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."
"Well, whatever works. Legally, you can carry a bat in with you, you know. So long as you got a ball in the trunk.." He'd used that rule to his favor a few times in his life.
They reach the enclosure and Raylan taps them in with his Blackberry, calling up something appropriately titled 'Lexington Cages' before heading down the stairs.
"Besides, sometimes you gotta pick the fight before they do so no one is tryin' to kick in your face with their clets.. Ended up givin' a guy a limp for life in highschool over shit like that."
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no subject
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."
no subject
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?
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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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They reach the enclosure and Raylan taps them in with his Blackberry, calling up something appropriately titled 'Lexington Cages' before heading down the stairs.
"Besides, sometimes you gotta pick the fight before they do so no one is tryin' to kick in your face with their clets.. Ended up givin' a guy a limp for life in highschool over shit like that."