abrightboy | The Lengths That I Would Go To

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The Lengths That I Would Go To

The killer was moving around the country. Malcolm Bright could see the pattern, but he wasn't working for the FBI these days and they weren't exactly taking his calls. Short sighted of them, but they did fire him on suspicion of being crazy. The NYPD's jurisdiction was New York. With the killer beyond its borders, they handed it upwards and left it at that.

Let it go, Bright, had been Gil's sage advice. You can't catch every killer in America single-handedly.

Challenge accepted, some part of him retorted, though he'd only nodded mutely and forced a smile. Gil knew he hadn't simply let it go, but he wasn't going to have him followed to stop him doing anything stupid, either. He didn't have the will or the resources to keep tabs on Malcolm Bright 24/7 and Malcolm Bright knew it.

His mother, on the other hand, had extensive resources, so he simply didn't tell her he was leaving town. He did arrange for Ainsley to feed his bird, so the truth would come out eventually, but he'd be several states away by then.

He rode the bus. There was something oddly comforting about the anonymity of being in a crowd of strangers who had no interest in him whatsoever. He stared out the window and watched the country go by. When he stepped off the Greyhound in Lexington, Kentucky, he walked to a nearby hotel and checked in, then headed straight to the US Marshals office. There was no point in trying to talk to the FBI. If he was going to stop a killer from killing again, he needed someone in law enforcement to listen to him. The pattern suggested the next murder would happen in one of the rural communities around Lexington and it would be precipitated by a young woman's disappearance. He needed law enforcement with local knowledge, specifically.

He wandered into the Marshals' offices in a tidy three piece suit, charcoal grey with a burgundy tie perfectly knotted at his collar. He got a few suspicious sidelong glances but nobody asked if they could help him. He cleared his throat.

"Um, hello? I'm wondering if there's anyone here I can talk to about murder." He held up his hands. "Stopping murder, specifically, not... like... smalltalk."

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"His grave was the most recent. ...Did he buy his own stone with stolen cows or did he just have.... extra ones hanging around?" Malcolm asked, shrugging off his own jacket to hang it on the back of his chair, which would only accentuate that he showed up in Kentucky in a proper bespoke three piece suit.

He took a seat at the table, but didn't open the beer.

"Was there context for his last remark, or was it a sort of... general sentiment?" he added curiously.

Raylan scoffed a chuckle. "He bought 'em in bulk, all on the same day." He hated Arlo as much as a son could hate their father while not denying them, but there was and would always be a little respect for the way Arlo was. If only because he was terribly like his father, with much smarter life choices.

Generally speaking. Some would say Raylan was just as stupid.

Malcolm's 3 piece was not overlooked, earning another amused tilt of Raylan's expression. He'd noted it before but without the jacket, it drew much more attention.

"Both. Stubborn old bastard wouldn't help stop something with his dying breath." Raylan didn't add 'Not even for me' because with Arlo Givens, that didn't really mean much. "Died in a prison bed after shanking one guard and slitting another's throat before catching one himself from another prisoner." Couldn't have happened to a more deserving person, he thought.

"That what you always wear to this kinda work? Three piece suits? A few days and I'll bet money you'll lose that waistcoat or jacket. Gets hot out here, ya know."

Malcolm's attention perked up a little when Raylan mentioned his father had died in a prison hospital, but he didn't comment on it. He wasn't going to go offering information about his own father, in a hospital prison for the rest of his life.

He looked down at what he felt was his understated suit and tie, running a hand down the front of his waistcoat.

"I have... other clothes," he said. "At the hotel." A beat. "But yes. Is the answer to your question." It helped that his colleagues in New York also felt he overdressed.

"Who you dressing up for? The corpses or an M.E.?"

Malcolm didn't seem like the type who would do interoffice romances, seeing how as he didn't have an office, which left Raylan with a few choices. A cop on the Force or someone that interacts with the bodies and crime scenes.

"Um," he looked confused by the question. "None of the above?" Though their M.E. did have a crush on him, so maybe it had unintended side effects? "I suppose," he mused, clearly turning his analyzing eyes on himself in real time, "that anyone that's a bit of a mess on the inside can pretend they're not by being well put together on the outside."

Judging by the tone Gil had used on the phone, Raylan was guessing that was more true than Malcolm might like to admit.

How's that going for ya.

"That what your prescription is for? Internal mess?" He just needed to know if he needed to sleep with his bat or hide all the sharp edged things.

"Some of them," he conceded.

A beat and he held up a finger.

"That's not to imply that our Medical Examiner isn't worth impressing, I just..." He paused and waved it off. "You don't care. Anyway, my chemical balance will survive until tomorrow."

Raylan couldn't help but chuckle, eyebrows lifting with a gentle shake of his head.

"There are plenty a Medical Examiner that's worth impressing," he replied knowingly with a tone of experience behind the chuckle. "I'm sure it ain't that bad, hell - the shit I seen drunk people do? You can't beat drunken crazy with bored 'good ol' boys' out here, I tell you what."

"Anyway, this place has got it's own bedrooms so no one hasta sleep on a couch. The sheets are relatively fresh too, no one's slept in 'em but it's been a good month since I've been here. I know this ain't no Hilton, but I promise the mattresses are comfortable."

Malcolm looked up at the ceiling.

"How many bedrooms?" he asked, trying to judge how they might be arranged.

"Four, and a small terrace off the Master. You mighta seen that on the way in." Raylan looked up at the ceiling with him. "We never had enough people to fill 'em. Arlo didn't talk about his daddy or his daddy's daddy - I think the Givens clan just.. whitered to be honest. Bunch of drunk criminals ain't worth the tax they pay. Better that it ends here, ya know? Where it started. Without my ass involved."

Malcolm looked at him.

"I don't know if that's true. Weren't your mother and aunt worth something? Maybe they could have been the influence going forward if you were there to steer things in that direction," Malcolm observed.

He paused and looked up.

"Do you sleep in the master?"

"Just cause they were unlucky enough to love Arlo and me doesn't make them responsible or part of all the shit that Arlo got into. They suffered it. Him. The McKinley clan are hill people and are still pissed at the Givens name for how Arlo got her off said hill."

Raylan shook his head, taking another drink of his beer.

"Nothing really good happened here. No reason to pretend it did. Plus, I got an ex-wife that's much closer to town."

The following question made his face turn down with a shake of his head - not a displeased or bothered look, just like it would never happen or cross his mind.

"Nah, I use one of the guest rooms or the couch, whichever I hit first."

"Clearly there are a lot of politics at play here that I don't understand, but if shedding the skin of your past frees you from a burden, I'm hardly the person to condemn it," he remarked, considering how he might calculate the furthest bedroom from Raylan without knowing which one he was using.

Raylan scoffed. "Condemn all you like, ain't gonna change the wind." He took another drink just to break things up before continuing.

"But I'm not here to tell you any stories, ghost or otherwise. C'mon, I'll show you your sleepin' options." He had a feeling he was going to couch it. New, strange people in his house tended to not make him completely comfortable.

"You'll even get the bathroom to yourself."

Raylan and his beer gave Malcolm the 'grand' tour, ending back at the top of the stairs.

"I'll be up for a bit, if you're not looking to go down now, but I don't wanna pin you down in smalltalk. I hate when people do it to me." He headed down regardless, leaving Malcolm to his own decisions.

Malcolm frowned faintly and followed Raylan downstairs.

"You're... not sleeping upstairs?"

"You ain't even bought me dinner yet," he replied with an amused look from under his eyebrows as he and his boots hit the landing. "Trust me, there isn't a couch I met I haven't been able to sleep well on."

"Right. Okay," Malcolm said, still lingering on the bottom step. "So...those rooms are all up for grabs," he confirmed, pointing at the ceiling.

"Take your pick. Just let me know which one so I can run the sheets through the washer come morning. Do me a favor and don't look in any of the dresser drawers. Haven't quite gotten to clearing all of them out, so I'm also not completely sure what is in there."

"Okay. Sure. Um. Good night," he offered with a bit of a wave, then headed upstairs. He poked his head into the master, but that balcony was a liability. If he couldn't keep himself in bed, he could do a header right off of it.

The next room was in a corner and not close to the top of the stairs or, by his estimation, over the living room. It would do.

He took off his jacket, tie and waistcoat, hanging them over a chair in the room. Then he took off his shoes and socks, stuffing his socks into his shoes and putting them under the chair. Fewer tripping hazards.

He went around the bed, tightly tucking in the sheets like a hotel bed, hoping it was enough to keep him in. He carefully wriggled into the bed.

In the dark, he could hear the noises of the countryside. Crickets, cicadas. It wasn't long before he fell asleep.

It was only three hours later he began thrashing in his sleep. It wouldn't have been obvious elsewhere in the house at first, but there was a loud crash as he managed to struggle out of the bed, tumbling to the floor, then a scream.

Then he bolted blindly into the hallway.

Raylan lazily saluted Malcolm as they parted ways and headed towards the porch. He wanted to finish his beer out in the quiet of the evening where he could mull the case they were working on over in his head. It had progressed fairly quickly and Raylan needed to process it all. Think about where someone like that was likely to take someone where they wouldn't be bothered.

Within 45 minutes, he was back inside and peeling off his boots and his button up plaid. After fetching a pillow and blanket from a closet, he laid out on the couch he'd spent too many nights on and slipped into an easy sleep.

The slight rocking of the bed made its way oh so faintly through the floor but it was the crash that woke Raylan up. "What the-" The scream that followed was more than enough to hurry along him throwing off his blanket and snatching his gun up as he ran up the stairs.

There wasn't time to say anything - not with Malcolm hurtling towards him. Raylan did the only thing he could think of. Tackle first, ask questions later. The gun was dropped onto the floor as he launched himself forwards; he wasn't gonna be shooting any guests today, if he had anything to say about it and he sure as shit wasn't looking to get shot by them either.

Malcolm, still asleep, still trapped in a nightmare, was suddenly constrained by Raylan's body. He stuggled, though what he seemed to struggle against didn't really match what was happening.

"Open this door!" he howeled. "Let me out!"

With Malcolm down, Raylan slid over his chest to keep Malcolm from turning or thrashing too much as he grabbed each hand as it swung at him. "Hey, hey hey hey." The word came out louder and louder as Raylan tried to wake him up, his name slipping in between the 'Hey's.

"Malcolm!"

What the fuck was going on? Raylan had heard of nightmares, he'd had a few himself, but nothing like this.

Malcolm suddenly seemed to startle awake, wide-eyed and breathless in fear, looking around for whatever had been assailing him and seeing nothing familiar.

His eyes found Raylan's face and he blinked, then, finally seeming to understand what was happening, he let his head drop back to rest on the floor.

"Sorry," he said, swallowing hard. "I woke you up, didn't I."

Raylan waited a second, wild eyes searching Malcolm's face and slowly let the man's wrists go before dismounting from his straddle and flopping down on his ass to rake a hand through his equally wild hair.

"Normally I save sleep for after screamin' and thrashin'." Yeah, that softly dissatisfied pinch of his face was going to be there for a few minutes.

"Did you break anything in your attempts to get through the floor the old fashioned way? You wanna tell me what all this is?" As he asked, that index finger came back out to circle uselessly towards the floor.

"Pavor nocturnes," Malcolm said as he pushed himself up to sitting, flexing his left arm slightly; yeah that was probably where he'd landed. He looked at Raylan, tossing his head to throw his hair out of his face. "Night terrors," he translated. "It's a symptom of complex PTSD. My medication doesn't mitigate them. It didn't happen because of that," he assured the other man.

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