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Who: Raylan Givens and Rachel Conway
WhatThe Militia Is Up to No Good and Sucks Anyway: a tale recounted by Rachel Conway
Where: Rachel's apartment, Raven's Gate
When: backdated to Veerdi
Notes: takes place in the evening of this day
Warnings: will update if/as needed

She's paranoid now, following that run-in with the Militia. Rachel thinks she's probably being ridiculous, but she can't be sure she is, so. Better safe than sorry.

Or in jail.

Just in case they're still somehow watching or keeping tabs on her to see how she reacts to today, she doesn't dare use the video or voice on her CiD. She doesn't want prying eyes or ears to have enough context to hang her.

She goes over and over what to say, drafting and deleting and tweaking the message about half a dozen times before she's satisfied and sends it:

Are you free tonight? Can you come over to my place after you get off work? I really want to see you.

It works, she thinks. Without her face or voice to give anything away the message is perfectly innocuous: it reads like she's arranging an end-of-the-workweek date. And she's sure once he hears what she has to say, Raylan will forgive her the bit of subterfuge, the lack of warning that there was anything else going on.

(Besides, the message, while meant to hide another agenda, is still factually true. She really does want to see him.)

A little while later there's a volley of texts between them: yes, he's free, he'll come over, she'll send out for dinner if he'd like, he'll be there at seven. That leaves her enough time to get home and changed, to pour herself two fingers of whiskey and set out another glass for him, and to pace the living room until he turns up.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I'll see what I can turn up." There's a small risk it will draw attention back to Mog Hill, but Rayaln's fairly certain the militia will know he and Rachel are friends, if not more. It won't be hard to put two and two together if someone digs, but it's less risky than her just calling it.

"If it does come down to calling it, nothing strictly wrong with just making a phone call. But I can understand wanting to play it safe under the circumstances."

She feels better knowing he gets why she was so wary, that he wasn't dismissive of it. The whole thing had set her on edge, dredged up nearly-forgotten suspicions and distrust.

"Yeah, unless you can tell me, flat-out, that there's some good reason not to call whoever it is, I'll probably do it. I'm not gonna learn anything just studying that piece of paper." It's not likely it was a mistake, so either someone wants to test her or someone really did want her to have the number. There's a reason, then, for her having it, and not knowing has never been her strong suit.

He smiles, crooked. "Can you wait a day?" If not, well, he's not going to actively stop her. But he finds it easier telling other people to be careful than actually doing it himself.

She grins up at him, nodding, realizing how I'm just gonna rush ahead that sounded.

"Yes. I can even wait a couple of days, so you don't have to rush checking this out."

"I won't leave it too long," he promises, returning her smile. "But I'll do everything I can meanwhile."

"Thanks. I appreciate that." And she leans up to kiss him again, to underscore that declaration.

He draws her to him, kissing her a bit more properly. "You do seem very appreciative," he joked as they broke.

She laughs, downright mischievous. "Well. I could show you just how appreciative, but there's a delivery guy due here any minute. That could get awkward. And I should at least feed you, first."

"Curse you, Baedal equivalent of chicken fried rice," he said, laughing. "I guess I can behave until the food gets here."

He touches his knuckles to the back of her cheek. "You alright, really?"

The words are right there, I'm just fine, her usual instinct to smooth things over not even a habit any more, second nature.

But she hid things before and that could have turned out even more disastrously than it did. It's not worth the risk. Especially not when there doesn't seem to be any need to hide things anymore.

"...I'm really angry about it," she admits, her expression softening. "And it rattled me pretty good, too. I feel all... paranoid. A little scared, too."

"Hell, it's worth being angry over," he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. "This place... I think it tries to lull you, sometimes, but it's really kind of fucked here. I don't even mean the monsters, though they don't help."

Rachel sighs, nodding slowly. "You've been trying to tell me that as long as I've known you. And you're right. This place is really fucked up."

She reaches up, putting her hand over his where it rests on her shoulder. "And I think it has lulled me. It gets you down if you let it, wears you to the point where you don't want to fight. But I was thinking today about how I used to be when I first got here. When you and I first met. I wanted answers and I wanted to know what was going on around here. But I guess somewhere in there I got so complacent what happened today came as a total surprise." She frowns, a tiny scowl. "I want answers again."

He smiles a little. "Not your fault. Hard to stay angry all the time. You gotta make rent, and all these things pop up here and there. But I think it's good. Wanting answers. Reminding yourself it ain't okay. None of this."

"Yeah, I guess," she relents. "I mean, if there's anything good to come of this, I guess it's that it reminded me not to be so complacent."

There's a knock at the door, heralding the delivery boy's arrival; it also summons George, who comes flying out of the bedroom at full speed and bark. "George-- Shhhh. It's dinner." She looks up at Raylan. "Why don't you go sit down, see if you can convince the burglar alarm here to follow you, while I deal with dinner?"

"Sounds good. Come on, George." Raylan's good with dogs, and George isn't generally a hard one to please - even if he'd rather be with his mistress, Raylan can coax him away with the promise of some attention.

When Rachel comes in with the food, they're fast friends already.

"It's funny," he says, "I was just about to ask you if you found anywhere good to run him, which considering your comment about being complacent is a little ironic."

She laughs as she settles in beside him, handing over a plate and going after the takeout containers with a fistful of silverware, popping each one open and sticking a fork or spoon in for digging out its contents.

"It's funny you should ask that, and I'm going to ignore now neatly it might tie into that complacency I'm trying to shake off. I just put a down payment on a townhouse in Flyside, I can hopefully move in after the first of the month. It's got a yard, I can put in one of those dog flaps and George won't have to be cooped up all day long."

George, right on cue, leans into her as if he knows he's being talked about. And also, perhaps, to remind her he's right there should she want to drop anything out of one of these containers, he's just saying.

"And it's closer to Jack's offices so I won't be on the train all day long getting back and forth."

"You need any help moving?" he asks, digging into the carton that's full of something vaguely like lo mien, if you ignore the vegetables in colors earth vegetables don't come in. "I can probably get someone to cover at Thames if you need me."

She pauses, fork primed to spear a piece of sweet and sour chicken (it totally is, if you ignore the sauce is gooey and blue) out of the carton in her other hand, eyebrows raised.

"Most people run the other direction when a friend says they're moving," she observes, clearly teasing him, "but here you are offering to rearrange your schedule. You must really like being appreciated."

Her expression softens, and she gives him a gentle nudge with her arm. "If it doesn't put you and your coworkers out too much, I would appreciate some help. The realtor has a guy with a big carriage or cart or something but I might need some help getting things up and down stairs."

"Nah, they can get by without me for a day. I think it is traditional, though, to pay your friends in beer if they're helping you muscle a couch up more than three steps."

That's a rule, right?

"You won't be the first person I've helped move. It's no trouble."

It's totally a rule! Also, moving is stressful, so:

"Don't worry, I was planning on there being a lot of beer. And dinner. It's the least I can do."

"Sounds like a fair shake to me. Maybe you can return the favor some day." If he ever moves into a real house.

"I will," she assures him as she goes back to excavating the contents of the takeout container in her hand.

"And you know you're as welcome over there as you are here, any time." She laughs. "Maybe next time I have you over for dinner I'll actually have a table and chairs, instead of having you balance a plate on your knees."

"Don't worry about it," he laughs. "Really, I've had less formal than this. We've got actual furniture to sit on."

"Well, still."

She switches one container out for another. "From what little I know of Thames," she says, poking warily at its contents (she's sure it's fine, it's just the colors of things around here sometimes), "they go good work there. Do you like working with them?"

"I do," he says, relaxing a bit into the couch. "Feels a bit less like I've sold out - not to get down on my boss, but deputy sheriffing sometimes feels a bit like patting the populace on the head so they'll look the other way. I don't know if I do a lot of good over at Thames, but I try. Sometimes people, specially new arrivals, just don't know what the laws even are here. I do what I can. And," wry, "if nothing else, they need someone to file paperwork when things are slow."