By the time the steam of the too-hot shower is lessening the pressure in his brain Roman knows he's made a good decision. Even if he instantly regrets it when he realizes that he doesn't have any clothes here. Absolute horror washes over him when he has to come to terms with the fact that he's going to have to put on jeans. Not just any jeans, either. Raylan's cowboy fit. It's too cold for just a normal raglan, too, which means Raylan's flannel.
He looks like he belongs at a Trader Joe's. It fills him with rage, and Roman has never felt so strange in his entire life. He rolls up the jeans to better fit him and swears actively as he does so, wincing at the fact that the flannel over shirt doesn't fit his shoulders in nearly the right way. His seething inner monologue ceases the moment he hears the door open, however: he stays quiet out of both instinct and respect, keeping out of sight and not wanting to interrupt. It's when he hears a familiar thunk of someone sliding down a wall that he makes his way over, about to cut to some wise crack, make some sort of comment about dead weight when he notices the rise and fall of the other's chest. That's familiar, too, in a way that's incredibly uncomfortable.
Raylan Givens is one step away from a panic attack.
"Woah. Hey." He acts like he's just been out out of the shower, like he's just gotten dressed, like he wasn't actively eaves dropping on the other. He glances over to Flint's unconscious body--he looks so strange when he's not glaring--and stoops so he's crouching on the floor, eye level to Raylan.
"Okay." He's already swinging into problem solving mode, chewing on his lip. "Alright--let's, uh, let's freak out later, huh? Let's get your boyfriend somewhere not the floor. C'mon, I'm too delicate to do this myself, I'm gonna snap in two. It's my delicate rich boy bones, they're hollow."
Roman's worried. Very, very worried, and he wants to address it after Raylan doesn't have another task or objective to complete to use to run away from it. Probably it's a little manipulative. Roman doesn't give a shit. Raylan's not gonna excuse himself away from this by burying his cowboy ass into another job, another pressing matter.
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He looks like he belongs at a Trader Joe's. It fills him with rage, and Roman has never felt so strange in his entire life. He rolls up the jeans to better fit him and swears actively as he does so, wincing at the fact that the flannel over shirt doesn't fit his shoulders in nearly the right way. His seething inner monologue ceases the moment he hears the door open, however: he stays quiet out of both instinct and respect, keeping out of sight and not wanting to interrupt. It's when he hears a familiar thunk of someone sliding down a wall that he makes his way over, about to cut to some wise crack, make some sort of comment about dead weight when he notices the rise and fall of the other's chest. That's familiar, too, in a way that's incredibly uncomfortable.
Raylan Givens is one step away from a panic attack.
"Woah. Hey." He acts like he's just been out out of the shower, like he's just gotten dressed, like he wasn't actively eaves dropping on the other. He glances over to Flint's unconscious body--he looks so strange when he's not glaring--and stoops so he's crouching on the floor, eye level to Raylan.
"Okay." He's already swinging into problem solving mode, chewing on his lip. "Alright--let's, uh, let's freak out later, huh? Let's get your boyfriend somewhere not the floor. C'mon, I'm too delicate to do this myself, I'm gonna snap in two. It's my delicate rich boy bones, they're hollow."
Roman's worried. Very, very worried, and he wants to address it after Raylan doesn't have another task or objective to complete to use to run away from it. Probably it's a little manipulative. Roman doesn't give a shit. Raylan's not gonna excuse himself away from this by burying his cowboy ass into another job, another pressing matter.