You can have my girl, but don't touch my hat [OPEN]

[toooldforlosing]

Who: Raylan Givens AND YOU
What: Out and about! Let me know where you're running into him.
Where: Mog Hill, mainly, and the environs.
When: All day Coardi
Notes: Despite his inner rage, he'll be friendly and polite enough to new (and old) acquaintances. Feel free to assume he's doing any of the things mentioned below, but if you want him for other plots, just hit me by PM or on plurk (prettiestwhistles)
Warnings: None for now

Raylan is angry. There are some who might argue Baedal has nothing to do with that, but it's different here than it was at home. He's a prisoner, even if his prison is city-sized. Even if he's free to run every morning (like he does) and go to the bar every night (...which he usually does too, though more for eavesdropping and brooding than to get properly drunk). Working for the sheriff feels like collusion, but at least Norrington hasn't asked him to do anything he can't do, so far.

The militia's broadcast had turned his stomach, but he doesn't know whose brain to put a bullet into for that. A criminal, even a band of criminals... you can fight that, he thinks. A corrupt government that rules by martial law - that's something else again.

So he gets up, goes for a run, works his beat, goes shopping for goddamn groceries, spends his evenings in bars, and bites down on how much this place rubs him wrong.

He thinks he'd best not get questioned by the militia again, because he doesn't know if he'll be able to keep his mouth shut. But even those who don't know him well might be able to identify a man with an itchy trigger finger.

Comments

[toooldforlosing]

"Sounds like," he agreed. "I can think of worse ways to spend the rest of the evening."

This is probably veering off into bad idea territory, but he doesn't particularly care.

[gotbottle]

Neither does she. She laughs, and points out, "Earlier, you were saying we both could use something nice. I think this counts. Indulging yourself and having some fun counts."

[toooldforlosing]

"Well, then, if it's in the name of sanity." That excused everything.

[gotbottle]

"See, there you go. Can't argue with that." Not that she would, anyway.

They walk about another block and a half before she looks up at him again. "Is there a bar between here and your place?"

[toooldforlosing]

"Directly? No. A couple not too far out of the way, though."

[gotbottle]

"Well... if it's not too far."

She grins.

"A liquor store would also do. It'd be rude of me to deprive your sock drawer of too much of its stash."

[toooldforlosing]

"Love a woman who's always game for more liquor," he says, amused. "There's one of those close. Come on." Especially if she wants anything that's not whiskey.

[gotbottle]

She laughs, looking up at him. "And I love a guy who's not all scandalized by a woman game for more liquor. Lead the way; the liquor store, then your place, and then the drinking can begin in earnest."

[toooldforlosing]

So he does: Raylan is apparently enough of a regular that the liquor store employee knows him, but not so much of a regular they're reluctant to sell him anything.

His place is a neat but sparse room in a bed and breakfast type establishment - little more than a large bedroom with a desk and a small attached bathroom. It's fairly clear he did not pick the bedclothes or the curtains, as they're a bit old-timey lace for Raylan's presumed tastes.

"Home sweet sort-of-home," he says as he lets her in.

[gotbottle]

She notes, as they reach the place, that he's traded one temporary quarters situation for another. But she doesn't say anything; as much as she's tried to encourage--and subscribes to herself--the idea that settling in isn't the same as giving up and doesn't mean you let the city win, she knows he had a harder time with that idea than she has. She's not about to call him out on it. He'll come around or he won't, in his own time and on his own terms, and that's that.

"I think this might actually be bigger than my place," she says, grinning, turning to face him. "That's the only way I can afford a place so close to the harbor, is renting such a tiny spot. So. Where do you keep the glasses? Or am I showing you the depth of my classy rearing and doing this straight out of the bottle?"

[toooldforlosing]

"I got a glass," he said, "so you can have that if you want." But, evidently, only the one.

[gotbottle]

She watches him for a long moment, one eyebrow raised.

And then she goes for the plastic bag, digging out a bottle of vodka. "I'm far too much a lady to take your only glass," she declares, taking the bottle in hand and twisting the cap loose. "But I do appreciate the offer all the same."

She smiles a smile full of good humor and mischief before raising the bottle to her lips.

[toooldforlosing]

"Well, if we've each got a bottle, I say we're too late into the evening to worry about it." He fetched his bourbon (old one first, though he'd bought more). "You know, growing up, the fact this is liquor made somewhere other than someone's basement would count as fancy."

[gotbottle]

"Some guys in my dorm tried to make bathtub gin once," she replies, walking over to the little table and plucking up the wicker chair there. She lifts it with one hand so it doesn't drag across the floor and she plants it near his bed--there's nowhere else to sit and no matter what's actually crossed her mind a time or two (dozen) she is not actually going to just hop into his bed, thanks.

"They, like, watched gangster movies and got all these ideas. Two of them wound up in the hospital. So being able to properly make your own booze is pretty damn classy, to me."

[toooldforlosing]

He settles on the edge of his bed, near but not too near her.

"I don't know about classy. Making stuff that doesn't strike people blind does take skill, though."

[gotbottle]

"Yeah, that's always a good thing to have," she says, laughing and raising her bottle. "Here's to skill, then. And, like-- not poisoning people, I guess."

She takes another drink, regarding him thoughtfully. "Was it weird, being transferred back home? Or were you happy to be there again?"

[toooldforlosing]

He makes a bit of a face as he lowers the bottle. "Couldn't say I was thrilled, no. It was, uh. I didn't have a lot of options."

[gotbottle]

"...Oh. Sorry." She offers him a sympathetic little smile before taking another pull off her bottle.

"I remember I couldn't get out of home fast enough. I got accepted to college up in San Francisco and I never looked back. I think it would've been weird to have to go back."

[toooldforlosing]

"Yeah." There was a lot of baggage, in Kentucky, and he'd been just as happy to imagine never returning, while he'd been gone. "Still.... better Lexington than Baedal, I guess."

[gotbottle]

"Yeah." She sighs, shaking her head, grip firm around the neck of the bottle in her hand. "Yeah, I'd have still taken Santa Barbara, warts and all, over this place. Too bad we weren't offered the choice, huh?"

[toooldforlosing]

"Major design flaw. Someone should get on that," he suggests with a bitter little smile.

[gotbottle]

"Yeah."

Her sad little smile echoes his--and if there's a touch of concern for him at its edges she's not admitting it.

"Hey, maybe I'll rise far enough in politics here that I can get after somebody about that. You never know."

[toooldforlosing]

"Better you than me," he says, with a small laugh. "Just don't let the power go to your head."

[gotbottle]

"I won't, I promise," she replies, laughing. She balances the bottle on her knee, and adds, a bit more seriously, "I promised myself I wouldn't let this place change me too much."

[toooldforlosing]

"Not a bad goal. I think ever place changes you, though, whether you want it to or not." He certainly didn't feel quite the same, himself.