abrightboy | No One's Born Broken

Malcolm leaned over the counter, watching Raylan pick up the baby and set her free. Something about the conversation was lingering in his mind, too.

"Raylan... you know you can tell me how you feel about something and I'll still love you, right? Even if we don't agree?" He hesitated, watching him. "I want to know how you feel about things. It matters. I want to know what you think. Just... in general. I'm not trying to pry anything in particular out of you. I just feel like... you worry about how voicing your thoughts will impact us."

As Raylan stood back up, he took off his hat and moved it around in his hands as he ambled towards the coat rack that would hold it. Malcolm was closer to the mark than Raylan would like but if anyone could be excused in being there, it was Malcolm. He didn't hesitate to make eye contact naturally as he came back around to Malcolm's side of the counter and started getting into the bags.

He didn't know how to respond. Malcolm had neatly hit a few pins on the head with a clinical kind of bluntness that Raylan was used to bearing its own painful barbs. Except he didn't hear or feel any, and there was no reason for him to get defensive. Still, that wall was a hard one to bring down.

"Growin' up with Arlo.. Talking too loud could get you beat. Not talking loud enough could get you beat. A look was enough to set him off regardless of whether he'd been drinkin' or not. I learned to keep my mouth shut." And he knew Malcolm was miles upon miles away from Arlo, he didn't expect Malcolm to snap and beat him, but it was the only explanation he had.

He didn't want to lose Malcolm because he had an opinion that started a fight or an argument, all because Raylan had to open his mouth and be an asshole.

Malcolm nodded. "I understand," he said simply. "That's called 'conditioning'." He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Raylan's cheekbone, resting a hand lightly on his arm where it wouldn't stop the busy work of his hands, and he kept it there. "It's well documented that children who witness spousal abuse of one of their parents suffer the same psychological effects as those who are abused themselves. And you had to deal with both." He considered Raylan's face while he let that hang there for a moment. "And I'm not sure your last marriage wasn't without... an element of that atmosphere, too? That was how you'd experienced 'love' all your life; how could you be expected to think it could look any other way? Compared to Arlo, only getting a little emotionally stepped on would seem downright pleasant."

The kiss was unexpected but Raylan took it with a faint tilt into the passing warmth. He had a hard time separating pity and compassion and sympathy when it came to himself, and while he knew that Malcolm was more than in the last two categories than the first, Raylan couldn't help his own self defense.

"I'm not lookin' for pity," he clarified, trying to make it a softer statement, but his jaw and it's subtle tightness showed just how strange this kind of reassurance was. Somehow, he'd long settled on the bullshit of his childhood homelife, but Winona and his failed marriage had.. skipped that step of understanding.

"My last marriage?" he questioned lightly, pulling a soft smirk as he stepped away to pull the trash can over and lean against the counter with it between his feet as he started shucking the corn. "It didn't start that way. I know how it looks." Disapproving, by and large.

"I didn't talk to her after I signed the papers. Didn't ask why until years later. When she decided, we fought for hours before I left. Didn't look back til I ended up back here." That was all to say - talking still wasn't his strongest skill, even with the people he loved.

"I'm glad you're not looking for pity, because I'm not offering it," Malcolm said plainly. "I know exactly how much it helps: not at all." Let the poor, frail Whitly boy explain it. "But I have a good feeling about your next marriage, whenever and whoever you choose for that..." he teased lightly.

His expression sobered at the story about Winona.

"You're allowed to be hurt by someone rejecting you and I'm sure it was rosier at the beginning than at the end, but... she wanted you to be someone you never had been. She still wants that. She loved part of you and never accepted the rest. I need you to understand the difference here, because I love you. All this complicated mess of human being," he explained, making a gesture to encompass Raylan. "I'm not saying you have to tell me everything. This isn't some kind of ultimatum. I just want you to understand the difference so you feel like you can tell me anything. You don't need to bite your tongue. I'll love you just as much when you're annoyed or sarcastic or stubborn as I do when you're happy or sweet or excited."

He didn't think Arlo was the only factor here and he needed to clearly draw the comparison.

Raylan nodded a little to his reassurance as he settled into his supper prepping, hand busying task. The mention of his next marriage made him smile sidelong before it slipped away under the rest of their conversation. But the further Malcolm got into his statement, Raylan's hands stilled, one staying around the corn cob that was idly propped stem end on his leg. The open admission that Raylan was, in fact, a complicated mess brought the soft curl of a smile back for a passing second.

"You haven't seen me in full asshole mode," he half teased, eyes equally half mooned by the slight amusement that curled around his features before he nodded with a more somber expression.

"I don't wanna say somethin' stupid and get you thinkin' that I feel or think somethin' that I don't. When people don't mind what they're sayin', hurtful stuff falls out. There's stuff I don't agree with that's been done to you, and stuff that you do that I don't particularly care for. Puttin' murderers above your own life and well bein', for instance. But I can't just tell you to deal with bein' strapped into an apartment and I got no better answer to offer."

Malcolm smiled down at the counter, then looked up at Raylan.

"Well, you are not alone in those dislikes so maybe I should give them more thought," he conceded. He reached up to set his hand along Raylan's jaw and pressed a tender kiss to his mouth. "Though, technically, it's murder victims that I put above my own life and well being. But point taken."

That was enough peeling of psyches for one day. He didn't want to be pushy, he just wanted to be clear that his love was in no way conditional on Raylan's mood or opinions and he did not need to keep his mouth shut.

He gestured to the corn. "What are you doing here? Show me what to do."

His free hand moved around Malcolm's waist, pulling him against his side as he was kissed.

"I think you'd make a lotta people worry a little less," he admitted softly. Malcolm's affection had that effect on him. At the mention of the corn, Raylan quirked a grin. "They don't teach corn shuckin' up in New York?"

He jerked his head towards the bag where the other two ears were. "Grab one." Once his arms were empty, he held up his half shucked cob. "We're pulling the husk and silk."

Instead of detailing, Raylan opted to just show Malcolm, by jerking the second of three sides down before following with the third and breaking it all off at the root.

"You wanna learn how to grill too? It's really not that hard."

"I would love that," Malcolm said, pulling the husk off the corn. He gestured to the top. "The silk is hard to get off," he noted, peeling off the last bunch one or two at a time. "If I learn how to grill, I can make you something to eat when you come home late," he mused happily.

"You don't have to worry about it bein' perfect. You get better at gettin' more of it the more you do." He looked up from under his eyebrows at Malcolm, face still curled in a smile.

"You could. Though you don't ever haveta. I can manage to feed myself if I have to. Normally I don't eat that late anyway, unless I was too busy to get lunch. Which happens more than I'd like. You can also make all the grilled chicken that your tiny stomach could desire."

Raylan looked at his watch. "We've got an hour or two before we need to start the grill, unless you're hungry now."

"I'm never hungry," Malcolm said with casual matter-of-factness. "But that's the thing. I don't mean at, like, two in the morning, but... seven or eight o'clock? Throw something on there? Have a drink on the terrace while it cooks? Seems like a nice night. I don't enjoy consuming food but I do like having dinner with you. Sharing a meal is one of the oldest bonding rituals in human history."

"Gotta offer," he replied with a curl of his smile. "You don't have to be hungry for it to enjoy cooking it. And I like it too." Eating alone was efficient but a little sad, overall.

"I'm gonna get a beer. Would you like anythin'? I could do with some of your music while I cook too. Since we're opening horizons and all."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "I'll have a couple fingers of scotch," he said, turning to go over to the stereo, putting on the first song on whichever playlist was up. It was his bathroom painting soul playlist, still.

He looked over at Raylan. "Can we bring the playpen out onto the terrace? So she can enjoy it too? It'll fit at the opposite end from the barbeque so she isn't near the hazards."

Setting the corn off to the side, Raylan went about that with a nod and a half shrug as he answered, glancing up from pouring out the scotch at the music with a curl of his lips.

"Yeah, the fresh air will be good for her. We just gotta keep her outta the smoke. I wouldn't wanna leave her inside anyway. Never too early to teach her how to flip chicken," he continued with a grin as he grabbed a bottle of beer and popped it open.

"There a manual for that grill? Or did the sales guy tell you how to work the specifics?"

"The shelf to the right of the grill flips up and the book is in there," Malcolm told him as he slipped out onto the terrace to move the chair over so the playpen would be adjacent to the couch and well away from the barbeque when they brought it out. As he stepped back inside, he said "The guy made it sound simple enough, though. Turn on the tank, turn the knobs, press the ignition." He shrugged. "I don't know if that's easier or harder than normal."

He'd read it when he got out there then. In the meantime, he set up a short brine and was lowering the chicken into the bowl full of spiced, salted water as Malcolm came back in.

"Generally, they tend to be and are basically the same, but knowin' the proper way to fire it up will make me look like less of an asshole when I try," he conceded with a smile as he threw away the packaging and turned around to wash his hands.

"Where'd you pick up music like this? It ain't bad."

"I saw a tribute show in college. I found the music really relaxing, so I looked up the originals. I listen to a lot of different music, but I really feeling this playlist this week. It's kind of happy and sad at the same time," Malcolm said, picking up the glass Raylan poured him. "If you want to grab Willa, I can take the playpen."

Working on wrapping the corn in foil, Raylan watched him sidelong with a faint lift of the edges of his lips.

"Always figured you'd be in to Fish, or Mozart." Now, he'd have to pay more attention to the lyrics of stuff that Malcolm played.

"Yeah, I'll grab her. Set you two up and I can start moving the food out there too."

It was finally quiet for them, it felt like. Like this would be what their domestic life could really be like. He wanted more of it. Moving towards the living room, setting his beer down on the coffee table long enough to pick Willa up with a soft talkative "Hey sweetheart, what'cha doin'?"

He gathered his beer and kept the conversation going as he headed outside. "I hope you don't mind country."

"I don't mind Mozart, I guess, but unless you know how to dance a Saltarello, I prefer Queen," he teased, picking up the playpen to follow him. "I haven't heard much country, but my tastes are broad and if it makes me think of you, even better," he said with a grin, setting the playpen down in the space he'd vacated.

"I can do a half decent two step but I wouldn't push it much past that," he admitted with a smirk as he idly bounced Willa in his arm. "I normally just listen to what's on the radio. Concerts weren't somethin' I ever really had an interest in. Too many people. Too many drunk stupid assholes like myself too," he continued, setting Willa down into the playpen before reaching for Malcolm and a brief kiss.

"So you'll get to pop that cherry when you find someone you wanna go see live," he promised with a pat of Malcolm's hip before heading inside to get the chicken, a sheet pan and the corn.

Malcolm met the kiss with a faint hum of approval, grinning at Raylan's comment about popping his concert cherry.

"Well, if that's the case, I'll makes sure it's something more exciting than Mozart," he joked as Raylan headed in, sitting down on the couch with his glass, watching Willa explore the side of the playpen with her little fingers.

Returning with the drained chicken, the pan and a roll of paper towels under his arm, Raylan set it all down to pull out the user manual and start flipping through it. Go figure that the man that wouldn't read case files unless he had to would sink into paper that wasn't work. Still, he didn't bother with anything beyond the proper way to light it, fiddling with the knobs as he muttered to himself before the manual was folded and tucked into his back pocket.

Two minutes later, the grill was flaming up and Raylan was grinning as he turned around to look at Malcolm before coming to fetch his beer.

"It works, imagine that."

"Mm. I'd be having words with someone at that store if it didn't," he mused with a grin.

The man who did read files voraciously hadn't touched the manual.

"So do you soak the chicken before any kind of cooking?" For some reason, he'd thought it was a frying thing.

"I won't ask, so don't tell me." Raylan shuddered to think of the pricetag of fully furnishing an apartment, complete with grill, and he still hadn't come around to bother bothering himself with it.

"Any soak is better than none. Makes the chicken less dry. Better to soak it for a few hours at least but twenty or thirty minutes is good enough if that's what you gotta do. Seeps into the meat. I have to dry them off before they go on the grill. Dripping wet meat cooks unevenly. We keep this up, one day you can cook for your family and watch their jaws drop through the floor."

Malcolm laughed lightly.

"Right. Even if I cook a five star cordon bleu meal, my mother's jaw will be dropping in horror before she compares me to a line cook at a greasy spoon."

He took a sip of his drink.

"Do you have to stand over it all the time or will you be able to come sit with me?" he asked. Because if necessary, he would go stand over there with Raylan.

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