abrightboy | No One's Born Broken

Malcolm considered the options. "I might be able to do some corn," he finally decided. "And we can get... whatever else you want." He did not want Raylan's meals to ever be limited to what he was up to eating.

"Beer. Definitely beer. But the corn will be plenty. Maybe a couple of dinner rolls too. They're always good to mop up some of the mess." Raylan wasn't going to limit his meal but he would shift things around to the cheapest option he could. He wasn't pressed for money, but he couldn't help old, common sense habits.

Waste for the sake of it was kind of disgusting.

They pulled into the grocery store and Raylan cut off the engine, sliding out to open the back door and get Willa out of her carseat, hefting her up onto his shoulder with a smile and a soft set of words to her before he lifted his eyes to find Malcolm. "Ready?"

Malcolm hesitated, pointing to the backseat. "Do we need the bag or... do we leave it here?" he asked.

Raylan huffed a breath. "She's not going to starve and I checked her diaper before we left. It's okay; we won't need anything from it." With a little tilt of his head, he started them off that way and got a cart, settling Willa down in the child provided seat. He was glad she was old enough to sit up on her own - it made things like this easier.

"Just don't let us leave without the jello."

"Right!"

He'd already forgotten about it.

He hadn't been in one of these big supermarkets since the last time he went with Raylan, before their last trip to Arlo's. He glanced around watchfully, taking it in, staying near Raylan's elbow as he navigated. He had some idea where things were.

Guiding them through, Raylan hit up the produce (for corn) and the nearby meat section for their chicken before they ambled off towards the sauces.

"We'll have to get charcoal too, unless it's a gas grill. I didn't think to check," he commented with a glance over.

"Propane!" Malcolm exclaimed. "It's propane and there's a full tank," he said. He looked at the sauce in the cart. "You can do one without any, right?"

He glanced at the sauce and then the chicken. "I can but it'll be drier for it. You can always peel the skin off, get rid of everything but the grilled in flavor. You ever had lemon pepper? I make a fairly decent lemon pepper chicken too. The south is not lackin' in spices, just in case that wasn't clear."

"...I can take the skin off? Oh. No. That will be okay. Maybe I'll try a little bit of the sauce. Separately."

He glanced up at the next aisle's sign.

"Desserts. They'll have the jello there, right?"

"Always an option," he assured. He glanced up at the sign.

"Should have. Lead the way." After gathering the jello and the beer, Raylan got them into and through the check out and once they had their bags, he headed them towards the car.

"What'd you find on you walk? How'd you spend the afternoon?"

Malcolm hefted one of the bags to settle its weight better and looked over.

"Well, I wandered around a bit, trying to get my bearings. Um, badly. Other than the Lowes, which I initially walked into for the air conditioning, I didn't really go anywhere in particular." He looked at Raylan. "And I'm not sure I could find it again."

He couldn't stop the amused huff of a breath as he popped the trunk with his keys and set the one bag he had in there.

"Not even if you run outta paint? I know exactly where you were," he continued with a nod, having been knowing these streets for a lot longer than Malcolm. "We'll have to map the place out for ya later. While we're talking over escape plans and what you do in any given situation."

He hadn't started these talks with Malcolm yet because they weren't living together and Raylan had been a little suspicious of this having happened at all in the first place. But now that they'd gotten over that particular hurdle, it was gnawing back into the back of his head.

Malcolm chuckled, putting the bag he was holding in the trunk, too.

"What to do in what kind of situations?" he asked. A beat. "Is this about laundry? I'm sure I can figure it out."

"You know, like a fire, tornado, armed men comin' to the door, what to do in a carjacking, Art comin' to the door. Basic stuff." He gave Malcolm a sly smile as he opened the car door, setting his hat on the roof so he could duck in to get Willa in her seat.

Malcolm slid into his seat, turning to look at Raylan as he leaned into the back.

"Raylan... you know I've been in law enforcement for over ten years, right?" he said with an amused lift of his eyebrows.

"Then it won't be hard for ya," he replied back, still totally serious about them having this talk. Slipping back out, Raylan put his hat back on and got into the drivers seat.

"What does the handbook say about engaging possible suspects in your own home, over there at the FBI?"

"You know, I don't remember that being in the handbook," he admitted. "But when I've actually engaged suspects in my own home, I've found it works to keep them talking until help arrives or an opportunity to turn the tables presents itself," he explained matter of factly. "Usually by crawling under their skin." He held up a finger. "That also works with suspects outside my own home. It's sort of my go-to play."

"Crawling under their skin is the short way to gettin' shot, you know that right?" He buckled his seatbelt and turned the engine over. "Least out here it is. In your home or not. You do what they want til you can get a message to me.. Or help arrives. Nothin' we got right now, or anythin' you know worth gettin' shot for."

"But... I can disarm them," Malcolm pointed out. "Myself."

"Verbally?" he clarified as he pulled them onto the road with a glance over. "Self defense is not the same firearm removal, generally speaking."

"Verbally if possible," Malcolm replied. "Physically if necessary."

Raylan's eyes narrowed. "How so?"

Malcolm looked at him with equal confusion.

"....What do you mean? I took self defense. When I was growing up I took aikido and karate because I kept getting beat up after school. And I took judo at Quantico because they were concerned about my ability to take down suspects larger than myself. Which would be a lot of them, statistically."

"What?" Raylan glanced at the road frequently as they talked, not abandoning his task of safety for this apparent secret ninja power that Malcolm had and hadn't shared. "Was that before or after the ballet? Or did you like.. squeeze it in between pirouettes? I only know what one of those are, and the other two sound like the first."

Well. He watched John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, not Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan.

"Um, I started taking martial arts after ballet. After my dad was arrested, the bullying was worse than when I took ballet. Which is interesting, from a social psychology standpoint. But the third time in two weeks that I came home with a black eye or bloodied nose, my mother enrolled me in a course. ...And also a different school." He looked over at Raylan. "I was the FBI's go-to guy for the most twisted murders and serial killers they had for ten years," he reminded Raylan. "My close rate was over eighty percent compared to a national average close rate on murder investigations of only sixty percent." He had to have some self-defense skills, right? What with all the confronting murderers?

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