrong.. Every now and then."
He loves the little shit. The words bounce around behind Raylan's teeth and after half a heartbeat, he doesn't bother swallowing them down. Maybe showing Roman that men could say shit like this without blowing away in a queef.
"I know we're not brothers or anythin', you got plenty of those already, but I love you like one, Roman. And it's okay to be fucked up by your parents. We all are. We'll figure it out."
Roman's relief at Raylan's first words is palpable, shoulders slipping into a more relaxed position. He doesn't like being wrong, he doesn't admit he's wrong, but Raylan deserves that. Raylan deserves a lot of things. Nice ones, even.
And Hey. Raylan called him his brother, which is a lot more flattering than Roman had realized until this moment. Because they're similar, maybe. Just a little. And Raylan's right about family that fucks you up. That's something Roman can agree on, even if his dad is a very touchy subject.
He's not going to say it out loud, but he respects Raylan a lot. He got out. He figured it out. Raylan broke the cycle.
"Thank you," he mumbles, and, because he can't help himself, and he needs to break the silence:
Raylan wasn't here to kick Roman around, to get one over on him, to get the dirt or the high hand. Shit like this was the only way to prove it to Roman. To prove himself. Loving people wasn't something Raylan did a lot of, but proving that he did was always and had always been important.
He nods once, softly, at the thanks and huffs a smile at the statement.
"I think you're just jealous you can't pull it off as well," he teases as he shoves off the counter and turns to refill his cup, gesturing with it towards Roman in offering. "I think you'd look much better in a fedora or somethin'. Pinstripe suit? Or Sharkskin if you like that kinda look."
Surprise Roman, Raylan did actually know about suits, fabrics and cuts.
"Oh, totally, I've always wanted to look like an extra in a community theatre version of Guys and Dolls," Roman snaps back, but there's no venom in his voice. If the crinkles in his eyes are anything to go by, he's actually impressed.
"Look at you, Mr. Nascar. Knowing your shit. Next you're going to tell me you've been playing the stock market game this whole time."
This is good. This is easy. This is natural, between them, a nice ebb and flow, even with emotions involved. It's nice. It feels weird.
"Don't you look like that now?" He's teasing, he promises. Mainly because he'd never seen Guys and Dolls so he has no real context for the joke.
"Nah, I'm barely a step above shovin' my cash in a mattress and I'm far too cheap be to be havin' a portfolio. Not willin' to risk the money like that." He might be richer if he did but he also might lose it all. He knew what the stock market was like, he knows how it can go.
"You uh.. you got it all back? This.. memory. Weirdest shit to happen yet, by the way, standing around recallin' someone's personal business."
Raylan's got jokes now, and Roman can't even be insulted at the dig being hurled at him. Not when it's a good one. He nods approvingly, even says a strong, loud 'nice' to show his approval like he would with Kendall.
As for the memory, the frowns slightly, cants his head to the side with unnessecary dramatic flare, and hums.
"Yeah, I think so. Boar, floor, Tom Wambsgans on his knees like a little bitch, Gerri looking smoking hot....Yeah. You? Dad, kneecap, gun, that's all there?"
He snorts softly at the 'Nice' and shakes his head with a smile.
"Yeah. I think I'm all set. You doin' alright, pickin' up everyone else's bullshit? Because I'll be honest with you, it's throwin' me for a goddamned loop."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He takes a drink and shakes his head a little as he sets the glass on the counter next to him.
"It ain't a pretty thing to say, Roman, but I've imprisoned my father more than once, and if he gave me a reason, I'd shoot his ass again. He's my father on paper, and that's about it. So this is a normal Tuesday. He doesn't get any of my sympathy or even a second thought."
no subject
no subject
"Let me tell you a story about a State Trooper named Tom. Nice guy, lived in Harlan for thirty years, got a family, nice wife, young kid. Only other man in law enforcement that wears a hat like I do. Arlo shot him dead. When asked why, he said 'I saw a tall man in a white hat'."
Raylan's eyebrows lift over a thinning of his lips like 'can you believe that', and grabs his glass again.
"At least your father seems to leave room for the possibility of carin' about you, even in the event of Boar on the Floor. Which - wild to me how grown men let themselves be debased like that but-" He bobs his head thoughtfully, finally taking a sip of his whiskey again.
no subject
It's a wonder that Raylan isn't on his side of the barge as an inmate, he thinks. Roman's seen the file and wouldn't blame him one single bit. But Raylan mentions something, and Roman's brows knit. He doesn't remember something like boar on the floor, not by name alone, not right away.
(Plus, he's clinging on to Raylan's words. 'Father' and 'care' are both things he wasn't quite expecting in the same sentence.)
"Oh--we don't have to talk about anything my dad's done."
no subject
"I think we should.. C'mon, Roman. I know your dad ain't sunshine and honey. I knew that before. But when he starts yelling and throwing his power around, you do what I used to. Stay small and quiet and hope that the storm passes over without pickin' you up. Stay on his side so he doesn't make you sit on the floor with Suit one, two, and three." He really did understand. There was part of him that wishes that Roman had gotten one of Arlo's screaming and beating sessions instead.
"You wanna talk about the Pierce Deal that someone tanked? The huntin' trip in Europe?"
no subject
This sucks. The fact that his memories are with someone else sucks. The fact that he's starting to remember now, how he'd felt so good, so giddy with Karl and Greg and Tom on the floor because it wasn't him, how quickly it had come crashing down--
"Yeah, um, no." he shuts it down as quick as he can, free hand moving to tug at his ear. "I think we should talk about how you keep trying to kill your dad and don't seem to fee bad about it. You know there's something fundamentally wrong and broken about you for doing that, right?"
no subject
"And yet, here I am, a warden." It was the best kind of validation, if he were really being honest. The laissez faire attitude wasn't there, neither was Raylan anywhere near angry, but as he continues, he starts drawing the lines of understanding out for Rome with a finality to his words.
"Here's the thing. I am fully aware of how controversial my relationship with Arlo is as is how I feel about him, and to be plain with you, I. Don't. Give a shit. It doesn't matter. Doesn't change a goddamned thing. He's still a dead asshole an' I'm not." Raylan shrugs and takes a sip from his glass.
"You could probably apply that to all the men I killed, actually," he adds thoughtfully.
no subject
He doesn't like feeling cornered.
"But you do give a shit that you're a bad Marshal." His browse raise. A challenge.
no subject
"I think you meant to say 'if'. 'If' I were a bad Marshal. But I'm not. Mainly because I don't go around makin' innocent people feel like shit or takin' any glee in their suffering. Have I been forced to shoot a few men.. and one woman, to protect myself or other Marshal's? Yes. Have I done it for fun or out of a lack of humanity? No."
Sort of, but that's a different topic.
"You enjoyed not gettin' picked for Boar on the Floor. Pleased and relieved that it wasn't you havin' to suffer under your father's humiliation. Kicked at little at the folks down there yourself by documenting it so you could hold it over their heads later. What kinda Marshal do you think you'd make?"
no subject
He's thinking about maybe Winona, or hell, maybe a jab about Flint, but Raylan either gets lucky and cuts him off or purposefully speaks before Roman's wit catches up with him.
Unfortunately, it's with words that have the same pinpoint accuracy of his shots. Roman's jaw slackens in a practiced pose. He's not bothered by it. He's not bothered by it. He's not bothered by it. See?
"I would never do something as fucking stupid as dedicate my life to the bullshit you're doing."
no subject
"Instead, you've.. what. Dedicated your life to trying to gain your daddy's approval so that you're not barked at until you're on the floor snortin' like a pig for no end other than satin' Logan's taste for humiliation and blood? I'm not sayin' business is a bad thing to dedicate yourself to, hell, I'm not even sayin' that lovin' him is wrong, but your father isn't a role model that anyone oughta be tryin' to live up to. Just like Arlo wasn't. And just because you love him doesn't make him father of the year. Everyone's got flaws. Ignorin' the reality of those flaws, now that's stupid."
no subject
But Raylan isn't everyone else, and Raylan's seen it first hand now, seen one of his dad's games and how it was supposed to be Roman down there. Seen how Roman had been the one took the call from Pierce, just to try to do something nice. And now Raylan's spinning it in that obnoxious way he does with that stupid fucking southern accent. Roman feels a bit nauseous, and his face says as much, looking pointedly anywhere but his warden.
He hates that Raylan's his warden sometimes, and it's because of shit like this. Because Raylan's good at reading people and Raylan's good at saying things that Roman isn't actively expecting, usually about things he'd rather never talk about.
"I'm not stupid."
It comes out of his mouth before he realizes he's said it.
no subject
"No, you're not. Neither am I. You know exactly what his flaws are. You know the harm it inflicts, on you, on other people around him. Roman, you're better than him. You're better than him because you know that good and lovin' fathers don't make their kids feel the way you feel. I get you don't wanna talk about. I get you don't wanna look at it. I know," he continues, voice a little softer and kinder the more he went on.
"But admittin' the way things are is a solid first step towards actually dealin' with how you feel about it. Don't ignore the reality of the flaws, Roman. That's all I'm sayin'."
no subject
Raylan's right. It's the same song and dance Roman's mind had gone through mere seconds ago, but Raylan keeps continuing to be right. The words even find some sort of weird recess inside of him, digging around and giving Roman a weird feeling he has yet to identify as hope. Just entertaining, however briefly, that someone actually cares about him in this capacity. Even if it's because of their job. That's the easiest way to frame it, not the content of Raylan's words himself. He can't examine those, not yet. He's quiet for a moment longer.
"You know that shit, way back when we were first paired, when I said you were going to be a terrible father and that you were a shitty husband?"
He doesn't look up from his nails.
no subject
It seems like they've passed the 'Let's argue and barb until someone bleeds out on the floor' stage and Raylan is grateful for it, watching Roman's shoulders and body language as much as that steady gaze. They could fight, sure, or they could just have a real, honest conversation that might help adjust the way Roman was thinking. Opportunities like this didn't come often and Raylan wasn't going to pass it up.
"I do." It wasn't totally unexpected. He's pretty sure that Roman figured out fairly quickly that getting into a verbal slap fight with him didn't get him very far. But he's sure Roman had a point to follow and didn't want to interrupt.
no subject
Roman stills his hands.
"I do think," he says casually, rolling his eyes as he does so. "That maybe, uh, I might have been a little...you know. Right? Yeah."
He cares about Raylan. Genuinely, and truly, he cares about this guy. It's sickening. He might throw up. He groans, and it's difficult to tell if it's for comedic effect or if he's actually going to hurl for a split second.
"Maybe it was sort of not...cool...and I was a little bit wrong."
no subject
"I won't rub it in. It's okay to be wrong.. Every now and then."
He loves the little shit. The words bounce around behind Raylan's teeth and after half a heartbeat, he doesn't bother swallowing them down. Maybe showing Roman that men could say shit like this without blowing away in a queef.
"I know we're not brothers or anythin', you got plenty of those already, but I love you like one, Roman. And it's okay to be fucked up by your parents. We all are. We'll figure it out."
no subject
And Hey. Raylan called him his brother, which is a lot more flattering than Roman had realized until this moment. Because they're similar, maybe. Just a little. And Raylan's right about family that fucks you up. That's something Roman can agree on, even if his dad is a very touchy subject.
He's not going to say it out loud, but he respects Raylan a lot. He got out. He figured it out. Raylan broke the cycle.
"Thank you," he mumbles, and, because he can't help himself, and he needs to break the silence:
"I'm right about the hat though."
no subject
He nods once, softly, at the thanks and huffs a smile at the statement.
"I think you're just jealous you can't pull it off as well," he teases as he shoves off the counter and turns to refill his cup, gesturing with it towards Roman in offering. "I think you'd look much better in a fedora or somethin'. Pinstripe suit? Or Sharkskin if you like that kinda look."
Surprise Roman, Raylan did actually know about suits, fabrics and cuts.
no subject
"Look at you, Mr. Nascar. Knowing your shit. Next you're going to tell me you've been playing the stock market game this whole time."
This is good. This is easy. This is natural, between them, a nice ebb and flow, even with emotions involved. It's nice. It feels weird.
Healthy, even.
no subject
"Nah, I'm barely a step above shovin' my cash in a mattress and I'm far too cheap be to be havin' a portfolio. Not willin' to risk the money like that." He might be richer if he did but he also might lose it all. He knew what the stock market was like, he knows how it can go.
"You uh.. you got it all back? This.. memory. Weirdest shit to happen yet, by the way, standing around recallin' someone's personal business."
no subject
As for the memory, the frowns slightly, cants his head to the side with unnessecary dramatic flare, and hums.
"Yeah, I think so. Boar, floor, Tom Wambsgans on his knees like a little bitch, Gerri looking smoking hot....Yeah. You? Dad, kneecap, gun, that's all there?"
no subject
"Yeah. I think I'm all set. You doin' alright, pickin' up everyone else's bullshit? Because I'll be honest with you, it's throwin' me for a goddamned loop."