When Raylan finally was able to peel himself up off the bathroom floor and move without feeling like his stomach was crawling up his throat in a rebellious rage, the first thing he does is follow up on the message he found in his unread folder.
Roman had shot someone. Roman was in Zero. So that's where Raylan went - convenient that it wasn't far from deck 8 at all.
"Which onna these you in, Rome," he grogs, voice rough and worn but very clearly still Southern.
There's probably better things to say. 'Hey, Raylan, I'm here on the cell furthest to the left!' or 'follow my voice, I'm over here!,' or at least something even remotely helpful. Roman, right now, is decidedly unhelpful. Probably because he, like Raylan, is in the middle of being violently, violently ill.
The man of the hour is currently on his cot in zero and looking absolutely miserable. He's pale, his own voice just as rough and worn as Raylan's--he's fairly certain if it weren't for the southern twang he rips on so much he wouldn't have been able to recognize the Marshall's call at all--but he does manage to pull himself up. He's half-sitting, hunched over, and when he pushes the flop of his bangs away from his face it stays slicked back due to sweat. It's disgusting, but so is getting poisoned.
He's debating whether or not forcing himself to throw up like a bulimic model will help when Raylan finally comes into view. He presses his lips into a thin line instead, forcibly forgoing the up-chuck.
It might have basically been a grunt, but it's a grunt that Raylan could follow and the state he was in, it was the most his brain was asking for. The great thing about the South was that for all it's manners and rules, sometimes it all went out the window, especially in situations like there where their shoes were threatening to crawl up out of their mouths.
Raylan ambles over and leans into the bars, draping his arms through the slats of them and resting his head there too with a heavy breath as he wills the world to stop moving so unevenly around him. At least Roman looked just as bad as Raylan felt. Misery loves company.
The trip was less unpleasant than this, somehow.
"You kiddin' me? I'm ready to compete in Harlan's beauty competition. Gimme my sash and corsage.." He sighs heavily and looks worriedly over Roman, sat there like a walking sweat flop, thinking about what happened amid their tripping.
"How you doin'?" He wasn't talking physically. He wasn't sure Roman would know that but frankly, he could use an update on Roman's physical status too. Not dead, not in a Coma was a good goddamned start.
"Congratulations on your big win, beautiful." It's a feeble protest about the Harlan quip, and Roman grunts and shifts his weight so he can see Raylan better. The cowboy looks about as well as he does, which is... Well. Not a good thing.
"I feel like I'm wandering the Sahara desert with my dick out." That's the truth of it. The part he's willing to share, anyway, because there's more and he's not sure what the fuck he's going to do about it. This? This is remarkably easier. He winces, looking at how the other's leaning against the bars. He can see the sweat on the other's forehead all the way from here. Fuck. He's not the only one that got boned, definitely not as bad. He wonders if he's the only one that's actually killed someone, though.
"Hey, um.... Are you... Here to get me out, maybe?" Roman feels stupid for asking. Like he shouldn't ever bring it up, or he'll be scolded for it. Still, he's hopeful.
"Mm." It was almost a sound of amusement. Meant to be, anyway, even if it did crawl up out of his throat like a dying grunt.
The answer he got was about the answer that he expected. It might be the truth, but it wasn't the truth he was looking for. Tact? Right now, Raylan didn't even understand the word. Patience, however, was a different story. Sick or not, he still had that in leaps and bounds.
He lets the silence roll on for a minute, chewing over if he should push this while Roman's in a cage, but that last addition of thought alone made the decision for him. If it was someone else? Maybe. But Roman Roy, with what Raylan knew of his childhood? Fucking Boar on the floor. That goddamned dog crate when Roman was a kid. Even dogs shouldn't be kept in those fucking things, in Raylan's opinion. What a sick joke.
Then he sighs softly, heart twisting despite himself, face echoing the feeling.
"Course I am, Roman. C'mon." Pulling back a little, Raylan fishes out his Blackberry and swipes it across the pad, eliciting a little beep and letting him pull the bars open. "Let's get you into some better air, huh?"
Roman catches it, even in his state--that flash, that way Raylan's face twists up into something. He doesn't recognize it at first, his reaction delayed for a split second before his brain finally cycles through where he's seen it before.
He's just not sure if it's pity, empathy, or sympathy. And aren't they the same thing, anyway? It's enough that when Roman hoists himself up he shoots the other a look that's a cross between an eye-roll and a thank you: a pointed look, a tilt of his head sharply to the left, but a nod as he bows his head and makes his way through the door.
"Can the fresh air also include a complete overhaul of my head? Possibly severed so I don't have to deal with it?" There. That's easier. This is stable ground now--even if it's not physically since his head makes him grab at Raylan's elbow as he exits to steady himself. He groans.
"And since you're a warden and detective and get diplomatic immunity, can you find the bitch that did this and do her in?"
"Whoa there," Raylan murmurs, managing to stand firm at Roman's elbow grab, using the bars to their advantage. He'd already failed Roman on a basic level, not keeping him fucking safe from whatever the hell they drank, not keeping a tripping man from stealing his gun, not keeping Roman from killing John. He had to at least keep him upright, right?
"I can't promise anythin' on the first one; trust me, I woulda gotten that to ya before I got down here somehow." Raylan lets Roman go when the New Yorker is ready, but he stays within arms reach, just in case.
"Second ones already on my list. Haven't had time to look at the network yet, answer might be there. At this exact moment, it ain't a priority. I still gotta find James. We got our cabin back. Why don't you hang out there, get a shower, puke all over my sink or somethin'. Only thing to eat in there is an apple but I can see about rustlin' up another couple of those bare ass lunchboxes.."
He takes a deep breath, steadying himself with a hand as they hit the stairs, and groaning under his breath at the sound the door made when it opened.
"All of it." It's blunt and callous. Roman doesn't care. See how much he doesn't care by how flippant he is, completely unbothered by the fact that he'd just murdered someone he cares about. His lips pull into a half-snarl that quickly rolls into a full wince at the door opening.
Fuck zero, he thinks. Forget things like morals and feelings and conscience--all three things that are being dramatically tested here anyway, swirling in his head and adding to the buzz of a drug hangover--it's the door and how impersonal it is that'll make Roman never want to commit a single crime.
Making it to the stairs feels like he just ran a marathon, but he pushes through anyway. One foot in front of the other, numb nuts. Let's go.
"Thinking about food is going to make me puke," he assures, which is Roman for 'I'd love to stay, thank you for being so considerate.' "Did you get your gun back?"
"Puke first, you might find yourself hungry afterwards." What was that? Deep hangover experience kicking in and attempting to restore balance in their wrecked and shaky bodies.
"It's with someone who knows how to keep it safe. I'll get it later." He shakes his head and gestures them forwards like they'd stopped, even though they hadn't. One more short flight and they'd be in Deck 8 proper. From there, maybe 75 feet.
"You're my top priority in this situation, Rome. I'm not gonna let you rot in zero over some shit you didn't have any control over." It was a subtle start, said casually like Roman might miss it if he didn't listen with that stubborn ear.
Roman picks it up instantly, strangely grateful for the casual tone. It's easier like this, acting like it's just a hangover and not that the two of them had just been through a whirlwind of drug induced paranoia and violence. He clears his throat, making some sort of noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, both of them finally reaching Deck 8.
He does look at Raylan, though, pausing long enough to hold his gaze. His lips twist into a thin line, and for a brief moment he looks like he wants to say something before he presses on.
"Already learned my lesson with hard drugs from my brother. Didn't really need a reminder, you know?"
We wants to thank Raylan, wants to ask if he's okay, but he's not going to do that until they're somewhere private.
If anyone knew that feelings were fucking hard and complicated, it was Raylan Givens. He'd well learned with Roman already that you couldn't go at them head on if you wanted the man to take it seriously at all, which was different than how most other people worked. Annoying on its face, ultimately understandable, considering Roman was used to getting kicked in a similar way Raylan was.
"Bet if she'd used somethin' worth while and high grade, we woulda had a better time," he scoffs with a tense working of his jaw before he lifts it at the door.
"Door should be open-" And Raylan fully intends to follow him in half a pace. "If you want a shower, you're gonna hav'ta walk through the bedroom and I can't promise Pumpkin won't harass the hell out of you, but it's clean and no one's gonna bother you."
"You're a life saver," he says, and he actually means it.
Pumpkin. It's a stupid name for a cat. Cats are stupid anyway. What do they do? What purpose do they serve? They're annoying, and they spill stuff, and they shit in a box. Fuck cats. Fuck Pumpkin.
And yet he's never been happier to see one when he finally enters and immediately heads into the bedroom to inspect the bathroom.
Roman should probably make it to the shower, or...something. He's tugging at his rumpled, sweaty shirt (gross) and is already starting to undo the first few buttons, hesitating only for a brief moment before he turns back around to face the other.
"Are you... like... Are you good and shit? Dealing with everything that happenend?" It was Raylan's flask, after all. Raylan's charge. Raylan's boyfriend. He watches the other carefully.
Raylan couldn't detect any drips of sarcasm in Roman's words for once and if he had a clear head, he would have taken it with more note. But he tucked it away for afterwards, when his brain wasn't screaming and trying to jump on the next task on his very important list.
He follows in to lean on the door, mostly to make sure that Roman finds the bathroom without issue - It was spacious and modern with a stand alone clawbtub and decent shower, complete with a small in wall seat and a rainfall showerhead. Raylan might live like trash but when he gets an opportunity to class up a place, he will.
The question gets a little faint pinch of his eyebrows, clear surprise, but he drops his gaze with a deep, slightly uneven breath. Again, anyone else, his answer might be different, but Roman-
"No, Rome. I ain't. I'm not good and shit." He pushes off the doorframe with a shake of his head. "Not by a country fuckin' mile. Look, I-" He rubs at his forehead a little. "I gotta go find James. Once I do, we're comin' back here. Do me a favor and stay put so I know you're in a secure spot, huh?"
He turns around and starts making his uneven and pained way towards the door.
Roman has a lot of questions cutting through the bleak state of his hungover mind, the first one is absolutely when Raylan got his bathroom looking so chique. He can't think about it for too long, though--Raylan's saying something along the lines of 'I'll be back' and Roman shoots him what he hopes is a glare.
(it's not a glare. He just looks like he's somewhat constipated.)
"Get out," he urges, and half a second later his eyes widen and he bolts out of view and into the bathroom, covering his mouth.
They'll talk about this all later. When Flint's here and safe and Roman's not upchucking like a white girl on wristband night. That honestly the other's given him, the confession that the Marshal isn't okay, it's not something Roman's going to take lightly despite his current state of affairs.
He had to scoff a little at the 'get out' but there was no doubt as to what Roman was going to do. Better to leave him to it and let him puke in peace.
It was near thirty minutes later when Raylan returns, kicking open his door and walking in backwards. James's feet and the chair he was hoisting followed, as well as Cloud Strife. "I can figure out how to get him into the bed by myself," he's heard saying, "But I apperciate you helpin' me bring him down. Woulda been hell."
You sure? Cloud inevitably askes and Raylan reassures him again before saying his goodbyes and closing the door behind the man. He leans against the door once it's closed, palms flat and head rested against the wood before turning and sliding down it onto his ass. His head is taken into his hands and he focuses on breathing. Breathing and not allowing the tightness in his throat to crawl up and consume him to the point of tears.
"Everythin' is so fucked up," he whispers to himself, almost forgetting that Roman is in the apartment.
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.
Raylan Givens did not recognize what a panic attack was, in his own form, but Roman was still exactly right, in fact. Raylan's blood was already up, pulse unnaturally fast amid all his singular focus on not letting his brain get out of control but he forced his breaths to be even and deep.
Deep breaths helped any rough situation.
The 'Whoa, Hey' makes Raylan jump a little, hands spreading to look up and over at Roman as he comes closer before close it all down again to the way he was before. In with the good air, out with the bad; like he had done all his life. The kneejerk reaction was one of shame - people weren't meant to see him like this. He was supposed to be strong. Unmoveable. Unrelenting.
Roman and his action plan was actually very helpful. Yes, good. Something to do. Something that wasn't dealing with this feeling and the 500 pound elephant that was sitting on his chest. He nods and then nods again, hands dropping as he nods a third time before his head leans back against the door, unable to even huff half a laugh at Roman's comment about snapping in two.
"He does weigh half a ton when he's unconscious," Raylan breathes out with yet another nod as he pushes himself and his lean frame to his feet. It would never NOT look odd, a man of his size but up he got anyway.
No, he could do this. One thing at a time. Flint needed to be put to bed and Roman was willing to help.
"You uh-" He scratches at his forehead with his thumb before gesturing at James. "Don't know that the chair will fit through the door but we can probably like, carry him that far and then.." And then haul James into bed by his shoulders and feet.
But after they got him in, Raylan wasn't quite sure what he was going to do. He had to talk to Roman about what happened. Had to summon up the stones and whiskey if they even dared trust that.
Roman knows he'd hate it if people kept giving him a Look, the same one they gave to Kendall, the same one he accidentally flashed at Raylan: 'poor thing, he really can't handle the pressure of everything, look at him hit rock bottom, what a sad man.' He hates that he does, hopes desperately that Raylan doesn't notice. Luckily, the other seems pretty tunneled in to handling Flint. It worked.
It's weird, seeing an authority figure crumble. Weirder seeing that same person knit themselves back together with every single nod, every breath, even if it's only temporary. He's fairly certain it's probably not the first time.
"Uh-huh," Roman says after Raylan speaks, unobtrusive and quiet for once in his life as he follows the other's lead. He's not much help--not really, not practically, he hasn't been to a personal trainer in six months--but he hoists and lifts and doesn't even open his mouth to complain. Small tasks. Focused tasks. Keep Raylan busy.
He can't help but slide that look over at Raylan again, just once before they get Flint situated and Raylan has nothing left to occupy his hands with. Probably, Raylan should have some water, Roman realizes, but he's already putting his hands on his hips and clearing his throat.
"So, before you go out and do--whatever it is, put on your little cowboy spurs, I don't know--" he's nervous. Reaching a hand up to scratch at his face. "--can we, uh, can we like, talk...?"
Roman kept the lounge chair from scrapping across the floor at the very least and while keeping Flint's heels off the floor was just as good, it took them a few good minutes of solid effort and some very unattractive grunting, along with Raylan stepping up onto the bed to better haul James's weight. Getting the man down was just as ungraceful; Raylan's legs felt like rubber bands and it only took a wobble for him to fall, barely missing James and swearing sharply under his breath as he untangles himself.
"Don't fuckin' ask me if I'm okay," he grumbles before Roman can say anything.
But they did it, they got him on the bed, mostly properly aligned. Raylan stared for a short few seconds before he walked back into the living room, looking over his shoulder at Roman as he heads for the kitchen.
"That was my plan, matter of fact. Can't let you leave without one, for a myriad of reasons. Come sit down," he says with a gesture at one of the two barstools that were tucked under the island. What came next was undoubtedly expected - two glasses and his magically refilling bottle of whiskey.
"Have you talked to John yet?" No dance, no subtlety, and no open door left by Givens for questions about how he himself was doing. He had responsibilities and no matter what he was feeling, one of those massive feelings was worry over Roman.
Roman makes a short, high noise the moment Raylan asks about John--he'd been biting absently at his nails, watching the other with barely disguised worry as he makes his way to the bar stools. The thought of drinking sort of makes his stomach churn. On the other hand, hair of the dog. On the other-other hand, he's fairly certain this is another tactic to steer him away from actually asking about the brief mental breakdown that had just occurred.
He sits, hand still at his mouth, gently gnawing, words temporarily muffled.
"Can we do me later?" He asks, and finally stops biting his nails, instead looking pointedly at Raylan. "Can we do you? 'Cause I'm not so sure your usual lonesome-but-dutiful-marshal schpiel is gonna last for much longer. You're cracking like an egg." It's blunt and to the point, rough but firm. Roman's never been known for subtlety.
The whiskey was poured but even Mr. Drinks too much wasn't racing to sip it or throw it down his throat after sliding Roman's towards him. At best, it was something to busy his hands. At worst, it was more damage on damage to try and cope. If Roman didn't touch the whiskey at all, Raylan wouldn't argue or feel any kind of way about it. It wasn't an offer of actual hospitality, this time.
He didn't sit himself, hands propped wide on either side of him, the only thing that was really keeping him upright by the looks of it. Impulsively, he wishes he was wearing his hat; all the better to hide from you, My Dear.
Raylan stares into his untouched glass, trying to will his body to stop sweating and stand up on it's own. The thought crosses his mind that he can't ask Roman to talk to him, to trust him, if he wasn't going to do the same. That two way fuckin' street. The next breath Raylan drew was uneven and made his jaw work a little with its pull and release.
"I'm fine." The response was automatic, at this point. "Bein' scared outta my mind ain't somethin' I'm really used to, at this kinda level. I-" He rubs at his forehead with another deep breath, stitching himself back together with each one before his hand drops back to the counter with a shake of his head. "Nothin' like this was supposed to happen, you weren't supposed to get my gun, we weren't supposed to get fucked up, Flint wasn't suppos-" His breath caught in his throat again and with another shake of his head, he finally picks up and empties his glass, wincing with a bearing of his teeth and a half swallowed whimper.
"Ain't got time to be anythin' other than ready to work. Ready to do what I gotta."
Roman listens quietly, staring at his untouched drink as the other speaks--unravels, maybe is the better word for it--and he barely fights off the urge to start fidgeting with the glass as the other begins to open up.
Emotions in general make Roman uncomfortable. That's not news--and neither is the fact that Raylan suffers from the same thing Roman does. They're Men, capital M, and men don't show their hearts on their sleeve. Raylan's just better at hiding it than Roman on most days, which makes Raylan spilling his throughts like this just a little more integral to whatever weird friendship they have.
Exposing feelings and meeting them head on--comforting people--that's fairly uncharted territory to him, too. He can't exactly think back to kids, since this isn't Kendall or Shiv. This is someone else. It's a new beast, and someone he gives a shit about. Roman waits until Raylan's knocked back his drink to even begin.
"Seems like there's a lot of 'supposed to's in there," he says evenly, keeping his tone dry. A quick glance over to Raylan. "You were high off your tits on space ayahusca. All of us were. No one's got a manual for that. If you do, I'd love to see it."
If there was one thing that Raylan understood, it was the Capital M Umbrella that they both stood under and as much as Raylan did try to step out from under it, he more than fully understood how deeply ingrained 'Don't show feelings' were. For all the good and bad reasons.
Raylan was trying his best to minimize the amount of comfort that Roman might feel a need to express; he got how hard that was too and sympathy wasn't what Raylan was looking for. He managed a scant, bare smile at the last bit and shook his head a little.
"Yeah. No, I- I know. But that still doesn't offload my responsibility in it all, Rome. I'm not gonna-" He winces and gestures and sighs with a deep soul weary sound. "I can't just. Wash my hands and say 'well shit happens'. Not when James is.. And you havin'-"
You get it, right?
"We just gotta deal with it now. No sense in playin' in the shoulda, coulda, wouldas." Except he still totally would. Because what if he had noticed in time?
Roman's continuing to watch Raylan, resisting the urge to--to something. He's not sure what. Laugh, maybe, because the situation is so weird. Hit Raylan upside the head for being an idiot is a strong contender, too. He weighs both options, decides not to, and exhales.
"Shoulda, coulda woulda," he echoes, but it doesn't sit right with him. Raylan doesn't sit right with him, not right now.
Fuck it.
"I don't think it's the coolest idea to sweep how you're feeling under a rug, I'm just saying. Maybe the fact that you've put yourself on a weird pedestal is finally getting to you." It's one thing to admit there wasn't anything Raylan could do within the situation. It's another to dismiss having a breakdown in the corner of a cabin entirely.
Dark, almost black and worried eyes lift as Roman starts talking about what he thought. This all felt weird and backwards. Roman wasn't supposed to be picking him apart and seeing him so easily. It didn't help that Raylan didn't want anyone seeing him that close to the edge of breaking, much less when actual cracks start to form.
But Raylan didn't have anymore steam or strength to rebuild any walls right now, leaving him raw and open. So he stares for a long moment before dropping his gaze back into his empty cup. His heart wanted to refill it or do his best to drain the never ending bottle it came from until he was numb enough to not care about answering. His body and stomach begged him not to.
"I don't know what else to do," he admits in a quiet, small voice. "About any of it. I don't-" He has to stop and take a shallow breath. "I got no fuckin' clue how anyone else does either. I'd rather just.. Sink myself into a case or.. " Work. "But that's not possible here."
He felt lost and unsure and he hated all of it. He hated how he felt, he hated not having the assurances of his own self control.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Day after the poisonings/Murder
Roman had shot someone. Roman was in Zero. So that's where Raylan went - convenient that it wasn't far from deck 8 at all.
"Which onna these you in, Rome," he grogs, voice rough and worn but very clearly still Southern.
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There's probably better things to say. 'Hey, Raylan, I'm here on the cell furthest to the left!' or 'follow my voice, I'm over here!,' or at least something even remotely helpful. Roman, right now, is decidedly unhelpful. Probably because he, like Raylan, is in the middle of being violently, violently ill.
The man of the hour is currently on his cot in zero and looking absolutely miserable. He's pale, his own voice just as rough and worn as Raylan's--he's fairly certain if it weren't for the southern twang he rips on so much he wouldn't have been able to recognize the Marshall's call at all--but he does manage to pull himself up. He's half-sitting, hunched over, and when he pushes the flop of his bangs away from his face it stays slicked back due to sweat. It's disgusting, but so is getting poisoned.
He's debating whether or not forcing himself to throw up like a bulimic model will help when Raylan finally comes into view. He presses his lips into a thin line instead, forcibly forgoing the up-chuck.
God, this is the worst hangover of his life.
"You look terrible."
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Raylan ambles over and leans into the bars, draping his arms through the slats of them and resting his head there too with a heavy breath as he wills the world to stop moving so unevenly around him. At least Roman looked just as bad as Raylan felt. Misery loves company.
The trip was less unpleasant than this, somehow.
"You kiddin' me? I'm ready to compete in Harlan's beauty competition. Gimme my sash and corsage.." He sighs heavily and looks worriedly over Roman, sat there like a walking sweat flop, thinking about what happened amid their tripping.
"How you doin'?" He wasn't talking physically. He wasn't sure Roman would know that but frankly, he could use an update on Roman's physical status too. Not dead, not in a Coma was a good goddamned start.
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"I feel like I'm wandering the Sahara desert with my dick out." That's the truth of it. The part he's willing to share, anyway, because there's more and he's not sure what the fuck he's going to do about it. This? This is remarkably easier. He winces, looking at how the other's leaning against the bars. He can see the sweat on the other's forehead all the way from here. Fuck. He's not the only one that got boned, definitely not as bad. He wonders if he's the only one that's actually killed someone, though.
"Hey, um.... Are you... Here to get me out, maybe?" Roman feels stupid for asking. Like he shouldn't ever bring it up, or he'll be scolded for it. Still, he's hopeful.
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The answer he got was about the answer that he expected. It might be the truth, but it wasn't the truth he was looking for. Tact? Right now, Raylan didn't even understand the word. Patience, however, was a different story. Sick or not, he still had that in leaps and bounds.
He lets the silence roll on for a minute, chewing over if he should push this while Roman's in a cage, but that last addition of thought alone made the decision for him. If it was someone else? Maybe. But Roman Roy, with what Raylan knew of his childhood? Fucking Boar on the floor. That goddamned dog crate when Roman was a kid. Even dogs shouldn't be kept in those fucking things, in Raylan's opinion. What a sick joke.
Then he sighs softly, heart twisting despite himself, face echoing the feeling.
"Course I am, Roman. C'mon." Pulling back a little, Raylan fishes out his Blackberry and swipes it across the pad, eliciting a little beep and letting him pull the bars open. "Let's get you into some better air, huh?"
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He's just not sure if it's pity, empathy, or sympathy. And aren't they the same thing, anyway? It's enough that when Roman hoists himself up he shoots the other a look that's a cross between an eye-roll and a thank you: a pointed look, a tilt of his head sharply to the left, but a nod as he bows his head and makes his way through the door.
"Can the fresh air also include a complete overhaul of my head? Possibly severed so I don't have to deal with it?" There. That's easier. This is stable ground now--even if it's not physically since his head makes him grab at Raylan's elbow as he exits to steady himself. He groans.
"And since you're a warden and detective and get diplomatic immunity, can you find the bitch that did this and do her in?"
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"I can't promise anythin' on the first one; trust me, I woulda gotten that to ya before I got down here somehow." Raylan lets Roman go when the New Yorker is ready, but he stays within arms reach, just in case.
"Second ones already on my list. Haven't had time to look at the network yet, answer might be there. At this exact moment, it ain't a priority. I still gotta find James. We got our cabin back. Why don't you hang out there, get a shower, puke all over my sink or somethin'. Only thing to eat in there is an apple but I can see about rustlin' up another couple of those bare ass lunchboxes.."
He takes a deep breath, steadying himself with a hand as they hit the stairs, and groaning under his breath at the sound the door made when it opened.
"How much do you remember?"
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Fuck zero, he thinks. Forget things like morals and feelings and conscience--all three things that are being dramatically tested here anyway, swirling in his head and adding to the buzz of a drug hangover--it's the door and how impersonal it is that'll make Roman never want to commit a single crime.
Making it to the stairs feels like he just ran a marathon, but he pushes through anyway. One foot in front of the other, numb nuts. Let's go.
"Thinking about food is going to make me puke," he assures, which is Roman for 'I'd love to stay, thank you for being so considerate.' "Did you get your gun back?"
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"It's with someone who knows how to keep it safe. I'll get it later." He shakes his head and gestures them forwards like they'd stopped, even though they hadn't. One more short flight and they'd be in Deck 8 proper. From there, maybe 75 feet.
"You're my top priority in this situation, Rome. I'm not gonna let you rot in zero over some shit you didn't have any control over." It was a subtle start, said casually like Roman might miss it if he didn't listen with that stubborn ear.
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He does look at Raylan, though, pausing long enough to hold his gaze. His lips twist into a thin line, and for a brief moment he looks like he wants to say something before he presses on.
"Already learned my lesson with hard drugs from my brother. Didn't really need a reminder, you know?"
We wants to thank Raylan, wants to ask if he's okay, but he's not going to do that until they're somewhere private.
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"Bet if she'd used somethin' worth while and high grade, we woulda had a better time," he scoffs with a tense working of his jaw before he lifts it at the door.
"Door should be open-" And Raylan fully intends to follow him in half a pace. "If you want a shower, you're gonna hav'ta walk through the bedroom and I can't promise Pumpkin won't harass the hell out of you, but it's clean and no one's gonna bother you."
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Pumpkin. It's a stupid name for a cat. Cats are stupid anyway. What do they do? What purpose do they serve? They're annoying, and they spill stuff, and they shit in a box. Fuck cats. Fuck Pumpkin.
And yet he's never been happier to see one when he finally enters and immediately heads into the bedroom to inspect the bathroom.
Roman should probably make it to the shower, or...something. He's tugging at his rumpled, sweaty shirt (gross) and is already starting to undo the first few buttons, hesitating only for a brief moment before he turns back around to face the other.
"Are you... like... Are you good and shit? Dealing with everything that happenend?" It was Raylan's flask, after all. Raylan's charge. Raylan's boyfriend. He watches the other carefully.
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He follows in to lean on the door, mostly to make sure that Roman finds the bathroom without issue - It was spacious and modern with a stand alone clawbtub and decent shower, complete with a small in wall seat and a rainfall showerhead. Raylan might live like trash but when he gets an opportunity to class up a place, he will.
The question gets a little faint pinch of his eyebrows, clear surprise, but he drops his gaze with a deep, slightly uneven breath. Again, anyone else, his answer might be different, but Roman-
"No, Rome. I ain't. I'm not good and shit." He pushes off the doorframe with a shake of his head. "Not by a country fuckin' mile. Look, I-" He rubs at his forehead a little. "I gotta go find James. Once I do, we're comin' back here. Do me a favor and stay put so I know you're in a secure spot, huh?"
He turns around and starts making his uneven and pained way towards the door.
"I'll be back as soon as I can."
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(it's not a glare. He just looks like he's somewhat constipated.)
"Get out," he urges, and half a second later his eyes widen and he bolts out of view and into the bathroom, covering his mouth.
They'll talk about this all later. When Flint's here and safe and Roman's not upchucking like a white girl on wristband night. That honestly the other's given him, the confession that the Marshal isn't okay, it's not something Roman's going to take lightly despite his current state of affairs.
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It was near thirty minutes later when Raylan returns, kicking open his door and walking in backwards. James's feet and the chair he was hoisting followed, as well as Cloud Strife. "I can figure out how to get him into the bed by myself," he's heard saying, "But I apperciate you helpin' me bring him down. Woulda been hell."
You sure? Cloud inevitably askes and Raylan reassures him again before saying his goodbyes and closing the door behind the man. He leans against the door once it's closed, palms flat and head rested against the wood before turning and sliding down it onto his ass. His head is taken into his hands and he focuses on breathing. Breathing and not allowing the tightness in his throat to crawl up and consume him to the point of tears.
"Everythin' is so fucked up," he whispers to himself, almost forgetting that Roman is in the apartment.
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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.
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Deep breaths helped any rough situation.
The 'Whoa, Hey' makes Raylan jump a little, hands spreading to look up and over at Roman as he comes closer before close it all down again to the way he was before. In with the good air, out with the bad; like he had done all his life. The kneejerk reaction was one of shame - people weren't meant to see him like this. He was supposed to be strong. Unmoveable. Unrelenting.
Roman and his action plan was actually very helpful. Yes, good. Something to do. Something that wasn't dealing with this feeling and the 500 pound elephant that was sitting on his chest. He nods and then nods again, hands dropping as he nods a third time before his head leans back against the door, unable to even huff half a laugh at Roman's comment about snapping in two.
"He does weigh half a ton when he's unconscious," Raylan breathes out with yet another nod as he pushes himself and his lean frame to his feet. It would never NOT look odd, a man of his size but up he got anyway.
No, he could do this. One thing at a time. Flint needed to be put to bed and Roman was willing to help.
"You uh-" He scratches at his forehead with his thumb before gesturing at James. "Don't know that the chair will fit through the door but we can probably like, carry him that far and then.." And then haul James into bed by his shoulders and feet.
But after they got him in, Raylan wasn't quite sure what he was going to do. He had to talk to Roman about what happened. Had to summon up the stones and whiskey if they even dared trust that.
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It's weird, seeing an authority figure crumble. Weirder seeing that same person knit themselves back together with every single nod, every breath, even if it's only temporary. He's fairly certain it's probably not the first time.
"Uh-huh," Roman says after Raylan speaks, unobtrusive and quiet for once in his life as he follows the other's lead. He's not much help--not really, not practically, he hasn't been to a personal trainer in six months--but he hoists and lifts and doesn't even open his mouth to complain. Small tasks. Focused tasks. Keep Raylan busy.
He can't help but slide that look over at Raylan again, just once before they get Flint situated and Raylan has nothing left to occupy his hands with. Probably, Raylan should have some water, Roman realizes, but he's already putting his hands on his hips and clearing his throat.
"So, before you go out and do--whatever it is, put on your little cowboy spurs, I don't know--" he's nervous. Reaching a hand up to scratch at his face. "--can we, uh, can we like, talk...?"
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"Don't fuckin' ask me if I'm okay," he grumbles before Roman can say anything.
But they did it, they got him on the bed, mostly properly aligned. Raylan stared for a short few seconds before he walked back into the living room, looking over his shoulder at Roman as he heads for the kitchen.
"That was my plan, matter of fact. Can't let you leave without one, for a myriad of reasons. Come sit down," he says with a gesture at one of the two barstools that were tucked under the island. What came next was undoubtedly expected - two glasses and his magically refilling bottle of whiskey.
"Have you talked to John yet?" No dance, no subtlety, and no open door left by Givens for questions about how he himself was doing. He had responsibilities and no matter what he was feeling, one of those massive feelings was worry over Roman.
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He sits, hand still at his mouth, gently gnawing, words temporarily muffled.
"Can we do me later?" He asks, and finally stops biting his nails, instead looking pointedly at Raylan. "Can we do you? 'Cause I'm not so sure your usual lonesome-but-dutiful-marshal schpiel is gonna last for much longer. You're cracking like an egg." It's blunt and to the point, rough but firm. Roman's never been known for subtlety.
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He didn't sit himself, hands propped wide on either side of him, the only thing that was really keeping him upright by the looks of it. Impulsively, he wishes he was wearing his hat; all the better to hide from you, My Dear.
Raylan stares into his untouched glass, trying to will his body to stop sweating and stand up on it's own. The thought crosses his mind that he can't ask Roman to talk to him, to trust him, if he wasn't going to do the same. That two way fuckin' street. The next breath Raylan drew was uneven and made his jaw work a little with its pull and release.
"I'm fine." The response was automatic, at this point. "Bein' scared outta my mind ain't somethin' I'm really used to, at this kinda level. I-" He rubs at his forehead with another deep breath, stitching himself back together with each one before his hand drops back to the counter with a shake of his head. "Nothin' like this was supposed to happen, you weren't supposed to get my gun, we weren't supposed to get fucked up, Flint wasn't suppos-" His breath caught in his throat again and with another shake of his head, he finally picks up and empties his glass, wincing with a bearing of his teeth and a half swallowed whimper.
"Ain't got time to be anythin' other than ready to work. Ready to do what I gotta."
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Emotions in general make Roman uncomfortable. That's not news--and neither is the fact that Raylan suffers from the same thing Roman does. They're Men, capital M, and men don't show their hearts on their sleeve. Raylan's just better at hiding it than Roman on most days, which makes Raylan spilling his throughts like this just a little more integral to whatever weird friendship they have.
Exposing feelings and meeting them head on--comforting people--that's fairly uncharted territory to him, too. He can't exactly think back to kids, since this isn't Kendall or Shiv. This is someone else. It's a new beast, and someone he gives a shit about. Roman waits until Raylan's knocked back his drink to even begin.
"Seems like there's a lot of 'supposed to's in there," he says evenly, keeping his tone dry. A quick glance over to Raylan. "You were high off your tits on space ayahusca. All of us were. No one's got a manual for that. If you do, I'd love to see it."
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Raylan was trying his best to minimize the amount of comfort that Roman might feel a need to express; he got how hard that was too and sympathy wasn't what Raylan was looking for. He managed a scant, bare smile at the last bit and shook his head a little.
"Yeah. No, I- I know. But that still doesn't offload my responsibility in it all, Rome. I'm not gonna-" He winces and gestures and sighs with a deep soul weary sound. "I can't just. Wash my hands and say 'well shit happens'. Not when James is.. And you havin'-"
You get it, right?
"We just gotta deal with it now. No sense in playin' in the shoulda, coulda, wouldas." Except he still totally would. Because what if he had noticed in time?
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"Shoulda, coulda woulda," he echoes, but it doesn't sit right with him. Raylan doesn't sit right with him, not right now.
Fuck it.
"I don't think it's the coolest idea to sweep how you're feeling under a rug, I'm just saying. Maybe the fact that you've put yourself on a weird pedestal is finally getting to you." It's one thing to admit there wasn't anything Raylan could do within the situation. It's another to dismiss having a breakdown in the corner of a cabin entirely.
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But Raylan didn't have anymore steam or strength to rebuild any walls right now, leaving him raw and open. So he stares for a long moment before dropping his gaze back into his empty cup. His heart wanted to refill it or do his best to drain the never ending bottle it came from until he was numb enough to not care about answering. His body and stomach begged him not to.
"I don't know what else to do," he admits in a quiet, small voice. "About any of it. I don't-" He has to stop and take a shallow breath. "I got no fuckin' clue how anyone else does either. I'd rather just.. Sink myself into a case or.. " Work. "But that's not possible here."
He felt lost and unsure and he hated all of it. He hated how he felt, he hated not having the assurances of his own self control.
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