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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"You mean 'too understated', right?" Malcolm teased, taking another bite of soup. "Too subtle? Too... carpetbaggy?" That was the word, right?

He couldn't stop the crawl of his smirk, especially after that last word. "I've never much cared for baseball. You know I only bought the cowboy hat because I went into a shop once and it fit. Everything else that's been put on it has got nothin' to do with me."

Actually, it had everything to do with him, but he wasn't the kind of man to see it that way.

"It's just a good fittin' hat."

Malcolm chuckled and looked over at him.

"I don't know about that. Unless by 'good fitting', you mean to your personality." A beat. "And your walk." He took a bite of soup.

Raylan cocked a grin. "My walk? I walk like a man who wears a cowboy hat?" It was on the left of ridiculous and a little charming, if he was honest. "What I wouldn't give to see you in denim and a tee-shirt." Which was as far out of Malcolm's element as Raylan could imagine.

"You saying the baseball cap doesn't fit my walk?" Oh, he was going to have fun with this one.

"I own both of those things," he conceded of the jeans and t-shirt. Maybe they weren't exactly what Raylan had in mind. He held a finger up. "But if we're going to be scientific, to find out if the baseball cap works with your walk? You have to walk across a street in New York while shouting at a taxi."

"More than one pair of each?" Raylan's eyebrows and the way they were hitched suggested he doubted it. "Does that mean I have to slap it's hood and yell 'Hey, I'm Walkin' here'." It was.. well, an attempt, but due to the over campiness of it, it came out sounding more like Boston than anything else. To Raylan's credit, he seemed to notice that, wincing as he stabbed another piece of meat.

"I don't think it fits me.. or my gun." There were much more... efficient ways to stop a taxi. A little threat could go a long way.

"I have a lot of t-shirts; I wear them to bed. Can't rely on normal pyjamas if you can't trust your body not to run out into the street while you're sleeping, should it manage to wrest itself from its restraints," he pointed out.

Raylan's attempt at 'I'm walkin' here' made him laugh with genuine delight.

"No, no," he said, waving his spoon at Raylan. "If you pull a gun on the street in New York, you never know what's going to be pointing back at you. Th..."

His phone buzzed. His expression sobered and he set down his spoon to pick it up.

"Hi. ...I see. .....Oh, don't be. I somehow was expecting it. Thanks." He put the phone down and looked at Raylan. "The Surgeon received a fan letter from Robert Quarles almost a year ago. If there was further correspondance, it skirted security."

He tilted his wrist outwards to look at his watch. It was already late when they started after running around New Jersey all afternoon and into the evening.

"We can get in there at 9am," he said. "Guess we may as well turn in."

He picked up files and tossed them back into the box.

Raylan didn't doubt the number of tshirts he had, but he did doubt the amount of denim to match and Malcolm's specificity only furthered that amused thought. His smirk pulled at Malcolm's laughter and he occupied his mouth with another bite. He'd have had something to say about New York and it's guns but the buzz of Malcolm's phone sucked the levity back out of the air. His face slipped into a little bit of stoniness as he gathered Dani's confirmation from Malcolm's side of the conversation.

"Well," he started, clearing his mouth and grabbing his scotch glass. "Least we get to finish eating without threats of papercuts." It wasn't much of a silver lining, but he'd take it. "Murder ruins the taste of scotch anyway, supposed to be used to wash out the bad taste."

And frankly, the scotch did taste better for their task getting put off for a few hours.

"Eating. Right." He tossed a few more files back in the box, then sat down, picking up his spoon, nodding vaguely. When Raylan mentioned the scotch, he set it down and got up, grabbing the bottle to refill Raylan's glass and his own. He rarely had more than one, but it seemed like a good idea that night.

He sat down, turning his glass around in his hands.

"Do you have any questions about what to expect in there?"

Nodding his thanks, Raylan started pre cutting the last of his steak. Malcolm was glanced at as he took another bite and shook his head a little, quickly clearing his mouth.

"You've pretty much given me what I need to know already. Stable til he's not, calculating, controlling. Charming is what I read, to live so long in the open." Yeah, he'd looked up the case, did a little light reading.

"Boyd is crazier than shit and got a vocabulary and a charm a mile wide. He's nowhere near the Surgeon's level of intelligence, but it gives me a good start." Hillbillies could be just as crazy as the New York Money but they didn't get mental institutions - they got gen pop prison, despite the body count that racked up due to it. There was always the SHU; the hole. That only ever made the madness worse, in Raylan's experience.

"You got anything you think I should know beforehand?"

Malcolm took a sip of scotch and considered the question while looking down into the glass, then he looked up at Raylan.

"He'll treat you like you're an accessory to me. Secondary. Pushing your buttons will be a game that he'll play for fun and because it's potentially useful in pushing my buttons. He sees me... as his creation. Something he made and, as such, an extension of his ego. The only reason he's desperate to maintain a connection to me is because any... cleverness or success or victory is something he can claim as his own triumph. If he does give us anything that helps us catch Quarles, he'll treat it as a favour. He's helping with our case because he's a wonderful person who just wants to help." He leveled a flat look at Raylan. "He is not a wonderful person."

"He's gotta find 'em first," was Raylan's only reply as he cleaned up the rest of his steak, listening to Malcolm go on. "You just gotta mind your buttons. Daddies think all kinda things - we don't have to beat him with the truth. Let 'im think what he wants, for now."

He was not above lying, himself, or bending the truth to get around people like this. Arlo had tempered him well in being forced to ignore some of the sins of the father for better ends.

Raylan nodded again. "It'll be fine."

Malcolm nodded, absently taking another swallow of scotch before putting his glass down and picking up his spoon to soldier through three more bites. Then he put the lid on it and set the rest in the fridge.

He turned to the door next to the kitchen, opening it to reveal a linen closet. He pulled a couple of blankets and a pillow from it and carried them over to the couch, leaving them neatly on the end of it before returning to the kitchen island to reclaim his crystal tumbler of scotch.

"You said before your dad wanted you to follow in his footsteps. That he was disappointed when you didn't. Is that why he wanted the last word so badly? Because when he looked at your face, he saw everything but a mirror?"

In that time, Raylan cleared his plate and headed towards Malcolm's sink to wash the dishes he'd created. Couldn't have Malcolm thinking he was a messy guest now. After that, trash was pitched and he could enjoy a sip of his scotch as he started loading files back into their boxes.

"It wasn't just that I didn't. I joined the enemy when I became a Marshal. Betrayed the whole Given's name, in Arlo's eyes. To be honest, I don't know what he saw when he looked at me and I don't particularly care."

The answer was conversational but cooly firm. Malcolm's education would tell him differently, at least at some core of Raylan, he was also still a little boy when it came to his father. There was a furious bitterness nestled beside it that Raylan knew wasn't productive to look at. What would be the point - Arlo was dead and even if he wasn't, there were things that would never be forgiven.

"I think that's the difference between you and I. You had a reason to love your daddy, put all your hopes and dreams in his pockets and he broke that trust. Arlo never hid what he was." Raylan fit the lid back over the box.

Malcolm watched him carefully for a long moment, taking in all those little points of tension as Raylan worked.

"You said he beat your mother. You never mentioned how he treated you."

He'd have many more to take in as Rayaln's shoulders stilled and tensed. The next sip from his glass was a deliberate one.

"You're right. I didn't," he replied as he turned around. "Those for me?"

Deflection. Ungraceful deflection. But he drained his glass and gestured Malcolm to hand over the sheets.

Oh. Okay.

That question went horribly wrong. Was he mistaken in thinking they were at some stage of sharing things? Had he already way overshared? Were all the questions Raylan asked a business thing? Obviously, right?

He set the sheets in Raylan's hands without saying anything.

Unlike Malcolm, Raylan had to be on the left side of drunk to talk about stuff like that. The fact of the matter was, New York was no place to have an anger episode without too much whiskey and some roads to tear across.

"Thanks." But for all his tension, his half smile to Malcolm was awkwardly warm, one hand briefly clasping on his shoulder as he headed over to the couch to start setting it up.

Yeah, he knew that clamming up after all that Malcolm had shared was.. unfair. But what he suffered as a kid wasn't as easily given as what others had suffered as a kid. Angry on someone else's behalf was easier than dealing with being angry on your own behalf.

That was even more confusing. He'd have to ponder on that and try to resolve the conflicting social cues. He did offer a guarded smile back and gestured to the second door past the kitchen. "The bathroom's just in there," he offered. "Towels are in this closet," he added, gesturing to the first door. "And. Um. Don't do anything that lets me hurt you when I'm sleeping," he reminded him, holding up a finger before heading over to his bedroom to riffle through a dresser drawer.

Leaning on the couches edge, Raylan pulled off his boots, setting them neatly together as he glanced towards the bathroom. "Should probably go take a look before it gets dark and I end up breakin' a toe."

He looked back over as he started unbuttoning his shirt under his already tugged open tie and smirked at Malcolm.

"You can patch me up if I do, how 'bout that. Ya know, I gotta admit, I'm very curious how you get yourself into bed. Restraints and all."

He looked over his shoulder at the bed, a t-shirt in his hands, then looked over at Raylan.

"It's probably much easier than you're imagining it," he said with a grin.

"I got all but the last wrist figured out," he said, finger gesturing in a lazy circle before he pulled the tie over his head and pulled off the shirt, leaving him in just his jeans and a familiar ribbed a-line undershirt.

"Oh. They reach, if I put them on in the middle of the bed. They only have to keep me from falling out or bolting; they don't have to be... taut." He tossed his t-shirt on top of the still open drawer and stepped over to the bed, sliding onto it and sitting cross-legged in the middle, grabbing the far one and slipping it on, holding that wrist up for Raylan to see, then leaning over and grabbing the other one, holding it with his restrained hand to slide his other one in. Then he held them both up. "See?"

This, he had to see, and ambled barefoot over to get a better look. "And that's bolted in where, back wall? I did expect tighter restraints." Malcolm was right - it was easier than Raylan had imagined it.

He released himself from the far one so he could twist around and lean over the edge of the bed, lifting the edge of the blankets.

"To the wall, yeah. With heavy duty hardware now, since the window thing I told you about. Had to beef that up." He yanked on it. "Not going anywhere. Hopefully."

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