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.
"Of course. It's 'cause you're taking it too seriously." Roman answers Raylan almost immediately, twisting his lips into a half-pout. He pauses for a few seconds, and gently slides his own drink over.
He's fully aware he's enabling Raylan--he's noticed the amount the other drinks, he can pick up on that shit pretty easily courtesy of his brother--but it's not like Raylan is also kicking back copious amounts of meth and coke, so, Roman figures he may as well pick his battles.
"I'm not saying it doesn't matter or--you know--any of that shit. But you're on a completely different game board than you were before. This shit is like playing chutes and ladders and suddenly being told you're now playing monopoly, except you have to have eyes in the back of your head and one hand tied behind your back."
Hmm. This isn't going well, he thinks. Roman sighs and tries again, bunching his body up to curl protectively around himself.
"You're tacking your self worth onto things you can't control. And you're angry, like, all of the time, and you don't know what the fuck to do about it. 'Swhy you and Flint get along so well, only difference is that he's not pretending he's something else."
Edited (shut up i know how to spell .... sweats) 2022-10-30 17:45 (UTC)
How could he not take it seriously. The two people he'd promised to protect had gotten fucked in one way or another and it was, in part, his fault. There was no talking that weight off his shoulders; it would sit low in his stomach and gnaw at him from the inside out. Because what if - what if James never wakes back up, what if Roman spirals from having killed a man that cares about him. Too many what ifs.
He's distracted from those thoughts by Roman's glass sliding over and there's only a shallow prick of shame at how quickly he collects it, like a security blanket that wasn't ever going to fail him. If he could just numb things down.
"He doesn't have to pretend." Raylan did, for a whole host of reasons he didn't really want to unpack, no matter how much they probably needed airing. His jaw works for a second before he lifts the glass and takes a reasonable sip, teeth bared briefly as he swallows it down and sighs.
"Your analogy ain't far off from the truth though," he continues with a faint bob of his head, eyes still stuck in his new glass of amber courage. "But he's allowed to be angry about shit. He's got a lot to be angry about. Half of the reason he's here and it ain't the same reason I am. That I know that bein' angry doesn't help anythin' but-"
Where do you put impotent rage? Raylan shrugs one shoulder.
"Puttin' it aside is the best I can do. Efforts bein' made and all. Only thing that I ask of both him and you and I better be able to do it myself or the Admiral fucked up in lettin' me on this ship in the first place."
It wasn't Healthy, but it was Something.
"You're not that bad at this bein' objective shit, you know that?"
"Oh, shut up," Roman rolls his eyes, unable to take the compliment. "I actually give a shit, that's all this is. And it's not like it's entirely altruistic. If you go off the deep end, I have to get another warden and I don't have time to learn someone else's neurosis in order to manipulate them."
He hesitates next, face scrunching up. Raylan needs some sort of outlet. Something to focus on. Roman's got that same issue, too. If he can just remember what Gerri told him...
"Have you tried masturbating every time you're stressed?" Not quite. "Works for me. Finding something not... this. Something ro focus your pretty little cowboy head on that has nothing to do with other people."
That, at least, made Raylan crack something of a smile, even if it didn't hang around long. "Oh uhhuh. Because that's why you give a shit. Now who's pretendin'."
He covers all that with another sip of the whiskey before finally looking up, eyebrows lifting unevenly at the suggestion.
"If I did that, I'd go blind and have arthritis in my wrists. My practical options right now is gettin' drunk enough to not think straight and once I don't feel like my body is going to commit a revolution against me, it's.. runnin' and the battin' cages. Or just the hottest fuckin' bath that my body can withstand without gettin' burned." He studies Roman for a long moment.
"Now that we've gotten that shit outta the way, you wanna tell me about John?"
Roman's laugh is more of a chuckle this time, face filling into a proper smile, shaking his head.
"Oh no no no. I said find something that doesn't have to do with me, not pivot the conversation to talk about about my bullshit. Nice try, though." He's already pushing up from his seat, shaking his head, running a hand through his hair and then nudging Raylan's shoulder.
"C'mon. Let's go. We can unlock my neurosis tomorrow or something." Apparently, Roman has some sort of plan.
He wasn't surprised, but he didn't hold it against Roman. They'd had a weird ass fucking day that wasn't really getting better. Even if Raylan did feel a little more settled than when they first broke into this particular conversation.
"Watch out, I'll hold you to that. But sure, okay. Lead the way and maybe tell me where we're goin'?"
He was already following Roman as he moved, so it was progress, in its own way.
"Batting cages, you All American Fucko. If you're well enough to drink, you're well enough to get your ass creamed by a rich kid. I play baseball every year, you know."
He's fully expecting to lose. He's also assuming it's the enclosure that'll have the batting cages. He's also also completely dodging the question about John and simultaneously trying desperately to make sure Raylan starts feeling a little like himself.
Raylan scoffs and turns around to stride back to the counter. "If we're doin' that, the bottle is comin' with us until someone has to drag my ass back up out of there."
Bottle in hand, he could stride more confidently towards the door with a long glance towards the bedroom where James was laid out.
"You think he'll be okay?" His quips about Roman playing ball could wait until they were out of the door; it'd make a good conversation to get them up to the enclosure. If Raylan were honest, he was a little lifted by Roman's suggest, by the fact that Roman would come bat with him at all in the first place.
"James Flint?" Roman's brows scrunch, nose wrinkling.
"Yeah, of course he'll be fine. He's a fucking beast. You really wanna insult the guy by assuming a little bit of an upset tummy is what's gonna do him in? The guy can probably take a fucking canon ball to the face. Come on."
It's easier to speak with confidence if you're used to lying.
He knew that Roman didn't Know. Not for sure. But frankly, Raylan couldn't take more worry; he knew that staying here right now would hit him hard and send him spiraling back down into sucking hole of self doubt and self abuse. At the same time, he felt guilty for leaving at all. What if, what if, what if.
But James was a beast. That much was true, regardless of anything else.
Finally, Raylan does follow, closing the door behind him and taking another deep breath before he's ready to go.
"So what's that mean, 'you play baseball every year'? What's that about."
"I mean I play baseball every year. Sometimes more." Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. He continues on, making sure Raylan's finally following him and actually stepping in line with him, patching whatever pace Raylan wants.
"Dad's birthday thing. We fly to Long Island, set up on the lawn, go to town." Correction: the hired help does all of that, and the Roys just fuck around.
"It's a great time. I kick Shiv's ass at it. We've got a scoreboard and everything."
Raylan studied Roman, looking for the lie of it and kindly shortening his pace a little so the man didn't have to run to keep up. He wasn't sure he could handle his own pace right now though, if he were being total honest.
"Once you get done makin' fun of Lexington's battin' cages, hope you know you're gonna havta back all this up. Can't say I ain't lookin' forward to it."
Which was saying something, considering what they were currently walking away from.
"I played in highschool. Goin' to the battin' cages is what I did at home when I was stuck on somethin' or.. frustrated or just.. needed to blow off some steam without ruinin' my face for three days.." He didn't sound overly proud about it.
Roman doesn't have a chance in hell. He knows this. Raylan knows this. It's an easy and open secret--and an easy and open secret like that is much better than mental breakdowns and comatose partners.
"Of course you're a pick-a-fight guy. Really leaning towards the stereotypes about you guys, Raylan, I gotta say."
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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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He's fully aware he's enabling Raylan--he's noticed the amount the other drinks, he can pick up on that shit pretty easily courtesy of his brother--but it's not like Raylan is also kicking back copious amounts of meth and coke, so, Roman figures he may as well pick his battles.
"I'm not saying it doesn't matter or--you know--any of that shit. But you're on a completely different game board than you were before. This shit is like playing chutes and ladders and suddenly being told you're now playing monopoly, except you have to have eyes in the back of your head and one hand tied behind your back."
Hmm. This isn't going well, he thinks. Roman sighs and tries again, bunching his body up to curl protectively around himself.
"You're tacking your self worth onto things you can't control. And you're angry, like, all of the time, and you don't know what the fuck to do about it. 'Swhy you and Flint get along so well, only difference is that he's not pretending he's something else."
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He's distracted from those thoughts by Roman's glass sliding over and there's only a shallow prick of shame at how quickly he collects it, like a security blanket that wasn't ever going to fail him. If he could just numb things down.
"He doesn't have to pretend." Raylan did, for a whole host of reasons he didn't really want to unpack, no matter how much they probably needed airing. His jaw works for a second before he lifts the glass and takes a reasonable sip, teeth bared briefly as he swallows it down and sighs.
"Your analogy ain't far off from the truth though," he continues with a faint bob of his head, eyes still stuck in his new glass of amber courage. "But he's allowed to be angry about shit. He's got a lot to be angry about. Half of the reason he's here and it ain't the same reason I am. That I know that bein' angry doesn't help anythin' but-"
Where do you put impotent rage? Raylan shrugs one shoulder.
"Puttin' it aside is the best I can do. Efforts bein' made and all. Only thing that I ask of both him and you and I better be able to do it myself or the Admiral fucked up in lettin' me on this ship in the first place."
It wasn't Healthy, but it was Something.
"You're not that bad at this bein' objective shit, you know that?"
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He hesitates next, face scrunching up. Raylan needs some sort of outlet. Something to focus on. Roman's got that same issue, too. If he can just remember what Gerri told him...
"Have you tried masturbating every time you're stressed?" Not quite. "Works for me. Finding something not... this. Something ro focus your pretty little cowboy head on that has nothing to do with other people."
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He covers all that with another sip of the whiskey before finally looking up, eyebrows lifting unevenly at the suggestion.
"If I did that, I'd go blind and have arthritis in my wrists. My practical options right now is gettin' drunk enough to not think straight and once I don't feel like my body is going to commit a revolution against me, it's.. runnin' and the battin' cages. Or just the hottest fuckin' bath that my body can withstand without gettin' burned." He studies Roman for a long moment.
"Now that we've gotten that shit outta the way, you wanna tell me about John?"
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"Oh no no no. I said find something that doesn't have to do with me, not pivot the conversation to talk about about my bullshit. Nice try, though." He's already pushing up from his seat, shaking his head, running a hand through his hair and then nudging Raylan's shoulder.
"C'mon. Let's go. We can unlock my neurosis tomorrow or something." Apparently, Roman has some sort of plan.
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"Watch out, I'll hold you to that. But sure, okay. Lead the way and maybe tell me where we're goin'?"
He was already following Roman as he moved, so it was progress, in its own way.
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He's fully expecting to lose. He's also assuming it's the enclosure that'll have the batting cages. He's also also completely dodging the question about John and simultaneously trying desperately to make sure Raylan starts feeling a little like himself.
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Bottle in hand, he could stride more confidently towards the door with a long glance towards the bedroom where James was laid out.
"You think he'll be okay?" His quips about Roman playing ball could wait until they were out of the door; it'd make a good conversation to get them up to the enclosure. If Raylan were honest, he was a little lifted by Roman's suggest, by the fact that Roman would come bat with him at all in the first place.
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"Yeah, of course he'll be fine. He's a fucking beast. You really wanna insult the guy by assuming a little bit of an upset tummy is what's gonna do him in? The guy can probably take a fucking canon ball to the face. Come on."
It's easier to speak with confidence if you're used to lying.
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But James was a beast. That much was true, regardless of anything else.
Finally, Raylan does follow, closing the door behind him and taking another deep breath before he's ready to go.
"So what's that mean, 'you play baseball every year'? What's that about."
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"Dad's birthday thing. We fly to Long Island, set up on the lawn, go to town." Correction: the hired help does all of that, and the Roys just fuck around.
"It's a great time. I kick Shiv's ass at it. We've got a scoreboard and everything."
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"Once you get done makin' fun of Lexington's battin' cages, hope you know you're gonna havta back all this up. Can't say I ain't lookin' forward to it."
Which was saying something, considering what they were currently walking away from.
"I played in highschool. Goin' to the battin' cages is what I did at home when I was stuck on somethin' or.. frustrated or just.. needed to blow off some steam without ruinin' my face for three days.." He didn't sound overly proud about it.
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"Of course you're a pick-a-fight guy. Really leaning towards the stereotypes about you guys, Raylan, I gotta say."
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