God, [It was an endeared sigh - he was gonna get so much shit.] I can't believe you know my middle name now.
'Fraid I've got full rights to any nicknames that got used, you know that, right Romulus. Jesus. What a Big name. Makes more sense than you bein' named after a collapsed empire. Your daddy ever tell you why he named you that?
Yeah, so the thing about that is that I really don't give a shit if you call me Romulus, but calling you Francis definitely drives you up the wall, so I don't think your leverage is going to work the way you want it to, Calgary Stampede.
[ He is gonna giggle-laugh, though. ]
Pop-pop's always been into empires and wars and shit--hey--you wanna tell me why you're calling, other than the fact that I'm literally the hottest person in the world?
[ Did Raylan already state why he was calling? Yes. Was Roman listening? No. ]
[ Roman's face slackens before his brow furrows, pouring over what had happened. Right. Pairings. And Raylan is a warden, and that information is... His furrowed brow quickly melts into his entire face looking pinched. ]
Mmmhmm. I've already read through it a couple times. Very interestin' family you've got.
[They were gonna talk about Boar on the Floor sooner or later.
If there wasn't so much terrible shit in Roman's file, if they hadn't been friends in this last breach, Raylan might have taken a bit of selfish enjoyment in Roman's agony.]
[ He's upright. Upright and engaged, even if there's a strange sort of half-dazed look still on his face as his gaze actively tries to sharpen itself. It's a strange sort of process, Roman applying layer upon layer of battle armor, visible only because he temporarily forgets he's on video. ]
Yeah. Time to see how much of it is bullshit. [ And, almost immediately: ] Is that entirely up to date?
[It was something that was interesting to watch, and Raylan was glad he was already on his way.]
You can tell me. I'll be there in three minutes.
--
And so he was, prompt as ever, rapping on the big dark wood door of Roman's cabin before opening the door and walking in, wagging the file before dropping it on the nearest flat surface.
"Last thing I got here," he starts with no preamble, "Is you gettin' on a plane that never landed where it was supposed to. I thought you said you were on a yacht." His hands, now empty, propped on his hips to somehow match the tilted head and quietly expectant expression.
At least Raylan knocks. Roman's by the window curled up in a loveseat, legs dangling casually over the armrest, dicking around on his communication device. He doesn't even have time to reply before Raylan walks in, and the eye roll is immediate as the other drops the folder down. Stupid fucking--oh, God.
Yachts.
Roman freezes for a split second before he looks Raylan in the eye, though his lower lip curls up. That expression, there's something about it, something Roman can't quite put a finger on. It feels weird. It cuts in a way he didn't expect. He feels like a little kid getting his hand slapped.
Gross.
"Yeah. I go on yachts. I'm a yacht guy. I have yachts. Sorry they're not rafts along the Missisippi, Tom Sawyer." He extends his hands, communicator forgotten, doing a grabbing motion with both of them in the direction of the file. Hand it to him, will you, Raylan?
Scoffing a little sound of what might be taken as disgust, though there was no telling if it was for 'Tom Sawyer' or the childish gesture, Raylan picks up the file and walks it over, dropping it on the floor a few feet away from Roman. He'd still have to move himself to get it; Raylan had brought it far enough.
The Marshal dropped himself into one of the near-by chairs, long legs crossing comfortably over at the knee as he kept his eyes on his new/not new inmate.
"You also have private jets. You just like yachts better or somethin'? For the optics?"
No, if he had to guess, it was because no one wanted to relive their death, but Raylan wanted to start there before they started to dig at the compost pile that was Roy Family History.
It falls a few feet away from him and Roman's mouth opens, jaw slack not out of surprise but of disappointed expectation. Of course Raylan's being obstinate. God, he fucking hates him.
The only reason he doesn't bite back with something is the phrase Raylan uses--optics--it's so ingrained in his mind it causes his brain to snap back into work mode reflexively, getting up off of the chair to snatch the file. He saves grace by pretending he was going to get up to grab a glass of water anyway.
"How much have you read?" Bastard doesn't deserve a retort, he thinks.
"You think I'd show it to you without havin' read it from cover to cover?" Raylan's head followed Roman until he couldn't, and he had no qualms about getting back up to follow a few lengths behind. He didn't think Roman would run, but steady even pressure was the name of the game.
"I'm pretty sure you already know this, but just in case someone hasn't told you, your family is a little fucked up. I've heard of some weird and wild shit, but I think 'Boar on the Floor' is about the weirdest." For context of how well Raylan had read it the first time.
"You don't get to keep that, by the way." Just in case Roman thought that was a possibility.
'You don't get to keep it' is met with Roman snapping the folder open in a childish effort to be combative. He leans against the counter, glass of water poured but to the side as he squints at the papers, speed reading to the best of his ability. Boar on the floor barely registers.
"Yeah, and your daddy treated you mighty fine in that trailer park of yours, I bet," he quips, southern accent abysmal but laid on thick. He scoffs at a particular paragraph as he scans through it, head buried in the files.
"Arlo was a sadistic piece of shit bastard that deserved more than what he got. And we lived in a house, thank you very much. Second one has two levels and everythin'. Too bad it ain't worth shit and didn't sell for the dirty it was sitting on."
Raylan tilts his head as he ambles closer to lean one hand on the countertop.
"But there isn't any 'Worst Father' award and even if there was, I got no interest in competin' in that competition." No, he was gently poking, testing where he should start all of this.
"Okay--" Roman snaps the folder shut in one smooth motion, shooting Raylan an annoyed look as the other ambles towards him, all long legs and southern charm. It's met with a good ol' New York City glare.
"--this place? Is not that fucking big. You don't have to follow me around so closely, I'd like to breathe, thank you."
"Alright," Raylan says, lifting one hand and taking a step back, reaching into his jacket and pulling out his flask, unscrewing the top and letting Roman simmer out from under his gaze for a minute.
He's quiet for a few moments, flipping through, scanning--eventually, he shuffles towards the end of the file, eyes narrowing as he rifles through it, clearly looking for something. He's taking in the important things--yeah, sure, he died, yeah, of course he fucked over his dad and united with Kendall and Siobhan, yadda yadda--he just needs to find who sold them out--
(He tries not to think about having his whole life on display too much. Tries not to think about how accurate what he's skimmed is. It feels weird, invasive, like he needs to call Gerri and lawyer up.)
--Roman inhales sharply, face going slack for a split second before he shakes his head.
"This is incomplete." Without a single moment of hesitation, he tosses the entire thing onto the floor, the contents spilling out.
"Find the right one. It's missing information. Fucking incompetent." The last phrase is muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair, nostrils flaring. It's hard to tell if it's panic or something else.
Raylan busied himself with a long drink from his flask before he screwed the cap back on and tucked it away into his jacket. The air in the room was fine up until Roman tosses the file, sending Raylan's neckhairs on end as he internally debates what o-zone really smells like - his senses screamed that this was the start of a tantrum.
Find the right one.
Definitely a temper tantrum. There were rules for that. Keep movements to a minimum. Keep the tone level and unbothered. Raylan didn't move, unperturbed by it all.
"That's the one I got, no 'findin' about it.. What's missing?"
"What's missing?" Roman points to the files on the floor, gaze dark. "Who fucked us over is missing." It doesn't matter that it wasn't relevant to him or his file, not really. Roman rounds in Raylan, taking in how calm he is.
Raylan's doing what drives Roman up the wall: he's refusing to engage. He feels a flare of something--he's not sure what. Helplessness. Panic. There's a weird knot in his stomach and he's fairly certain it's because he knows if Kendall were here this conversation would be different.
Fuck. He never told him about what happened to him before he left.
"You’re a fucking detective. Find it." Roman's voice has the expected venom that comes with being entitled, though there's something else. What's happening and his situation is finally catching up with him. He squares up, looking at Raylan head on, hands on his hips.
"No," Raylan replied calmly, though a astute soul would catch the way his gaze hardened at the more direct command. He was willing to take some shit on the day to day, but he'd already well hit his limit the night before and Roman was starting to push him.
"Because contrary to what you seem to believe, that's not my job." He pushes off the counter, one finger gesturing at the mess on the floor. "You got a problem with what is or isn't in there, you can go scream at the Admiral about it, but I don't give a damn who fucked you over. That isn't what its for, and it sure as hell ain't what you're here for."
He let some of the steeliness slip out from his tone. "It'll all be there waitin' for you when you go back home. What would knowin' right now do you for anyway?"
Raylan was not a Detective. He was a hunter and studier of men. Saying as much would be tantamount to swinging his dick around and frankly, Roman's got that covered. He doesn't need to lower himself there. Not yet.
What it would do for him? Some peace of mind. He could finally feel like he has some scrap of control. He's stuck in what's essentially a twilight zone style prison-rehab hybrid. The guy that broke his nose is the same one he'd been sleeping with on and off in an another life. Kendall's left him. Someone knows he isn't actually a CEO. Someone knows he's lost everything important to him. His money. His job. His dad, his mom. Gerri. He needs to fight. He needs something, needs to claw his way out of this somehow on top. Raylan is the person nearest to him. Raylan knows how fucked he is.
There's that voice again, the one that sounds an awful lot like his father, urging him to maim. He has to destroy him. It's the only way he'll win, and right now, he needs to win.
"Right--yeah, no point, at least not for you--and, uh, sure, not your job," Roman echoes the other's words, and when he shrugs it's not just his shoulders--his whole body seems to move upwards and hunch, tip-toes and all.
"Sort of like it's also not your job to ride Tim's cock." His hands shoot up, fingers splayed, a strange, semi-twisting movement. It would look comical if Roman's gaze wasn't extremely calculated. He's actively trying to make Raylan as miserable as he is.
"Are you the one he fucked, or did you fuck him? 'Not that it matters, since he left you, but--please. I'm curious. Contrary to what you seem to believe, I care. Do you keep the hat on during sex, or is that just while you were sucking his dick?"
Roman's lips draw into a smile, a familiar giggle escaping his mouth as he takes a step closer. There's an edge to it.
The shift in Raylan's face was subtle, the faint lift of his lips vanishing under a chillingly cold gaze, shoulders squaring as everything in him fought against the urge to pop Roman in the mouth. It was the kind of intense look that gave other people pause. There was no shifting of his tensed jaw but somehow Raylan seemed to boil without moving a muscle.
It would be so easy to strike out, catch the little prick right in his smart assed mouth and knock the giggle out of him. Though, as Raylan's mind played the rest of it, the insane giggle he would no doubt get for it would only make the urge to do it again stronger.
"Why? Lookin' for pointers on how to touch a human being or make a connection? My turn to ask a question, have you ever actually fucked someone before or is it just lettin' a woman twice your age humiliate you into cummin' on bathroom doors?"
Raylan took a step forward, voice as calmly dangerous as before, hands loose at his sides.
"You really wanna start slingin' shit?" He didn't want to hit Roman.. as much as he absolutely wanted to hit Roman. Because as soon as that line was crossed, it was a whole new ugly world that Raylan would rather neither of them get into.
It's the lack of movement that Roman zeroes in on, and he knows it's working. There's a brief moment where all he feels is triumph flooding through him. He wins, and Raylan loses, and there's some of that footing he can use to make himself feel a little steadier.
It doesn't take long for the other to yank the rug out from under him. Three seconds, in fact, and it's Roman's turn for his face go carefully blank. Gerri.
How does it serve my interests?
He chooses the nuclear option because Raylan has the fucking audacity to bring her up. His face is still slack, eyes never leaving Raylan's as he gestures with his hands.
"You wanna hit me?" He takes a step closer, both brows raised. It's a dare.
Several things played out in Raylan's mind. Punching Roman dead in the face. Grabbing him up by his shirt and making his shoulders find a wall. Maybe a few gut punches. But the violence that came so easily to him was one of the primary reasons he tried his very level best to keep it under control.
If he wasn't permanently paired with Roman, he might have found a way to excuse the break of temper, but the rest of the stubborn asshole in him was just as greedy to win as Roman was.
"Puttin' somethin' else in your spank bank is most defiantly not part of my job description. Why, you think it'd make you feel better?" His index finger jabbed lightly into Roman's shoulder. "Find someone else do to that for you. I'm sure there's a list of folk waitin' to kick your ass some more."
Roman is quiet as Raylan talks, gaze never leaving his. The only sign he's even remotely worked up asides from his unusually blank face is the slight heave of his shoulders as he breathes, adrenaline coursing through him.
Raylan won't hit him. He knows, and that's part of the trick--get them mad, poke the bear, know enough about who you're talking with to know it's never actually going to happen. Raylan's his warden, but that doesn't mean he's got all the power, and Roman feels a surge of something in between feeling like piece of shit. It's enough of a high point that Roman can let the other's comments slide: it's easy when he's still thinking about how he brought Gerri into this mess. Roman's lips purse into a girlish pout, still not moving, though the blankness of his face is slowly turning up towards a smile.
"Yeah, see--you're not gonna do shit because it's gonna remind you of your pop-pop smacking up your mom. But you want to, huh?" The mom bit is a wild guess, but Raylan's said as much. Roman's giggle is light and airy. "Fucking amateur."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ If he sounds absolutely chipper because he can tell Raylan probably 90% of their college times together it's because he is. ]
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'Fraid I've got full rights to any nicknames that got used, you know that, right Romulus. Jesus. What a Big name. Makes more sense than you bein' named after a collapsed empire. Your daddy ever tell you why he named you that?
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[ He is gonna giggle-laugh, though. ]
Pop-pop's always been into empires and wars and shit--hey--you wanna tell me why you're calling, other than the fact that I'm literally the hottest person in the world?
[ Did Raylan already state why he was calling? Yes. Was Roman listening? No. ]
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He'd hated high school for a reason.]
An' you're givin' me shit after sayin' Pop-pop?
You're not, and I've got your file. You were born in '87, to Logan Roy and Caroline Collingwood and you had? Have? A thing with one Gerri Kellman..
Have I got your attention?
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No.
[ It's more of a whine than anything. ]
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[They were gonna talk about Boar on the Floor sooner or later.
If there wasn't so much terrible shit in Roman's file, if they hadn't been friends in this last breach, Raylan might have taken a bit of selfish enjoyment in Roman's agony.]
Thought you might wanna see it for yourself.
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Yeah. Time to see how much of it is bullshit. [ And, almost immediately: ] Is that entirely up to date?
--> to Spam
You can tell me. I'll be there in three minutes.
--
And so he was, prompt as ever, rapping on the big dark wood door of Roman's cabin before opening the door and walking in, wagging the file before dropping it on the nearest flat surface.
"Last thing I got here," he starts with no preamble, "Is you gettin' on a plane that never landed where it was supposed to. I thought you said you were on a yacht." His hands, now empty, propped on his hips to somehow match the tilted head and quietly expectant expression.
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Yachts.
Roman freezes for a split second before he looks Raylan in the eye, though his lower lip curls up. That expression, there's something about it, something Roman can't quite put a finger on. It feels weird. It cuts in a way he didn't expect. He feels like a little kid getting his hand slapped.
Gross.
"Yeah. I go on yachts. I'm a yacht guy. I have yachts. Sorry they're not rafts along the Missisippi, Tom Sawyer." He extends his hands, communicator forgotten, doing a grabbing motion with both of them in the direction of the file. Hand it to him, will you, Raylan?
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The Marshal dropped himself into one of the near-by chairs, long legs crossing comfortably over at the knee as he kept his eyes on his new/not new inmate.
"You also have private jets. You just like yachts better or somethin'? For the optics?"
No, if he had to guess, it was because no one wanted to relive their death, but Raylan wanted to start there before they started to dig at the compost pile that was Roy Family History.
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The only reason he doesn't bite back with something is the phrase Raylan uses--optics--it's so ingrained in his mind it causes his brain to snap back into work mode reflexively, getting up off of the chair to snatch the file. He saves grace by pretending he was going to get up to grab a glass of water anyway.
"How much have you read?" Bastard doesn't deserve a retort, he thinks.
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"I'm pretty sure you already know this, but just in case someone hasn't told you, your family is a little fucked up. I've heard of some weird and wild shit, but I think 'Boar on the Floor' is about the weirdest." For context of how well Raylan had read it the first time.
"You don't get to keep that, by the way." Just in case Roman thought that was a possibility.
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"Yeah, and your daddy treated you mighty fine in that trailer park of yours, I bet," he quips, southern accent abysmal but laid on thick. He scoffs at a particular paragraph as he scans through it, head buried in the files.
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Raylan tilts his head as he ambles closer to lean one hand on the countertop.
"But there isn't any 'Worst Father' award and even if there was, I got no interest in competin' in that competition." No, he was gently poking, testing where he should start all of this.
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"--this place? Is not that fucking big. You don't have to follow me around so closely, I'd like to breathe, thank you."
Is he panicking? Yeah. Yeah, he is.
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"I just ain't hollarin' from your sittin' area."
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(He tries not to think about having his whole life on display too much. Tries not to think about how accurate what he's skimmed is. It feels weird, invasive, like he needs to call Gerri and lawyer up.)
--Roman inhales sharply, face going slack for a split second before he shakes his head.
"This is incomplete." Without a single moment of hesitation, he tosses the entire thing onto the floor, the contents spilling out.
"Find the right one. It's missing information. Fucking incompetent." The last phrase is muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair, nostrils flaring. It's hard to tell if it's panic or something else.
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Find the right one.
Definitely a temper tantrum. There were rules for that. Keep movements to a minimum. Keep the tone level and unbothered. Raylan didn't move, unperturbed by it all.
"That's the one I got, no 'findin' about it.. What's missing?"
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Raylan's doing what drives Roman up the wall: he's refusing to engage. He feels a flare of something--he's not sure what. Helplessness. Panic. There's a weird knot in his stomach and he's fairly certain it's because he knows if Kendall were here this conversation would be different.
Fuck. He never told him about what happened to him before he left.
"You’re a fucking detective. Find it." Roman's voice has the expected venom that comes with being entitled, though there's something else. What's happening and his situation is finally catching up with him. He squares up, looking at Raylan head on, hands on his hips.
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"Because contrary to what you seem to believe, that's not my job." He pushes off the counter, one finger gesturing at the mess on the floor. "You got a problem with what is or isn't in there, you can go scream at the Admiral about it, but I don't give a damn who fucked you over. That isn't what its for, and it sure as hell ain't what you're here for."
He let some of the steeliness slip out from his tone. "It'll all be there waitin' for you when you go back home. What would knowin' right now do you for anyway?"
Raylan was not a Detective. He was a hunter and studier of men. Saying as much would be tantamount to swinging his dick around and frankly, Roman's got that covered. He doesn't need to lower himself there. Not yet.
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There's that voice again, the one that sounds an awful lot like his father, urging him to maim. He has to destroy him. It's the only way he'll win, and right now, he needs to win.
"Right--yeah, no point, at least not for you--and, uh, sure, not your job," Roman echoes the other's words, and when he shrugs it's not just his shoulders--his whole body seems to move upwards and hunch, tip-toes and all.
"Sort of like it's also not your job to ride Tim's cock." His hands shoot up, fingers splayed, a strange, semi-twisting movement. It would look comical if Roman's gaze wasn't extremely calculated. He's actively trying to make Raylan as miserable as he is.
"Are you the one he fucked, or did you fuck him? 'Not that it matters, since he left you, but--please. I'm curious. Contrary to what you seem to believe, I care. Do you keep the hat on during sex, or is that just while you were sucking his dick?"
Roman's lips draw into a smile, a familiar giggle escaping his mouth as he takes a step closer. There's an edge to it.
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It would be so easy to strike out, catch the little prick right in his smart assed mouth and knock the giggle out of him. Though, as Raylan's mind played the rest of it, the insane giggle he would no doubt get for it would only make the urge to do it again stronger.
"Why? Lookin' for pointers on how to touch a human being or make a connection? My turn to ask a question, have you ever actually fucked someone before or is it just lettin' a woman twice your age humiliate you into cummin' on bathroom doors?"
Raylan took a step forward, voice as calmly dangerous as before, hands loose at his sides.
"You really wanna start slingin' shit?" He didn't want to hit Roman.. as much as he absolutely wanted to hit Roman. Because as soon as that line was crossed, it was a whole new ugly world that Raylan would rather neither of them get into.
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It doesn't take long for the other to yank the rug out from under him. Three seconds, in fact, and it's Roman's turn for his face go carefully blank. Gerri.
How does it serve my interests?
He chooses the nuclear option because Raylan has the fucking audacity to bring her up. His face is still slack, eyes never leaving Raylan's as he gestures with his hands.
"You wanna hit me?" He takes a step closer, both brows raised. It's a dare.
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If he wasn't permanently paired with Roman, he might have found a way to excuse the break of temper, but the rest of the stubborn asshole in him was just as greedy to win as Roman was.
"Puttin' somethin' else in your spank bank is most defiantly not part of my job description. Why, you think it'd make you feel better?" His index finger jabbed lightly into Roman's shoulder. "Find someone else do to that for you. I'm sure there's a list of folk waitin' to kick your ass some more."
cw mentions of abuse
Raylan won't hit him. He knows, and that's part of the trick--get them mad, poke the bear, know enough about who you're talking with to know it's never actually going to happen. Raylan's his warden, but that doesn't mean he's got all the power, and Roman feels a surge of something in between feeling like piece of shit. It's enough of a high point that Roman can let the other's comments slide: it's easy when he's still thinking about how he brought Gerri into this mess. Roman's lips purse into a girlish pout, still not moving, though the blankness of his face is slowly turning up towards a smile.
"Yeah, see--you're not gonna do shit because it's gonna remind you of your pop-pop smacking up your mom. But you want to, huh?" The mom bit is a wild guess, but Raylan's said as much. Roman's giggle is light and airy. "Fucking amateur."
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