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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The fact that Malcolm had gotten abducted had Raylan rolling over onto his back, mostly, kept at an angle by the favor of flesh alone.

"What did they do about it? Someone did something, right?" There was a clear, heavy expectation in his tone. The questions were enough for him to turn onto his back properly and push up onto his hands, wild hair and eyes just peeking above the edge of Malcolm's bed.

"How's surviving bleeding out make you more a killer?" He didn't understand that either.

"Well, he believed his murders were a mission from God, so if you put yourself in those shoes... I guess it makes a twisted sort of sense. And the team was looking for me. Gil tried to find out from my father where Watkins would take me, but he wasn't... abundantly helpful. Nobody else knew about the room under the house. Not my family. Not me. It took me a while to figure out where we were. Watkins' second trial for me was getting rid of what he called my 'weakness'. He was going to kill my mother and my sister. I couldn't wait for them to find me. I had to stop him." He held his left hand - the one nearest Raylan - up and looked at it. "I was chained to the floor, but he left his tool bag just laying there. A ball peen hammer wouldn't break the shackles, but there was another way. The hole in the cuff was three inches. My hand is five inches." He looked over at Raylan. "All I had to do was make my hand three inches," he explained with a sort of detached matter-of-factness. "That's just math."

This... had suddenly turned into so much more than talking a scared man through his nightmare. Not that Raylan was surprised, Malcolm was a hole to fall into. It felt like the man needed someone, anyone, to just.. listen to him. To help share the burden of his nightmares, if only in the scant way that company afterwards could.

"Math," he echoed hollowly, looking at Malcolm's hand before his eyes widened in understanding and returning to Malcolm's. "You broke it. The thumb joint that keeps the cuffs on." A beat. That in-of itself was.. terrifying and impressive. "But what did they do about it, what happened to this. this.. Watkins?"

Malcolm was fine now, he'd clearly gotten help with his hand which allowed Raylan to focus on the bigger questions.

"I smashed it to pieces. The cast only came off about a week and a half ago." He held a finger up. "It was a lot more painful than the stab wound," he told Raylan, because it could be useful information and few people experienced them concurrently to relate it.

"Watkins is in jail, awaiting trial for... I think the official body count for his serial murders is up to sixteen." He looked at Raylan's eyes, just above the edge of the mattress. "I subdued him," he explained. "With a crowbar and his own intense claustrophobia."

Oh the adventures Malcolm got up too when he wasn't been watched. Raylan's eyebrows lifted towards his hairline with great enthusiasm, though he stayed silent on the comparison. Sadly, Raylan had experienced them in a similar order but he was too wrapped up to share that.

"Good." There was nothing but firm support in the word. One might even say that there was a sense of righteousness in the praise. "Behind bars, he can't hurt you." Raylan nodded before sinking back out of view as he laid back down. "And he comes in here while I'm here, I'll shoot him for you.. Free of charge."

Edited 2020-04-08 03:29 (UTC)

He didn't have to shoot anyone for Malcolm's sake, but the offer was oddly sweet and endearing, somehow. Malcolm smiled faintly at the ceiling.

"I mean, I guess the useful moral of this story for us is that my father really knows how to pick these lunatics."

"I suppose that's a skill that's useful.. somewhere. Don't ask me where though." That was debatable but Malcolm was right. Martin sure did seem to know how to pick 'em. "You seem to pick pretty good sane people, so maybe it evens out."

He thought about that and smiled.

"I think this is the best group of people I've probably... ever been surrounded by," he conceded. "But Gil picked most of them. Including me. So I guess it's Gil that evens things out."

"He's the one that responded to your call, right?" Raylan couldn't stop the yawn that crawled outta him. "Looks like he's still lookin' after you. Good guy." Better guy, for what he'd done. "Guy to trust."

"Yeah."

He could hear the fatigue in Raylan's voice, as he looked up at the ceiling.

"Anyway, I'm going to give sleep another try. Thanks again. Good night," he said.

He wasn't going to give sleep another try, but he was going to stare up at the ceiling for a couple more hours so Raylan could sleep. Once he heard the Marshal's breathing even out, he'd wait long enough for him to be in a deep sleep cycle before quietly slipping out of bed and into his morning routine: coffee in the french press, pills, daily affirmations, exercise, yoga.

All Raylan was able to sound in return was an already fading "Mm" before he was overtaken by sleep, one of those rare people who could just go back to sleep without running through the whole long shutdown process again. A couple of hours was all the cowboy needed, really and by the time the smell of the coffee woke him from his stomach sprawl on the cool hardwood, it was enough.

Raylan groaned softly and rolled over to half prop himself onto an elbow as he cracked an eye at the rest of the apartment. He was pretty sure he smelled coffee. With another horrendous dad sigh, he pushed up onto his ass and leaned back against Malcolm's bed, raking a hand through his hair as he recalibrated for morning.

Malcolm didn't notice he was awake yet. He was in the middle of the space between the couch and the stairs, in tree pose, his eyes shut as he focused on his breathing.

Sunshine was currently free of her cage and she landed on the nightstand, chirping at Raylan.

That was a.. hellva pose. Raylan opted to not say anything, chose not to disrupt Malcolm and enjoy the view, smirking crookedly with a faint lift of his eyebrows at the free bird or it's greeting. He held out a finger, knowing full well it was a 50/50 chance and wasn't surprised when Sunshine opted to jump off the nightstand and fly back around Malcolm before landing on the couch.

"Morning," he said, knowing it'd only get weird if he didn't say anything.

Malcolm opened his eyes and put his other foot down.

"Oh hi! I was trying not to wake you," he said, walking into the kitchen and getting two mugs down.

It was why he hadn't put music on when he started his routine.

He pushed down the plunger on the french press, then poured the coffee into the mugs, pushing one towards Raylan.

"Did you sleep okay?"

Now that Raylan knew just how dark a world Malcolm lived in on the day to day grind, he could appreciate the almost manic positive enthusiasm that Malcolm exuded when he was in a good mood. The guy tried. Raylan pushed to his feet, stretching a little and scratching his stomach as he padded over to the counter to collect the cup and lean against the edge.

"Isn't it a little late for that?" he asked under amused eyebrows and a sip of his coffee before nodding. "That couch is meant for sitting. Your floor is more comfortable, if you believe it. How about you?" Yes, he knew - in the short few hours that Malcolm had gotten at all.

Malcolm grinned. "I slept great! Before... all that," he said, fluttering a hand towards the bed, "I got almost four hours. That's a good stretch."

He took a sip of coffee.

"Do you want... toast?" he asked, then frowned at himself. "I don't have bread," it occurred to him. He waved it off. "You know what? We can go out for breakfast. I know a place. I hear it's good," he promised, taking another sip.

Raylan held up a hand and chuckled. "Don't spring me with it just yet, gimme ten minutes at least. And I'm gonna need a shower before I go out in public. If nothing else, I can survive on coffee til lunch. Do we even have time for breakfast?"

He knew that 9 am wasn't terribly far off and he didn't know if their date at the mental institution was a hard time or not. Nor how long it took to get there.

Malcolm had started to answer, a word already beginning to form, when a key in the front door lock made his eyes shoot directly at it. Even though he knew who it had to be, when Jessica swanned in with a "Good morning, darling!" before she'd even taken in the room, he closed his eyes for a moment and sighed the sigh of the long suffering.

Jessica Whitly took two steps into the room only to stop short as she noticed Raylan. Malcolm still in pyjamas, hadn't combed his hair yet and Raylan in an undershirt and decidedly still tousled. She arched an eyebrow at them.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"Hello, mother," Malcolm said in a tone that was both tense and resigned. He gestured between them.

"Jessica Whitly, Deputy United States Marshal Raylan Givens." He leveled a warning look at her. "We're working on a case."

"Yes, dear, that's what it looks like." She turned to Raylan. "Charmed," she told him, offering her hand to shake. "And what do I call you, exactly? Deputy or Marshal...?"

Ten minutes clearly wasn't going to happen. Raylan looked over his shoulder, all tan muscle and graying eyebrows as Jessica swept in, and he couldn't help but crook a smirk, looking at Malcolm over his cup edge, far too amused at Malcolm's resignation and sons sigh.

Setting the cup down, Raylan shook Jessica's hand with a warm smile. "Nice to meet you, ma'am. Just Raylan's fine - I'm not on duty, technically speaking." With his hand empty, he picked his cup back up. "Not til 9, at least. I see where Malcolm gets his looks," he complimented with a sidelong glance before he effectively hid behind the edge of his cup.

Jessica responded with a dazzling smile and then looked at Malcolm, eyebrows raised.

Malcolm had no comment. He sipped coffee. Sunshine fluttered past Jessica and landed on the counter, hopping around near Malcolm's elbow. She gave the bird a look and then directed it at Malcolm, clearly an extension of previous conversations.

"She needs exercise," he said matter-of-factly. "Did you come here for a reason or is this a driveby criticism of my general lifestyle?" he asked. "Because we have to leave soon."

"Actually," she said, her gaze taking in Malcolm and then Raylan in turn, "I've purchased a table at a major charity gala for tomorrow night and I'm looking for people to sit at it. You're both welcome," she told them, her gaze lingering on Raylan. She'd gotten less sass from him.

Malcolm put his coffee down and carefully picked up the parakeet, taking her back to her cage and shutting the door behind her.

"I don't know if this case will be solved yet, Mother," he said as he did so. "We might be working. And if it is solved by then, I'm sure Raylan will want to go home."

"And I'm sure Raylan can speak for himself," she said, turning the full force of her gaze and expectation on him.

Oh, this was an interesting relationship. Raylan didn't even need to have heard the previous conversation to 'hear' Jessica's judgement in only her eyebrows and he listened to the back and forth like he was listening to tennis. He could nearly see it, if he looked hard enough.

His eyebrows pitched back up at the sudden offer, smart enough to say silent until more of it played out which ended abruptly with the heavy expectant gaze.

"Ah," he demurred, glancing down with a faint shake of his head. "I'm afraid people like me only bring down the class level in a room like that and I very much doubt it's appropriate for the jeans and button-downs that a Marshal can afford. Though I very much appreciate the offer," he said with an equally faint lift of his coffee in something of a cheers.

"This is the first time I've been to New York, ma'am. Lookin' to take it in."

"Well, this is the way to see it," she exclaimed, placing a hand on his forearm.

"No, no, no," Malcolm was saying as he returned to the kitchen island. "You can't just call your tailor and... coerce people into suits."

"Tuxedos, darling. It's black tie. I assume you still own one," she said absently, looking over Raylan with a more appraising eye.

"Mother..."

"You're... what? Six feet? I'm sure he can have something suitable ready in time," she said with a flutter of her hand, as though he'd accepted. "I'll drop it off for you tomorrow afternoon," she informed them, picking up her bag to head for the door.

"Just one room," he countered, giving her his best charming southern grin as she put her hand on his forearm. But it quickly became clear that either Jessica hadn't heard him or.. didn't care? What that meant, he wasn't sure, but he didn't take offence to it either way.

"Y-yeah," Raylan continued, replying with a confused tone, impressed at her eye of size and sitting up a little straighter as Jessica headed towards the door. "If the case is over!" he tried to helpfully supply but that too didn't hold much hope towards impressing upon her the uncertainty of him being there, looking back towards Malcolm like he could supply an explanation as to what the hell just happened. He'd said no.

Sort of.

Edited 2020-04-09 00:39 (UTC)

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry," he said, propping both elbows on the counter so he could put his face in both hands. He dropped his hands to the counter after a moment and looked at Raylan. "Please don't feel like you have to go."

"She... she heard me, right?" He wasn't completely sure. "That's your mother?" Raylan shook his head once in one direction, eyes wide as he continued. "Did you say she had her own tailor?"

No. No, poor Raylan Givens was not ready for the Whitly's level of wealth, by any means and there was.. somehow a lot to unpack there.

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