villagelogs | 065-071 » assign to oblivion / part iii

065-071 » assign to oblivion / part iii

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: Mathias Township proper
WHEN: Days 065-071
WHAT: The residents of Mathias reunite under unnerving conditions.
WARNINGS: (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross "Outside"

DAY 065-071
ASSIGN TO OBLIVION
“No matter how much time passes, no matter what takes
place in the interim, there are some things we can never
assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away.”
— Haruki Murakami

Only two days have passed since the town was fractured, leaving residents cut off from those they'd come to know and even care for. A mere two days of wandering the new streets, uncovering more secrets that continue to make little sense of this strange place. Two days with sunrises, sunsets, and nights that seem like any other.

And yet.

When residents wake on this third day, they will find that much has changed. All around them, wherever they may be, there are signs that time has passed without them. Dust covers everything, indoors and out, even areas that were spotlessly clean seemingly hours ago. The residents themselves are covered as well, dust clinging to their hair, skin, and clothing—

Clothing that they may not have been wearing when they went to sleep. Each resident, regardless of the state they were in previously, is now clad in a pair of white pajamas, with long pants and button-up shirts. Those who thoroughly explored Baneberry Hall will easily recognize these articles as identical to those well-stocked in the decaying great house. On top of this, the clothes they wore from home have disappeared, along with anything else they may have brought with them when they arrived or items from home that have been found within the borders of Mathias.

There is no sign that anyone has entered their place of shelter, nor is there any sign of what may have been done with these items or how they came to be wearing these clothes. The dust all around them is undisturbed, almost as if they had been sleeping there for quite some time, though it seems impossible for such a thing to have occurred naturally.

THE NEW ARRIVALS
The newest arrivals to Mathias will wake up on the lawn of Town Hall, at the center of the little town square. They, too, are bereft of any items from home and clothed in the identical white pajamas. There are shops all around them, with houses just beyond, and at first glance, everything seems almost picturesque. Except for the silence that is at times so complete as to be maddening... Welcome to Mathias.

SUMMERTIME
— When summer arrives, so too does an outdoor stand in front of the General Store. Sporting a handpainted sign proclaiming Whateley Farm, the stand is overflowing with a variety of produce: berries, plums, carrots, cabbage, cucumbers, green beans, leeks, onions, peppers, potatoes, zucchini, tomatoes, and garlic bulbs. These do not replace the produce offerings normally found inside the market, but they do behave strangely. The stand replenishes sporadically, sometimes every other day or every five days. There is no discernible pattern to when it replenishes, nor is there any sign of how it came to be there at all.

— With the now-complete reverse change of season, much of the autumn debris has cleared from around town. Only a few stray leaves and fallen branches remain, their crisp colors at odds with the warm summer days. The forest has also cleared of much of the fall detritus, making it easier to both follow the paths and potentially spy things that might be out of the ordinary.

CONDITIONS UPDATE
— THE WEATHER Summer has arrived in Mathias, bringing with it warm days that average 70°F and comfortably cool nights. The skies are clear throughout the week save for Day 68 when a light rain falls from a grey sky throughout the day.

— THE FOG has maintained its new boundaries.
— Residents may now wander the southern stretch of the forest surrounding Mathias Township — it is possible to leave the paths but potentially unwise to do so.
— The fog has also retreated from the western section of town entirely.
— Access to the northern section of the forest is still blocked beginning a few dozen yards past the treeline; this section of fog will urge residents to stay huddled within the town proper by inducing a physical reaction of panic and fear.

— DISAPPEARANCES AND DEATHS continue! Max Guevara and Liz Brundy have disappeared, and now that everyone is back together, residents will notice that Yennefer, Number Five, and Tony Stark have also vanished.

— ALCOHOL supplies have run dry, save for any dregs that have been squirreled away by individual residents. Moonshine can still be acquired by those in desperate need.

OOC NOTES
— UPDATES Don't forget to report updates as they come up! Changes to locations (like toppling a few bookshelves in the library), big plots you have coming up that will affect the game (parties, major property destruction, etc), or exciting discoveries that may tie into the game's mythology (even the things provided by the mod) are very helpful to have in one place so relevant page updates can be made. IC events are also helpful to know about in advance so they can be included in the log write-ups.

— MOD STATUS My non-RP life is busy and chaotic and I continue to ask for your forgiveness and understanding as game things continue to be slower, as I cannot promise timely mod responses beyond weekends and even that is not wholly guaranteed.

— ITEMS FROM HOME All items from home that characters would normally possess have vanished for this log and will return in the next. This includes clothing and possessions they had when they arrived in Mathias, items that were found in the rain, and items that were found in Baneberry Hall and removed from the property. Items from home that were left behind by other characters no longer in the game have also vanished. (All other items and clothing still remain, it is only items from characters' homes that have disappeared.)

— BANEBERRY ITEMS The items from home that were not removed from Baneberry Hall in the last log have vanished from the property. These items will not reappear in the next log. (Please be sure to comment in the appropriate spot on those logs about the state of your character's item for inventory purposes, ie whether they were removed from the property or left behind.)

— ACTIVITY CHECK Beginning with June's AC (posted at the start of July), all tags that consist of only dialogue will count as 0.5 points, not just those that occur in an inbox thread — this applies to both AC and AP totals. This adjustment is an extension of what has been in place since the start of the game: that all dialogue-only inbox tags counted for a half-point. Since such tags have occurred regularly in log threads as well, the half-point status is simply being extended to all tags regardless of location in order to be fairer in point distribution. (Examples will be provided in the AC post to assist with proper counting.)

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

To add to the list of life's more intriguing questions, such as 'do cowboys shit in the woods?', can you still spot two hats drifting around town if neither of them have their hats?

Clearly they're still able to find each other without the obvious marker, so that's something at least, although it's Raylan who spots Doc first, throwing a dried bouquet of muted colours onto the ground in the graveyard. The gravesite for Will Graham is only just starting to dry out. Before they all came back here, Doc had buried all his personal possessions next to him, in case any of them became loaded with memories he never wanted to share. It seems as though the troubled man will not be returning, and Doc had not spotted Claire come back either. Idly he had wondered if it was perhaps selfish to feel relieved that Ellie did.

In any case, Will had spent a lot of time in the greenhouse. Doc would not claim to be a sentimental man, but flowers are wasted in a greenhouse hardly anyone else visits anymore when they could be christening dirt mounds.

It was hard not spotting Doc. Doc didn't need the hat or the waistcoats or any of the age he'd brought with him to identify himself. Just that mustache and the way he walked. Raylan watched him wander in and gave him a whole five minutes before his lanky ass and sneakers were moving off the porch.

A surprise to no one was the bottle in his hand, but it was later in the day, things had been tended to, and Raylan was engaging in active mental distractions from the crater the last few days had left in his houses. There hadn't been a lot of time for catching up and it felt like it had been too long since he had a porch session with his fellow gunslinger.

Sidling up next to him, Raylan stared at the grave, knowing full well who was in it and offered the bottle over. "Nice of you to be brinin' them fresh flowers. Shame we don't have a few more, the colors are nice."

Yes, that's how he was choosing to start this out.

Doc liked them all well enough to bring them flowers and keep their graves as neat as he can manage whenever he manages to carve out some time during his busy days to visit. He is not, however, sentimental or wasteful enough to pour perfectly good moonshine onto dirt mounds.

He grunts by way of thanks and takes a long drink before handing the bottle back. Raylan had been chipping away at it and didn't seem to need the help finishing what's left. Once he gets Doc on the porch or anywhere he wants to get Doc, really, there'll be at least another two bottles they won't be able to stop getting to the bottoms of.

"I'm surprised they lived without being tended to, for however long we were gone. The potted vegetables are doing fine, too." Yennefer is still nowhere to be found, but he has no doubt she would be pleased by the result of her magical intervention.

"Won't be needing to dig you one, will I?" That is Doc's unsubtle signal that he got splattered on a little bit when shit hit the fan. At least he's still around to be the bedrock of the house, still taking things in his stride. Someone has to make sure there are fresh, dust-free sheets to cry on and comfort food in the fridge. It's not like he doesn't have his own problems to deal with, like the small, insignificant fact that he is no longer immortal since returning without his ring.

But, in all seriousness, he isn't complaining. He is a little concerned - hopefully understandably so - but he's just trying to keep everything together as best and as fairly as he can.

There were indeed two bottles plus tucked away where he was at, but no flowers to speak of. While he'd taken some to Tim, it wasn't something he'd willingly think of putting in his own space. He'd rather watch them grow wild over a meadow or something, but Mathis seems to have gotten confused and planted bodies instead.

The bottle was taken and propped on his thigh, cocked out with the slight crooked way he stood straight as he listened, humming a note and glancing off in the direction of the greenhouse for a second. "Gonna have to go check on those tomatoes. Warm enough for 'em to start growing and ripening properly."

Raylan looked his way with a smirk, face still showing the ghosts of bruises that were just starting to fade around the edges. He knew what the question was suggesting but it wasn't an unfair ask, as veiled as it was. "Beat you to that one," he replied, pointing out the four or so graves he'd dug near a week before. "But I don't think you'll be needin' to put me in one. Not yet at least, though that evaluation may change.. You headin' anywhere specific after this?"

Doc had at least one apology coming his way, a similar one to the one Raylan had given Jeff, and apologies weren't normally handed out, out here in the open. Not for the steaming pile of shit Doc had woken up to, socially speaking. Those kinds of things were better saved for the porch or wherever they might find themselves settling into for a few hours.

"They have already started fruiting. I expect they will turn red in the next week or two." Unfortunately Doc does not have much of a green thumb. He's managed not to kill anything so far by sheer luck and divine intervention in the form of Liz Brundy. But he hasn't seen her in a while and he's just been watering them the same way she has in the hopes that he's doing it right.

"They're good sized holes," he comments quietly. Like they're two cowboys out used car shopping looking at trunks. It doesn't bother him much that they're preempting more bodies to drop. One of two certainties in life, and all that.

"If you are asking me out for a drink, I will be heading where you are," Doc addresses directly. He tends to the dead after tending to the living, so it's not as if Raylan doesn't know that Doc is done for the day. He is rarely so direct, however. And honestly, he should turn Raylan down. The Marshal has gotten himself into one hell of a pickle and this is something he cannot drink away. But when has Doc ever said no to a drink?

"Good." Did Raylan mind the fact that he had nothing to do with all this growing? Not at all. The way he figured it, if he wasn't farming the way his family had back in the day, then what they'd done was enough to cover him. Only crops he ever oversaw were fallow fields. He wouldn't know where to begin either.

Raylan looked back at the graves, nodding fractionally before looking over.

"Well, let's talk food first, even if you don't need to eat, I do and I'm not lookin' to add stomach cramps from puking my shoes up to the list, huh? C'mon." Raylan turned and started heading back towards the house he'd taken up for a few days. "I'm used to starin' at graveyards, empty or otherwise. It stopped botherin' me when I was a kid, so this ain't nothin' new."

Edited 2021-07-06 12:36 (UTC)

Well, it's a little backwards. Most people do the wining and dining and trying to charm Doc's socks off before the memento moris and unsubtle death threats. But given recent events, he has low expectations when it comes to Raylan doing things the right way around, so he's not really all that disappointed.

Doc has stopped cooking such big portions in 1306 so unfortunately he can't offer bringing some leftovers this time around. These days, sometimes there's five people and sometimes there's two. It makes meal planning impossible. Not to mention his recent friction with Negan.

"I will eat with you," he offers. At the rate he's going, Raylan's on a fast track to that solo motel life again. It isn't healthy. "I did make supper, but I lied about making extra and gave it away." That's the trouble with having been there, done that, already lived that solo motel life for a hundred and thirty years in his own personal hellhole - the self-neglect is well entrenched.

There was no reason to not start the wining and dining now, especially when Raylan needed the dining part specifically. Everyone's got a low expectation of him these days and he wouldn't be surprised to hear Doc counted in that list.

Raylan frowned a little over at him at that point of fact as Doc fell in step with him. "Am I gonna haveta start makin' sure I bring you a care basket?" he asked as they headed towards the porch. "Givin' away your dinner like your St. Francis and we're a buncha birds." But the soft reprimand was fond in its tone and Raylan was smiling as he opened the door.

"Pretty sure we got enough here to settle ya, at least for a meal. I don't plan on stayin' here much longer anyway." He planned on staying at home for a few days, once things felt any closer to normal then they currently did. It'd just take a little time.

If that's what it'll take to get Raylan coming back, sure, Doc would play shameless victim to his own magnamity. For purely logistical reasons it is difficult to have everyone start striking it out on their own. A lot more legwork involved when Mathias starts trying to cull them again. It's as though they've conveniently forgotten they're supposed to be working together trying to leave this town and are all claiming houses of their own to live in like some desperate housewives too preoccupied thinking with their other heads.

"Don't tempt me with the fantasy of an empty nest," Doc drawls. Although lately he's been enjoying the extra space in 1306, he knows it's shortlived. "I've laundered all of the dusty things, changed all the sheets." Which is to say, any bed Raylan might choose in their corner of Phillips Drive is ready to be moved back into.

Perching against the kitchen counter, he watches Raylan mill around for a few seconds before going against years of social conditioning and speaking up.

"You doing alright?" They hardly ask each other this. Men don't ask each other this and if they do the only acceptable answer is 'yeah, of course, why?'. One of many unspoken rules to preserve some semblance of deeply entrenched ideals of masculinity. It's a risky question even when they're on the porch and there's moonshine involved. All the more scandalous when one and a half of them are sober in the kitchen. Might have to blame the lack of hats to stuff these questions in.

Raylan wasn't hard to recall home, it was only that no one had yet and Doc had been right in his ascribing Raylan to the wandering type; roots weren't something he was used to as something good. He was only a half minute run away if really needed and now that Mathis has stolen his boots, he's 75% more likely to survive.

"Mm, as if we'd ever leave you alone," Raylan chuckled in promise as he led the way into the kitchen, immediately going for the nonstick pan he'd found and cleaned days ago. "I'll stick around there, next couple days, if you want, stay close. Do whatever housework might need doin'. Pretty sure you and I are the only one's thinkin' about it - it's like havin' kids," he huffed as he dropped the pan on the stove and dug into the fridge.

You doing alright?

The rustling in the fridge stilled for half a second before he continued, coming up with eggs, cheese and a small ham steak. He could guess why Doc was asking. As daydreamy as it might have been to hope that Doc would be spared the shit show that he'd incurred, he knew it was impossible. Especially being with the people they were in the same house. He knows. Of Course he knew. When did Doc Holliday not know something about Raylan on any given day.

Never mind that.

"Fair to meddlin'. As if any of us are doin' 'alright', here, really," he huffed good naturedly as he set his goods on the counter top, back to the probing too knowing eyes. "I'm guessin' you heard and have opinions. Go on. Lay 'em on me. Tell me what all I did wrong so I can add it to the list."

The bruises that were healing on his face spoke to said list. He'd heard many a detail and with what he knew of how Doc spoke now, he expected it.

"We have kids," Doc points out quietly. Holding up the proverbial salt and toying with the prospect of emotional masochism before trying to throw it away, wipe his hand on the outside of his jeans before he goes grabbing any open and raw wounds.

Doc takes his time before saying anything. He closes the distance between them, taking the opportunity while Raylan is standing still before he's turned any stoves or appliances on to reach up and brush uncharacteristically gentle fingertips over the heat on Raylan's faintly bruised, faintly scarred cheek. Eye contact veers off their collision course to study the damages keenly with steely blue eyes. If he's not careful he could probably make his daughter wilt with that kind of gaze, if he ever gets to see her.

When his hand falls away he curls it under Raylan's fingers, lifting his hand up and tilting it a little to the left, a little to the right, surveying the damage on the back of Raylan's hand.

Doc has opinions, sure. He thinks one shouldn't play with fire if the burning is going to scorch through uninvolved third parties. Or take advantage of the inexperienced, however unintentional that might have been. One should also not fall in love with the fucktoys. God damn amateur. Breathing out a long sigh, Doc finally withdraws his hand completely though he makes no move to put more than the two inches already existing between their legs and crotches, sliding it into his backpocket.

"I have heard two halves of a three part story," he clarifies. Raylan doesn't get Doc's assistance in beating himself up until he starts talking. Maybe Raylan can be a coward in love but Doc won't tolerate cowardice in this kitchen.

Edited 2021-07-09 02:06 (UTC)

"We have babies," Raylan retorted with a glance over his shoulder as he shuffled things around, possibly taking a little longer than necessary as he waited for the onslaught. Coward. Whore. Hypocrite. Greedy asshole He couldn't argue with any of it. He was. All of those things. Liar. Nothing he hadn't heard before. Nothing he couldn't weather. Hard to top Arlo, no matter how furious Neal got, he was nothing compared to the old man.

But Henry wasn't. It was the sound of the air in the room around him followed by the too few steps that the gunslinger had to take to cross the kitchen. Raylan turned half in question, finding himself gently pinned against the stove with those steely blues looking at him like he could see all the secrets that Raylan had tucked away. Even if he wanted to pull away, the rough fingerpads on his cheek held him in place as much as the gaze, as much as Doc's solid lines in front of him.

Hazel eyes followed Doc's hand down as his own was collected, flicking back up to study Doc's features for the opinion he knew was in there. He was looking for damnation. It was a little confusing he wasn't finding it.

So what if his off hand found it's place on Henry's hip.

It took him a few long seconds, in which he swallowed thickly. "It's a long story. One I was hopin' to keep you out of." But he couldn't control those outside forces or how much of him they spilled over Doc's boots while they were pouring out their hearts. "Thing're.. mostly settled."

It wasn't dishonest. But Raylan wasn't looking forward to spilling himself either.

"I am not 'out of' anymore," he points out softly. "You shot, and you ran, some people got hurt, and I am left with the mess." Deja vu, really. Story of Doc Holliday's life every time he gets entangled in Marshal business.

"I can assure you things are not yet settled." Henry isn't sure if he can get a straight answer out of Raylan. Raylan probably can't get a straight answer out of Raylan. If there were any straight answers this wouldn't be such a complicated mess.

"Funny thing about being immortal. I have a lot of time." Time to stand in each other's personal space in the kitchen to listen to long stories. Nevermind that, in this very moment, the immortality is gone and the clock is ticking for him same as it ticks for everyone else.

All it would take is a lean and they would be touching in many more places than a gun-toting hand on a gunless hip. Raylan and Henry are not actually in the picture. Even though, in this very moment, they are the only things in the picture.

"Talk to me."

The third obstacle. Talking to Henry, properly, really talking to him was a dangerous thing on it's own. He'd said once, no secrets in the house, but Raylan knew better than to take that for it's full depth. One secret in particular should stay that way. But it was hard to try and argue his way out of this, to say 'no' when he trusted the gunslinger the way he did. The way he maybe shouldn't.

In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

"There are some things I can't clean up, no matter how I try. Things I can only make worse by tryin' to clean up. Smart men don't pick at raw wounds." Wounds, now those he could take responsibility for. Yes, he'd shot, yes, he'd wounded, but there was only so much he could practically do about it.

The problem was, he didn't know where to start. His eyes dropped away from Henry's, focused on a low middle nebulous space on Doc's chest.

"My trustin' Neal enough to tell him first was a test run. One that snapped and backfired in my face because I didn't have all of the information at hand. Neal loves Malcolm, in that non-brotherly kinda way." It was not a problem and it didn't upset Raylan, reflected as such in his tone - no, he regretted more opening his mouth in the first place. "I'd already talked to Tim. He knew that they would know. Any idea that somethin' doesn't get around a small town is a fantasy in of itself. But Neal started swinin' and I swung back, bleedin' feet and all."

It had hurt for more than one reason, but Raylan wasn't so much talking about his feelings as restating facts. Safe, solid, immutable facts.

"He gave me 24 hours to tell Malcolm or he'd do it himself and we both know that woulda been worse. Havin' these kinda talks aren't meant to be done at home. Stains the houses with the echoes of it. That's the only decent place in this town, I can't.." His lips tightened, head bobbing to one side a little as his fingers fidgeted with the side seam of Henry's shirt.

He wasn't running, he was trying to preserve peace.

Well from where Doc had been standing the last couple of days, he had gotten a clear view of Raylan's ass in motion. It looked very much like running to him.

He had not known those details about Neal. He is starting to get more of a fuller picture now. Of course, he hadn't talked to Neal about any of this either. Up until now Doc had no reason to believe he was involved to the extent that he was, Malcolm's mention of his reluctance to return to the house aside. Raylan really does go big or go home.

"Look. I don't know what it is you want, exactly. I don't even know if you know what you want. But they're both holding out hope because you haven't told them anything definitive. They are making concessions settling for the ways you are making use of them, and you're holding them hostage over a whole lot of hums, hahs and maybes. I didn't think you needed me to tell you that they deserve better." In this world of hurt, Doc and Raylan are probably the most seasoned lovers. Been round the block a few times. Know the song and dance routine. Raylan shouldn't need Doc or anyone else to spell it out for him.

"They're already hurt. You don't seem stupid enough to have given any impressionable, naive young man some kind of promise of a rosy future where you'll carve out time and space in your life to 'make it work ~somehow~' in the ass end of God's Chosen Town, Kentucky. You owe it to them to cauterise the wound, cut one or both of 'em loose." And if he couldn't do that, how could he say he wasn't running?

The more Doc talked, the tighter Raylan's jaw got, hand falling away from it's fidgeting to come back to roost on his own hip. Raylan knew what he wanted. It just didn't extend as far as their plans did and it was greedy for a thing he could never have, would likely never get at home. To be allowed to Be.

But that was always going to be an indulgence, no matter where he was and not only pertaining to romantic proclivities.

Holding them hostage. They deserve better. Cut 'em loose.

"Mathis is gonna do that for me," he said with a faint nod, tight lipped, eyes lifting back to Henry's as he chews over an alternate perspective. It was an arrogant one, one he thought very unlikely no matter his personal feelings about it. His tone stayed low and casual, the most intimate conversational tone.

"But you're wrong on so many different points there. See, I knew this little problem was gonna come around, eventually. I was very definitive with them. Malcolm, right from the start. I told him I couldn't offer him what he was looking for and when I caved to daydreams, it was -poof~ blown away. And then that stopped too. So no. You don't need to tell me that they deserve better and I'm bettin' you've already covered tellin' them directly."

Raylan side stepped to try and get around Doc, aiming to get his hands back onto the bottle he'd been working on before bothering to continue.

Both of Doc's hands are on Raylan's hips faster than the Marshal can blink and he snaps Raylan back to the exact same spot he was standing on, an audaciously bold move denying him his drink and closing the distance between them at the same time so that Raylan has to squeeze out from where Henry is pressed right up against him, trip over the gunslinger's foot if he wants out.

It's a little forceful, yes, but not enough to bruise. Doc is trying not to let his frustration show. Grown ass men don't cave in to daydreams. And it should go without saying that it's a tad irresponsible to have Doc be the one to burst bubbles that Raylan needs to be bursting. Malcolm won't listen to Doc - he didn't listen the first time Doc tried to talk some sense into him - and likely neither would Tim.

"I ain't done with you 'til I say I'm done." Aggressive? Doc Holliday? Nonsense! The gentle old relic has a heart of gold. He would never.

"...I am sorry. You deserve better, too. You deserve to keep-... something, out of all this. But I-- you and I both know. What Mathias gave, she will take back from you. You won't get to keep any of this. I wish it were different. I would give you the world if I could, Raylan." His tone softens considerably, as does his grip on Raylan's hips.

It was a bold move and one that worked, moving Raylan back into his place, hands propping on the counter as he needlessly caught himself. He could feel the steel in his eyes, the set of his own jaw; there better be a good reason you stopped me. He wasn't looking to get punched again and the last thing he wanted to do was swing on Henry. There were other options that didn't involve his heart getting pummeled, literally or figuratively.

It was also a little hot, a mental sidenote that had nothing to do with anything.

I ain't done with you 'til I say I'm done. He shouldn't read too much into it. Right?

Raylan's features slowly softened in kind, the steel of self-defense melting back into the soul weighing tiredness that he'd been carrying around before. His hands fell from their place and settled back on Henry's hips, as he considers those words, eyes wandering over the features of Henry's face.

"I don't want the world.." What if I just wanted you? "What I want is to be able to do with them what I do with you. Enjoy the time we've got. Enjoy what, yes, Mathis has given us. I wish things were different too. 'D steal you away to some back country, Henry, some porch for as many years as you'd let me." Was that too close? Maybe. Fuck it.

"But I can't. So," he continued with an intake of breath, eyebrows lifting a little, hands sliding a little further around the gunslinger. "Since I know I won't get to keep any of it, I want all of it while I can have it. Where it doesn't matter what town I'm in. Where it doesn't matter what next year is gonna bring. Yes, they hurt. So do I. So do you. If it is too much, then they will make their severances, but I will not cut off my hand to save my foot. Not here. It will only make us all suffer more."

Yeah, well, everything Doc does is a little hot, especially seen through lost-all-the-shits-I-was-gonna-give-three-glasses-of-'shine-ago lenses. Raylan will just have to get used to it.

"God made men like us withstand the pain so that other people don't have to get hurt." Other people like Malcolm. Like Neal. Maybe, to a certain extent, even like Tim. But Doc isn't going to talk Raylan into fixing this mess he's made tonight. Not until he's sobered up enough to start slicing off limbs to save his bleeding feet. And if Doc is the one who has to do the cutting then so be it. Tomorrow he'll sharpen his knife. Tonight they can just enjoy their last supper. Indulge in whimsical little fantasies.

"I would have stayed." For Raylan. In some back country. For as many years it would take until it came time to dig a hole under the big old tree and bury an old man he was happy to have called his friend. If the logistics and complications of it all wasn't something either of them had to consider, he would have even stayed there 24/7. This is a promise he is willing to make, because they are both realistic and tired and bitter enough to know that they're just dealing in hypotheticals, and that nothing stays forever before shit happens to one or the both of them. Not even cowboys on porches where they might belong.

"We don't have years," he agrees quietly, leaning in close until their foreheads and noses are touching, and he can close his eyes and breathe in that eau de shampoo-moonshine-Raylan. The arrival of summer brings with it promises of unpleasantly balmy nights to come. They should make the cooler nights last while they can.

"But you have me now." Boldly stealing a soft, chaste kiss from Raylan's lips. "Here." And another. "I don't mind. A little more suffering."

"God made us to stop their sufferin', there's no stoppin' Life or savin' them from it," he argued gently with a shake of his head. Trouble would always follow men like them, that was a fact that Raylan had long settled his protests with. It wound together both strands of their conversation in it's own way, but the second half of what Henry had said was more important than following arguments on God that could be had when they were sweat soaked and sheet tangled.

It wasn't that he didn't know he'd do terrible things for Henry. It wasn't that he didn't know that Henry would do terrible things for him - shit, he already had. But those few, simple words were enough to cement it all in a reality that didn't have shifting sands underneath it, as most all of them did. In the reality they would never have, and here, they were going to have each other.

That didn't mean he was going to let the man do any kind of cutting. Raylan had stubbornly cemented this mess and whatever Luck God was watching over him was just going to have to deal with that.

Raylan let his eyes flutter shut with Doc's as he leaned their faces together and hummed a short, contented note into the chaste kiss, lips following for a fraction of a second for a great set up to the following kiss. This dangerous, equally foolish man, out here in his own mess with the Marshal. "I plan on keepin' you all night," he murmured warmly. "With only the sweetest kinda suffering. The moonshine and a fully empty upstairs with not a single soul plannin' on comin' by. Paradise."

You know, Raylan, you’d probably said the same thing last time. Before they fell asleep, sweat soaked and sheet tangled and all, and Malcolm burst in on them draped all over each other like a slutty oil painting. At least this time it probably wouldn’t be too much of a surprise.

With a long, suffering sigh, Henry’s hands linger low on Raylan’s waist as he pulls back a little, cocks his head to one side and raises one pointed eyebrow.

“And here I was thinkin’ you were tryin’a wine and dine me first...” he drawls, a dry, deadpan sort of taunting humour that occasionally triumphs over the dribbles of wit and wisdom.

“Suppose I could settle for paradise.” At least the wine part would be covered. And admittedly, it does sound nice, in a selfish sort of way, not thinking about the other house and the people in and around it, not worrying about this shithole at the warped end of the universe. They can be alone together, without censure or admonishments, have their back country moment uninterrupted.

Don’t mind him stalling. He’s just going to steal another kiss while he can. Touch where he can. Slide his hand down into Raylan’s... back pocket. Maybe there’s something he can grab while they’re there on the road to paradise.

"Well, a wooin' before dinner stirs the appetite, doesn't it?" The question was given with an utterly innocent look over a shit eating grin, something that Raylan managed quite easily. Somehow, the long suffering sigh was a victory.

Maybe Henry was walking around, talking shit about how well Raylan was willing to integrate, talking about his idea of what he thought Raylan's life was like, because he wanted the Marshal for himself. Raylan could find a way to be okay with that, especially in the face of Henry's face, eyes all soft around the edges and happy enough to hang out for an evening with the Marshal. Why would he fuck this up when it was so good?

He could handle a few more indirect lashes.

Raylan smiled into the kiss and broke it with a chuckle as a hand found it's way into his back pocket. It might have been an excuse to grab his ass but it made him feel young again. Well. Younger.

"Besides, I need to fuel up for my strength." He could almost hear the old joke coming.

"Appetite's already stirred," Doc drawls with one lifted eyebrow. No conscious, deliberate attempt on his part to tease Raylan, most likely. It's just what any shameless flirt would have said.

"Ffffar be it from me to deny any old man's needs," he jokes predictably. Raylan did set himself up for a cheap shot. He can't expect a gunslinger not to take it.

"Suppose I'd better let you go then." True to his word, he slowly extracts himself from Raylan's back pocket and takes a small step back, and then another. He ain't done with Raylan Givens, it seems. Not by a long shot. But he'll give the Marshal some space, some time to warm up.

Don't mind him while he turns half his back to Raylan and takes a swig out of the bottle of moonshine he'd been working on. There's no foul play in this house, no sir. No assertion of any dominance or fucking around with the cowboy props, neither. Just a couple guys having a drink; nothing to see here.

There was very little about Doc that wasn't a conscious deliberate attempt. Even the way he drew away, jabbed his joke, eyes twinkling like he was on the way to playing Santa to some homeless kids. Hell, even the way he drank was a tease, a lure to those that had eyes for it.

And something about it all made Raylan want to rush through food. Grown man like him could clear a sandwich in under thirty seconds.

"I got sandwiches," he said, clearing his throat a little as lazy finger finger points towards the fridge, to follow with a few lazy steps. "Leftover soup and a microwave to get it hot. We got cheese sandwiches, one deli meat and two egg salad sandwiches. What're you hankerin' for?"

"Whatever you're not having." Doc seems content to make do with everyone's leftovers around here, and it's no different when it comes to food. He will try to be helpful at least, offering up a choice if that was too vague. "But egg's fine."

He's not really sure if they ought to be done with the conversation they weren't having about Raylan's assortment of lovers. The people who had gotten hurt deserve a little more than this blasé half-sober attempt that Raylan is putting forward. But he doesn't feel like Raylan wants or actually needs to hear it. Nobody else needs to kick a man while he's already down and beating himself up over his frustrations.

It ain't even any of his business, truth be told. Maybe he can get away with just hanging around and making sure Raylan don't drink himself to death tonight. Help himself to some of that 'shine to ease the load. They're too comfortable with each other's silences for Doc to just not say anything and expect that Raylan will rush in to fill that void. But he expects that one or two things might slip out during or after dinner.

Egg sandwiches and leftover soup. He really knows how to woo a cowboy.

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omg i need to know how doc got all totally human again /popcorn

they took his magic ring :( his preciousssss

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