When 1306 and 1308 woke up that morning, they'd find notes on their respective counters in a handwriting that probably only Tim would recognize.
Malcolm, Come meet me on the other side of town. You can find me.
A second note was written, one for Tim - Tim, I'm on the other side of town. I'll call you later. It's all fine.
Raylan was irritated. He'd fallen asleep downstairs in his favorite chair in 1306, heart heavy and still in pain and when he woke up, everything was.. Something had changed. It only took one glance down at his chest, a wild check on his head that sent a plume of dust up into the air and a glance around the now dirty room for his hat for him to confirm it.
"Goddamnit," he muttered. Pushing to his feet, Raylan expected to find himself still aching in the deep, inconsolable way he had been since Mathis decided to beat him against the cliff face. There were questions - always questions. Why was he dressed in all white like he was about to get baptized? Where the fuck had his hat gone? Why was everything, including himself, fucking filthy?
But he couldn't stay here. Couldn't risk seeing Neal, suffering the warning glares he'd get, if the New Yorker would meet his eye at all. He could figure the dust and the clothes out later.
So Raylan wrote and set his notes out, and left.
By the afternoon, he'd gotten some non-baptismal clothes from Poe's Clothes and a shower, but it had also come with several drinks to steel himself. Malcolm was going to be coming over, a clean empty bottle left out on the porch railing as a sign of which house Raylan was in, and he wasn't going to be able to do this without at least a shot or two in his gut.
Day 65 - Little OTA late morning, early afternoon, closed to Malcolm mid afternoon for now
Malcolm, Come meet me on the other side of town. You can find me.
A second note was written, one for Tim - Tim, I'm on the other side of town. I'll call you later. It's all fine.
Raylan was irritated. He'd fallen asleep downstairs in his favorite chair in 1306, heart heavy and still in pain and when he woke up, everything was.. Something had changed. It only took one glance down at his chest, a wild check on his head that sent a plume of dust up into the air and a glance around the now dirty room for his hat for him to confirm it.
"Goddamnit," he muttered. Pushing to his feet, Raylan expected to find himself still aching in the deep, inconsolable way he had been since Mathis decided to beat him against the cliff face. There were questions - always questions. Why was he dressed in all white like he was about to get baptized? Where the fuck had his hat gone? Why was everything, including himself, fucking filthy?
But he couldn't stay here. Couldn't risk seeing Neal, suffering the warning glares he'd get, if the New Yorker would meet his eye at all. He could figure the dust and the clothes out later.
So Raylan wrote and set his notes out, and left.
By the afternoon, he'd gotten some non-baptismal clothes from Poe's Clothes and a shower, but it had also come with several drinks to steel himself. Malcolm was going to be coming over, a clean empty bottle left out on the porch railing as a sign of which house Raylan was in, and he wasn't going to be able to do this without at least a shot or two in his gut.