villagelogs | 037-040 » the reason for time

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037-040 » the reason for time

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central Mathias
WHEN: Day 037-040
WHAT: The dead return and the living wake to changes within Mathias Township.
WARNINGS: Some explicit sexual content in threads. (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Kammarheit "Sleep after Toyle, Port after Stormie Seas"

DAY 037
THE DEAD RETURN
“The only reason for time is so that everything
doesn't happen at once.” —Albert Einstein
The dead return to Mathias forever changed by their experiences. Waking along the beach, near the tree line, or among the graves, they will find that their bodies are not as they remember them. They are whole again and not torn to shreds by the shadow creatures that cannot be described, but they are also not as they were before the Hunt. These residents will find, so strangely, that their bodies are in the physical state in which they first arrived in Mathias — any injuries or recovery they have made since their initial arrival no longer exists, as if their time in Mathias has simply been a horrible nightmare. Except they all now carry a last reminder of the Hunt with them: spiderweb-thin healed scars marking their injuries from the Hunt. Those who were injured by fire in the other realm also carry those burns with them.

The dead are not the only things that have returned to Mathias. Inexplicably, fall is back, with the temperature finally reaching above freezing and snow falling from trees to reveal beautiful autumnal colors. As the sun rises higher in the lightly cloudy sky and the day warms, the snow begins rapidly melting, puddles growing in the slowly revealed grass and little rivers forming in the streets. And with that snow comes the frozen blood from the deaths to the Hunt, tinting the street river on Phillips Drive a sickening shade of red.

Another oddity that residents will notice: houses with broken windows from the encounter with the fog on Day 015 have now been completely repaired, though any boards put in place are still there somehow. A small bit of good news, at least? And truly, how kind of Mathias to clean up its own mess.

Finally, alcohol is back. Enjoy in moderation, friends, for more will not be arriving the following morning.

THE NEW ARRIVALS
The newest arrivals to Mathias will wake up on the beach near The Grey Gull. It's quite chilly out with their wet clothes, but surely there's something to help warm them inside the restaurant. Indeed, their timing is perfect, for alcohol has finally returned to Mathias Township — and not just the cowboys' homemade moonshine.

DAY 038-039
THE CHANGE OF SEASON
The continued warm weather proves that the unseasonable shift of the previous day was not merely a fluke. Once again, the sun rises and brings with it a temperature that feels almost spring-like, save for the fact that each day there seem to be more and more leaves on the trees in hues of red and orange. For those who have been in Mathias for some time, this new type of weird may be almost normal at this point, but newer arrivals will likely find it quite odd.

The gently trickling river running along Phillips Drive is still somewhat pink in color as the snow continues to melt and refreeze each night. By Day 040, the bloody snow will finally be gone completely, though the relief will be... short-lived.

DAY 040
THE BLINDING WHITE
In the late morning of Day 040, when the sun is visible through patchy greyish clouds, the fog sweeps into town like a like a tidal wave. It moves in quickly and without warning, not from the waterfront but the forest, cascading through every street in a thick wave of white. Rather than a soft blanket enveloping the town, it is a heavy weight pressing down, blotting out the sky in a way that almost feels suffocating, for none can see further than their outstretch hand.

Those outside when it rolls in are left wandering blind, stumbling toward shelter as you're unable to even see your feet beneath you, let alone any obstacles in your path. Perhaps you call out for help, hoping for another voice to guide you toward shelter or simply another living soul. Or perhaps you were lucky enough to already be inside when the fog descended, quickly closing doors and windows to keep it from creeping in.

Unlike the last time the fog swept into the town, residents who encounter it are not immediately killed. Instead, they are simply disoriented, possibly losing their sense of time and place, and it is only after prolonged exposure that they will begin to feel off. A sense of being ill will cling to them if they are in the fog for too long, including dizziness, lightheadedness, or nausea — the time it takes to manifest varies from person to person, as does the duration it will last after leaving the fog.

By nightfall, the fog still has not dissipated.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— THE WEATHER conditions are fairly typical for late fall: chilly "sweater weather" days and nights that can dip just below freezing. You don't want to be outside without a coat, but it won't kill anyone if they bundle up. Probably.

— THE FOG remains blocking the paths in the forest beginning a few dozen yards past the treeline, urging residents to stay huddled within the town proper, and it also now blocks the western section of town, beginning just past Hill Lane, before where residents know the chasm in the earth to be between Hill and Stine Road. Venturing into the fog blocking these areas is ill-advised.

— DISAPPEARANCES continue. Castiel and Sam Winchester have vanished, and Dean Winchester has not returned with the others after his death during the Hunt.

— THE GRAVEYARD has now seen around a dozen burials, both below and above ground. With the weather warming, though, something may need to be done about the handful of temporary graves aboveground...

— ALCOHOL has returned to Mathias! A small stock of beer and cheap wine may be found at the General Store, and some homes may have a small store of alcohol in the fridge or pantry. The Grey Gull has also been restocked with its lower-end offerings of a variety of alcohol types. Alcohol does not replenish in the same way as food.

— THE GREY GULL has been cleaned up and stocked with moonshine. Along with the newly restocked usual offerings, the place almost seems like an actual bar again.

— THE GENERAL STORE is in a bit of a state following the brutal slaughter of two residents during the Hunt. Cleanup on aisle 3, anyone?

OOC NOTES

— FOOD is now being mysteriously restocked as per usual, including inside homes and at the General Store. Alcohol is not being restocked. Use those rationing skills, friends.

— REWARD REDEPEMPTION is back and will soon have a new option for anyone looking to spend big AP and learn a bit more of the lore of the town.

— MADNESSES due to the Hunt have been earned by Klaus Hargreeves, Ellie, and Malcolm Bright and may now be claimed. Players may also claim additional sanity loss from the aftermath of the Hunt; only losses from the Hunt itself have been deducted from totals thus far.

— SANITY REGAIN is now available! Players will submit a form with some details of the progress their character has made and the mod will review and decide on the numbers of points that will be regained.

— MOD STATUS The usual reminder that it's mostly just Amy steering this ship for now, so things will probably be pretty slow for a while. Apologies in advance, and please don't feel shy about pinging me if you're stuck waiting for something.

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Raylan huffed a breath. "Wouldn't be the first one I've broken then."

There was plenty of time in the hours of night for both tokens of comfort and his own wound licking. It was his job, his role in life as much as it was Doc's here. Stoic unmoving support that didn't leave a lot of time for him to deal with his own shit. Not thinking about things had long been a mental skill that Raylan was perfecting. Employing it here, now, over his own trauma and death.. It wasn't a terrible way to cope, he thought.

Since a touch was all he needed, ~~not all he wanted, but he could survive~~ Raylan pulled his hand back and bobbed his head. Maybe it was selfish. They weren't saints, nor did they have an endless supply of patience and emotional tools to shoulder everything without a few slips. "Could have. But didn't. He's alright. Takin' a night or two after all this is.. It's okay. Expected."

Raylan looked down at the man next to him. "I know it might sound a little weird, but I'm sorta attached to you both." Sorta was an understatement, but that was neither here nor there. He had told Doc he was going to be there. He would be, as much as Mathis allowed. They weren't going to be okay. Who would be. "Hows about we take a few days from scarin' the livin' shit outta each other, huh? Just for a trade up."

Raylan's support is something that Doc more easily accepts. Not because he doesn't see anyone else as equals or think them superior. He just doesn't feel like he's taking anything away from Raylan the same way he would be from others, even if they are both lying to themselves and he might be drawing upon an already dried up creek.

Doc tsks and reaches behind his head with his free hand, groping around where he cannot see grabbing Raylan's knee and thigh as he awkwardly professes his love. He could simply say he gave a shit and leave it at that without making it weird.

"I would strike that deal with you, but are you getting sentimental on me now, old man? You best be handing over that bottle." He turns his hand over and flexes it expectantly. "Come on now. Hand it over. Your drinking privilege has been revoked."

They dance in and out of seriousness, playfulness, being upset, chuckling it off, contemplating death, saying something lewd, like nothing had happened between them and the world had changed irreversibly all at the same time. This is a kind of art he is familiar with. Maybe this is why he is begrudgingly open to the idea of falling apart in Raylan's presence, if he had to fall apart in front of anyone.

Love was maybe a few steps too far but it was more than giving a shit, that was for sure. Giving a shit would have taken less effort and concern, and Raylan can't imagine what that would look like with Doc and Malcolm, not anymore. And if anyone was making it weird, Raylan would argue it was Doc and his blind grabbing of knee and thigh, not that he could argue the crack of a grin it got. It was oddly comfortable, this back and forth, the play intertwined with hints of real feeling that didn't ask too much or tax him too far.

"Who you callin' old man, old man," Raylan accused with a scoff, holding his bottle away from the expectant hand over his knee. "You already handed it back, get your own bottle or you're gonna have to fight me for this one. I'll share but you ain't claimin' it. Been workin' on it for two hours now, it's mine," he protested teasingly.

"'Sides, I think you could probably due with being told as much once or twice in your time here." He wasn't great at supporting people in the way Mathis was breaking them apart, like a fissure that started as a small fractional crack and worked further open with every event. There was no respite, no fixing that, no stopping the next traumatic event. He understood that much. So this would have to do, this casual half truth by omission conversation that they were working on perfecting with each other.

He could stand to cut back a little bit, that much is true. Everyone has been politely sideeyeing his drinking.

"Whatever savage you think I am, I would not pick a fight with an old man," he scoffs, hand falling away slinking back to where it had been comfortable folded down across his stomach. But Raylan isn't wrong. He could afford being told 'no' more often around here. Whether by virtue of some kind of notoriety or his trying to be helpful and polite around here, he meets very little resistance regardless of what he does. He holds doors open for people and they open doors for him in return. His thick skin will get softer and more pliant over time without that occasional jab.

"Nobody's really mentioned or taken issue with my drinking problem." He can't know if anyone has mentioned anything privately to Raylan about his... similar tastes. "I'm drawing the line at two bottles. Four between the both of us." The three he had yesterday had been far too much.

"Smart, knowin' to quit when you're ahead. Save you from an asskickin'." Not that he wanted to, but Raylan could see them getting drunk, having a little tiff and a few thrown punches to go with it. It was almost ironic that Henry started in on the topic of drinking.

Raylan looked down at his own bottle with a new consideration. He.. should probably also lay off but frankly, part of him was rushing to see how quickly he could make his liver shut down and get the hell outta this place. It had gotten worse, the longer he suffered here. The gut pains he'd been having for over a week weren't fun either, though he'd mentioned that to no one.

"Sounds reasonable. Hear tell that you went in pretty hard yesterday." No one could blame him. Raylan however, had been painfully sober - he had lost time to make up and it let his mind wander a little without falling right into the spiked pit of fucked up trauma that had been and would continue to follow him around. It let him forget that he was newly disfigured.

"How many'd you go through? Your liver is gonna move out, at this point." Not that he could say much, considering.

"Need I remind you that I am a professional gunslinger and I could put two holes in your hat before you can even blink?" Doc stops himself from passing a casual comment about handing Raylan's ass back to him. The man had gotten plenty of that when he was young and he didn't need the reminder.

"Just a few bottles of shine." Doc lifts his hand and sticks two fingers up before reluctantly sticking up the third. "Don't tell me I shouldn't've drunk your share. I came to that conclusion myself this morning." And he's making amends and being a good boy now, see? Gave Raylan back his pacifier of a bottle and hadn't touched another drop otherwise today.

He lowers his arm back down and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. The arm under his head is starting to get numb so he pushes himself up a bit and shuffles back to lie down on the pillow, his final resting place for the night.

"I know you wanted some space. I just need a couple hours out of the house, then I'll be on my way back."

"Need I remind you I'm a certified quickdraw deadshot and I refute your claim?" Raylan wouldn't tout his record; the comment was enough. Against each other, they'd find a pretty equal challenge. He'd rather that challenge be taken out on cans instead of each other, if anyone had a say about it.

"Ain't my job to tell you what to drink." With a sigh, he considered his bottle, took one more drink and capped the bottle, leaning over to set it on the side of the bed. "Since your body's got it covered and all." That was the benchmark anyway, how much their bodies could handle.

Raylan let a few long seconds of silence stretch between them, chewing over whether he should answer that or not. Finally, he scooted down and rolled over, settling into his pillow with a deep breath and facing the other direction so that he wasn't tempted to curl against Henry and soak into him being there as his instinct would like to.

"It's not space I wanted. Just not faces I didn't know. No patience for the hospitality... Stay as long as you want. Won't even charge ya for the first three hours." He'd try to keep his feared and eventual oncoming nightmare from being too disruptive. The moonshine was meant to help with that, numb him, black him out enough that he wouldn't dream of what happened. A part of him correctly warned that it wouldn't tuck this particular scar away. He didn't want to be alone either, not really.

A few hours was better than the sidelined fear that Henry wouldn't come see him at all.

"I'll be home tomorrow."

Edited 2021-03-04 04:25 (UTC)

They aren't strictly faces that Raylan doesn't know. But custom and decorum dictate that they put on a polite front as hosts. And the house is a double-edged sword of longing for bittersweet memories that will likely never return the way they were made. He figured it would take him some time to coax Raylan and the others back into it. Maybe he has to start with the meals and work their way towards longer stints.

Even after all this time spent the New Yorkers, it isn't in Doc's nature to bridge this gap between them, to initiate a hug if it was not initiated to him first. He glances over with his hands still entwined resting over the soft part of his belly, swallowing as his gaze trails down Raylan's back. The fingers on his right hand curl up, thumb running over the fingernails, freeing up his left.

He reaches over and hesitates, hand hovering in mid-air. It winds up landing on Raylan's upper arm and giving it a firm squeeze. He's not going to be okay. Not by a long shot. But he'll find a new okay to settle down in. That's just how it goes.

"You'll get better," Doc reassures gruffly, patting Raylan's arm a couple of times and letting his hand fall away. It is a far cry from underground, secretive intimate affairs that came spontaneously within a stolen moment. It may be even a little soul-shattering, that he is letting his hat and his boots and those ingrained traditional values dictate what they can and can't do even alone in the cover of night, even when they are trying to cope with death. But Doc would rather fall back on centuries-old familiar notions of what it means to be the man of the house than to open up and risk coming off as weak in a time they all need to draw upon each other's strength and resilience.

His hand slinks back to its resting spot atop his stomach. Raylan will be fine. They're both fine.

Here in the dark, behind a closed door with no one else around - this was the only time of day that Raylan could let himself be anything other than that strong faced, immoveable lawman. Vulnerabilities were meant to be protected and being in 1306, busy and full of sound and life that would mock him and make it all worse, would have piled more on him. He would have been forced to see Neal and Negan, relive and revive the guilt chewing in his gut over having left them. Over having gotten Neal killed twice.

No, it was better that he take a night to be what Doc very well might call weak.. Raylan wouldn't have called it the same.

Expecting nothing, the hand on his arm was reassuring, a confirmation beyond the weight in the bed next to him, but he couldn't help but scoff bitterly at the idea that 'better' was an option. Yeah, Raylan would get better because he didn't have any other options. Breaking down wasn't really on the menu, outside of the fractional breaks that came on nights like this.

"I dunno what I'm supposed to do with the screams. The.. the smell of burnt flesh. The feeling of-" He broke off there from the soft retelling, inhaling unevenly. "I got Neal killed, myself killed, a second time last night. He shoulda kept runnin'. I don't know how to make that better."

"I can tell you what other people would say you should be doin' but you'll just do what you always do with them, no matter what anybody tells you. Same shit you been doing all along. Empty a bottle of shine to drown it all out and deal with it until you can live with your cowardice and shortcomings and pretend it don't bother you no more." It's not that Doc is deliberately giving bad advice. He is merely stating the facts as he knows them. The more trauma and stress Doc gets subjected to, the more he withdraws to where he feels safe, behind a wall of empty bottles and a stone-cold poker face. He is too stubborn to be broken and Raylan is more stubborn than he is. Doc doesn't see the point wasting his breath on advice that's not going to be heeded. These are coping mechanisms they have internalised since they had gotten slapped for showing an ounce of vulnerability. Raylan probably much earlier than that if he ever saw the wrong end of a belt. There's no sitting around talking about the smell of burning flesh and getting people killed for twelve sessions in some life-affirming kumbaya circle and emerging a better or stronger man on the other side. There's no magical pew that you can sit on and gaze upon the face of a painted statue, throw your hands up in supplication to erase what has happened. There's just no-... making sense of these senseless tortures.

He finds it much easier talking to the ceiling, so he keeps going, even lifting a hand and turning it over even though there is no reason why he should be gesturing into the darkness. Nobody is watching his soliloquy.

"You burned. He did not run. What could possibly make that better? You cannot 'unsuffer' the torments you have already withstood. The best you can hope for is the passage of time making the memory less bitter. And sometimes even that don't spare you. I remember, clear as day, my mother the day she died; forsaken and alone, emaciated with blood on her chin, one hundred and fifty years ago. The only thing that has ever mattered is what you do from here on out."

As much as some part of Raylan wanted the easy way out, it felt wrong to take it. Even when he was curled up in a tub with Malcolm, they'd barely touched on what he'd suffered. They'd focused on the troubles here. Malcolm's concerns. Raylan's inability to go home and put on a good face for people he wouldn't let behind his walls. He was still chewing over 'You're not hideously deformed' but he'd had a hard time of finding that opinion himself when he stared in the mirror later.

Doc was right, even if Raylan wasn't going to say it. Though Arlo had always preferred using his hands when he was too far gone.

Another long minute passed and Raylan heaved a deep breath as he rolled over onto his back, leftmost hand hanging lazily off the bed, only half reaching for the bottle neck just outside his reach.

"And you? You can't unsuffer anythin' either, not your mother or the well or having to bury my sorry ass." But at least he had come back. He wasn't sure if that was better or not. If that was enough to eventually soften the screams to nothing. "Since three bottles plus is off the table now and you got no guilt to carry in this."

"What about me? I wasn't the one who died," Doc deflects easily. He only relents and shares something because Raylan had done the same, and he knows it isn't easy for either of them to speak their minds. "I do feel guilty though. Should have tried other ways. The windows upstairs. Garage door. But then I... just wanted to make sure Malcolm couldn't get out. I just- wasn't in the right state of mind. Or maybe I was, and that was the choice I made, and I have to live with that." He felt put into a position where he had to choose, a position he never wanted to be in. And maybe there wasn't really a choice. Maybe the only choice was Malcolm at the time, because they had both happened to be indoors and none of the ways in and out of the house would have worked. But it had felt like a choice. Doc didn't try every possible way to get a door or window open, so he can never know for sure.

He turns his head partially towards Raylan but doesn't turn enough to look at him. His gaze lingers on Raylan's right leg and hand before he goes back to looking at the ceiling and closing his eyes.

"You have to hold yourself together before you can worry about anyone else. Don't worry about me, Raylan."

"There wasn't a choice. Y'all couldn't get out, we couldn't get in.. Bet if we beat on those windows now, they'd shatter like sugarglass." Just more facets of Mathis fucking with them and twisting reality's rules to keep them off balance. Confused. Messed up. Raylan really wished there was anything that refuted his idea of them being farmed for fear.

Raylan shifted a little with a deep breath, one leg cocking out a little, almost touching Henry's but coming just short of it. There was no world where Doc was allowed to worry and they weren't, even passively. No world were they wouldn't worry.

"It's too late to tell me to not worry, Henry. Kinda already on that train. Can't imagine survivor's guilt any easier to shoulder just because you got practice.. Malcolm's worried about you too." It also helped keep him from falling into the deepest pits of himself, having Henry and Malcolm to worry about. "Just.. if you need somethin'.."

He had an open door to him, should he want it.

Doc sighs deeply at the mention of Malcolm. He had been- needlessly harsh. And he feels like anything he says will just be interpreted poorly and will make things worse. So he hasn't really said much of anything, which in and of itself is probably making things worse.

"I don't know what to do with Malcolm," is what Doc eventually says about their current state. "We don't speak the same language." Often he finds himself wishing he annoyed Malcolm more, because he has been annoyed by him.

He needs time. More time for them to be around again. Settle into a new normal. Time to dull the edges of the sounds of those screams. Time for three meals in the house and porch drinking sessions until they don't look so anxious when he wants to leave the house for most of the day again. And then maybe he can share some of his burdens again.

"Will I see you on the porch tomorrow night?" he asks quietly. "Or. Behind the garage door, if you find the porch not agreeable." The place they had set up their little drinking corner in when the weather didn't permit them quiet time on their porch.

There weren't a lot of 'win' options with Malcolm, that was true. The proof in that was how personally and deeply the profiler had taken a non-rebuke. He was.. a particular flavor of man that didn't often know how to shut up. It didn't take a genius to see where their styles would.. clash.

"It'll be easier now that we're back. I'll take the next few days of station. Give you a break." There was a core to their house and it included all three of them. Raylan would do the in between work to make things better, advise where he could, help smooth the edges. Pretend until it was reality again.

"Told you I'm coming home," he answered, hand closest shifting over the few inches to rub a pinch gesture of his fingers against Henry's side. "Though the garage is probably better, for a few days. Door open though, since we're gettin' better weather. I'm lookin' forward to the summer. We can get some shit built."

"I would not leave you to shoulder that work alone. Though I do understand you two would want some time together." Because it's fine for Raylan and Malcolm to get some alone time. But Raylan and Doc don't exactly have the same kind of relationship, those same kinds of needs. At least, they don't really talk about it openly anyway, whatever they might be thinking.

"What- oop, sorry -" Doc started turning towards Raylan and almost crushed his hand. He halts mid-turn and shuffles a bit until he can settle down safely. "What were you planning on building? The converting the garage into a bedroom project?" There was a stretch of time where the house had been so quiet and empty while they were gone, he thought things might stay that way and they wouldn't need to.

But they're back now. Hopefully for the long haul. Maybe the idea is worth revisiting.

"Do ya now," Raylan quipped softly before his hand was almost crushed, pulled back to drape across his middle. "And what if I want to split that time with someone else?"

Say, the gunslinger next to him? No, they hadn't talked about, they hadn't even acknowledged it and Raylan knew that, left to his own devices, Henry probably never would. Raylan wasn't jumping into the deep end here, but something in him had to at least vent that jar, before it turned bitter on him.

But he'd asked a question, however domestic and mundane - they could all do with some of that, Raylan was sure. "To start, yeah. Even if its only used durin' our parties or when some shit happens that has our house filled with people.. Figure a shed or somethin' wouldn't go amiss either. Can't get too far with it, no concrete for foundations and all but.." It was something to do. Something to make him feel like they were going forwards instead of just spinning their wheels in the mud.

Doc hesitates, eyebrows rising and falling, a little more uncertain than amused although there's a fair amount of the latter too. He regards Raylan properly and lets his hand fall into that space between them before responding.

"I would not be so presumptuous as to guess whom you are referring to. But if it happens to be little old me, you ought to know, I have all the time in the world. Especially for you. Should you need help with the garage or. A shed you should like to kick me out to when I get too drunk and onerous, or. Anything else."

His eyes have adjusted to the dim ambient light by now and while it was not the first time Doc had caught a glimpse of those scars, it is the first time he is looking at them up close. Little cracks in that veneer that will leave a faint but indelible reminder of the horrors he had been through. Even if women seem to like their men a little scarred.

"Any lingering phantom pains or... how are you doing, Raylan?" Physically at least. He can't do much for the emotional scarring.

Raylan hummed non-commitally at the response before taking a deep breath. Sure, Henry had all the time in the world, except Raylan felt he didn't after all that had just happened. Like God was leaning on his timer, running his clock out sooner than it had any right to be. He didn't like that feeling. Besides, what he wanted in the moment wasn't included on the given list. Maybe it didn't belong there at all, who fucking knew.

"I'll be fine. My healin' gunshot wound hurts more in the aftermath that this and I know you know what those feel like." He didn't foresee his nightmares being painful, but they would be, an echo of it all that he couldn't quite let go.

"Guess I'm just back to one day at a time." They were supposed to be talking about you Doc. "It'll be fine," he echoed again a little more softly, like he was convincing himself as much as offering reassurance.

Yeah he's good at turning conversations around like that. Often he does it without realising, too. Raylan would have to keep him focused on himself if he wants to keep peeling back those layers.

"Mm." Doc reaches up to touch his own recent wound. It wasn't a normal gunshot wound but the dull ache of it had lingered and the risk of infection had been just as high.

"I've been shot, yes. Stabbed, slashed, burnt. But that was the world I lived in. Nothing compared to what you have been through, I assure you." It occurs to him that Raylan hasn't seen those scars. Nobody here has. He reaches over in the dark to take Raylan's hand and pull it over, sliding it under his shirt to touch one of his scars. Nothing and nowhere indecent, just a near miss in the side of his stomach.

"It's okay to have a few scars," Doc says quietly, trying to be reassuring.

The getting stabbed, slashed and shot - those things he could take without blinking. Being burnt was something on a new level now, and his features pinched a little at the mention of it. Malcolm was almost blasé about it, about the burning and Raylan hadn't been able to bring himself to elaborate on what it was like to be the burnt person instead of the profiler finding it.

His head turned towards Doc a little as his hand was grabbed, but Raylan let him move his fingers as he would and he moved them fractionally to gain a sense of the wound, Doc's skin almost hot against his palm. "These kinda scars I don't mind," he admitted. "I signed up for those..." He hadn't signed up for the ones now across his face and chest, the latter of which he hadn't explored.

"Where'd you get this one?" Reluctantly, Raylan started to pull his hand away, figuring that Henry wouldn't want it lingering there and shifted over onto his side to face him, coming full circle from when they laid down.

"No you did not." Nobody signs up for scars. "Unless you told me you paid a professional by the hour to cut and shoot you one night." Raylan doesn't strike him as that kind of adventurous guy. Also that is pretty far out there, even for someone like Doc.

He feels the absence of Raylan's touch acutely, the lack of warmth it left behind, flinching although he doesn't say anything. If a man doesn't want to, he doesn't want to.

"I won fair and square at poker. Boys at the saloon thought I cheated. We were drunk, it happens." Doc shrugs it off. "I just shot out a few kneecaps, poured what was left in the bottle on it, pocketed the money and carried on." Different times. Different laws, or. No laws, as the case was.

"I'd show you the one Wyatt gave me but then I'd have to show you my nipples and I don't charge you enough for that."

Raylan scoffed at the story and tugged up his own shirt, reaching over in kind and pulling Doc's hand over onto him. He wanted to, but they were both being cautious and unclear and chewing over a need he couldn't sate was a long, unfortunate pastime of the Marshal's. Henry might be able to feel the difference, but the wound was only a month or two old, not quite settled into the somehow harsh and smooth edges of all the many ridges.

"Wish I could say this one was that fun." So what if one of his legs shifted out a little further to bump against Henry's? "Decided to roll up on the Bennet Clan at a family get together. Thought I'd be able to talk my way in alone. Except it ended in a shootout with the Marshal's service comin' in without invitation." Though if they hadn't, Raylan would have bled out there, in the dirt.

"You don't charge me enough, huh?" His lips curled faintly. "That mean negotiations are open?"

Doc shifts a little in kind. It is the little dance they do. Raylan nudges in close and he makes room. He encroaches on Raylan's space and Raylan gives way. They are always aligned, in this way. Calloused fingertips scratch around Raylan's wound, exploring, reading his scar tissue like a blind man well versed in braille.

"You oughta know better than to interrupt family time," Doc chastises in his drawl, reaching over to brush his curled finger under Raylan's chin and pass his thumb under his lower lip. His hand unfurls and smoothes up over a bit of a stubbled cheek, fingertip stopping at that soft, sensitive spot behind the earlobe.

"You are who you are. I will take you as you come. No negotiations necessary." His hand falls away, landing on the bed with a quiet little thud. "I am who I am. Would you take me, or leave me?"

Eventually, in most any situation, a line was drawn that ended whatever kind of dance was happening, sending whoever was involved into a new dance with a new beat, however familiar that beat was. This was no different and Raylan had avoided drawing the line out of fear that there wouldn't be a new dance to follow. Mathis had promised no guarantees.

To hell with the Bennett's - they deserved no space free of rent in his head and he'd been satisfied with the resolution to it all, with no sympathy or guilt around it. He hummed in response but Henry's fingers against his lips that parted softly in response, against his face was more important, more distracting and frankly, where he'd rather focus his attention. Even if he was glad that it was the side largely unmarred by the newest scars.

Henry's hand fell away and Raylan studied the barely lit features across from him as the line was drawn. Raylan only let a beat pass, an inhaled breath before he took the step over it. Pushing himself up onto his elbow, Raylan leaned in and answered by brushing his lips along Henry's, the older man's mustache tickling his skin in a not unpleasant way, almost teasing for half a heartbeat before he was kissing him with a firmness that couldn't be argued with. His free hand slid over and up Henry's side with a soft pressure, a silent need to get them back to their stolen moment in the tunnels where there were very few problems to bother them.

"Like hell I'm leavin' you," he promised huskily after breaking it, heartbeat jackhammering in his ears again. Even if this all fell apart, even if something happened that fractured 1306 badly enough to send them all their separate ways, Raylan was entrenched. There wasn't much of anything Raylan wouldn't have done for Henry or Malcolm, if given the chance, wanted or not.

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