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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"As far as anyone's concerned, we're colleagues and we finished a case," Malcolm assured him.

Apart from not wanting to put Raylan in a difficult situation, he also didn't want to hear the questions from everyone about how he was doing and if he'd heard from Raylan and condolences about the distance and did he think they were going to see each other again. He wanted to savour the night for what it was and not listen to the world's commentary on it.

He stepped to the fridge and glanced around inside it. "Plain yogurt," he exclaimed, taking the container out. "Why not? It feels like a bit of an occasion."

He peeled the lid off and grabbed himself a spoon.

He appreciated that, silently so and with only a faint nod before he shoved another bite into his mouth. There was the passing faint look of guilt as he did so but Raylan couldn't change the knots in him as much as he could stop his divorce.

"What a bright Tuesday morning," he quipped, secretly hoping he was the cause for the feeling of occasion.

"I get the feeling that your family isn't just 'anyone'." Which was to say, maybe he didn't mind so much if Malcolm was honest with his family, but he could understand the many reasons why Malcolm wouldn't. "Just 'cause I can't be..." His jaw worked, eyes making their way back down to his plate, some harsh internal accusations getting flung at himself as he struggled to push through. "Doesn't mean you can't be."

With the last, Raylan's eyes came back up to Malcolm's. "We're realists, you and I. Can you really lie to your mother like that?" And it wasn't to speak to Malcolm's defection skills but more to Jessica's intuition.

Malcolm ate a small bite of yogurt and looked up at Raylan.

"I don't lie to my mother," he said glibly. "I just don't answer her at all."

After another bite, he stuck his spoon in the yogurt and looked at Raylan again. "I don't want everyone to ruin it with their hamfisted attempts at trying to force me into what they think will make me happy. I don't want to see their pity-eyes when they ask if I've heard from you because they're assuming I haven't. I don't want to answer their questions about where I see this going because they think if I don't get somewhere with this, I won't get anywhere." He leaned forward. "I'm happy with things just being what they are. Telling people about it is just inviting pressure that I do not need and I don't think you need it either."

He picked up his spoon and poked at the yogurt thoughtfully and then looked at Raylan with a soft smile.

"It was a great night. Thank you."

Same thing, different wrapper, and not answering invited it's own assumptions.

Once Malcolm was done, Raylan nodded mutely. He felt rebuked somehow, and felt it best to busy himself with the breakfast, unable to come up with anything other than quiet acceptance. The polite 'Thank you' at the end, despite the soft smile, felt like a stern steel cap on things, and Raylan could manage an expression of 'Your welcome, but the words wouldn't ever pass his lips.

"The food is good; where'd you order it from?"

Malcolm watched his face change. All the easy openness closed off, door by door.

"I said something wrong," he observed, rather than answering the question. He put his spoon down. "What did I say?"

"You didn't," he assured, with a wholly true and convincing lift of eyebrows and directness of his gaze once it lifted up from his plate. "Only that I know how sharp your family is, and I've heard about siblings and Ainsley," so otherwise indicated by the gesture of his fork, "Is intuitive enough to circumvent your best attempts. Your mother anticipated last night before it happened, and your sister was easily on board. But I understand why you're going to attempt what you're going to."

Malcolm had a freedom that Raylan didn't, was all, and he was trying to be an unintrusive gentleman about it.

"I can't say anything to how you handle them. It's safer to ask about the food."

"You can, actually, say whatever's on your mind. I'd prefer it. You have a different perspective than I do. Maybe you'll see something I don't."

And Malcolm liked him probably an ill-advised amount. More than was probably safe for his heart. Raylan was grounded and practical and smart. His thoughts could only be helpful.

Raylan was a Marshal, nearly 20 years at this point and despite the upset of sharp elitism teeth on his mannerisms, he'd learned to read people and situations rather well. The Whitly's in whole were no exception.

"They're gonna find out," he reasoned. "And I'm not saying roll out with banners and post it in the New York Times, but your mother and sister are going to assume the lewdest. It's better to give them a breadcrumb and the truth of whiskey, the idea of spontaneous ideas, than let them let them run wild with their assumptions, considering their interest and loving harassment of you." Raylan fixed him with a serious gaze.

"They want you happy; there's nothing wrong with that and if what I've seen is any indication, you're better off giving them a slightly satisfactory grain of truth rather than denying it completely and letting them pick you apart."

"But that's just my view from over here."

Interesting. Malcolm gave that serious consideration, his spoon dangling from his fingers like a pendulum.

"That's probably the best approach," he conceded.

He looked over at Raylan again with a chipper "Thanks!" and took a bite of yogurt.

He saw Raylan's cup getting low and leaned over to top it up.

"You'll choose what's best," Raylan continued with his stubborn surety and distance from the issue with a soft thank you as Malcolm topped off his coffee, equally dark eyes watching Malcolm's face as he did so.

He didn't trust the chipper, despite Malcolm's enthusiasm. Raylan kept his eyes on Malcolm as he took another bite and processed it.

"You can call me, if you want. And the food is good."

Raylan's instincts were good, but Malcolm had known what the situation was before things went anywhere the night before and he was determined to be as okay with it as he'd promised to be. He did not want Raylan leaving with any guilt or regrets. He didn't want guilt or regret to be the emotion that rushed to the surface if Malcolm texted him.

"It's from a ma and pop place just down the street," he said. "People rave about it." He took a bite of yogurt before his eyes found Raylan's face again. "And I'd like that," he said, his expression completely devoid of any pretence designed to shield either of them. He was open now. Vulnerable. "To talk to you sometimes."

He cut another bite and ate it with a faint nod of his head, eyes coming back to Malcolm's in the lull between comments and when Raylan curled his soft smile again, there was no tense opinion in it.

"You've already got my number saved, clearly, so we're ahead, aren't we." It would be okay.

Raylan cleared the rest of his plate and leaned back a little as he pulled his cup close again. "I will miss good breakfasts, I can say that." Well, he'd miss more than that, but he couldn't say that. "Do you have a time you have to be in the office?"

He huffed a laugh at the note that he'd saved Raylan's number. He'd been pleased to hear from him the other day. Very pleased.

At the question, he shook his head. "We finished your case. Gil hasn't given me another one. I'm basically on call and... he hasn't called."

Which meant he'd have to find something to occupy his thoughts once Raylan left. Maybe he'd go see Gabrielle.

"Do you have to pick the others up from their hotel?"

It had been a chance, reaching out at all. Raylan hadn't expected Malcolm to keep his number, to say the least. But he was glad he had.

Nodding, Raylan slid off the stool and finished his coffee. "Yeah. But I figure if I leave at 9:15, I can get to their hotel by ten." He fiddled with his cup, lingering a little before he decided to deal with his socks and boots. "Gives me enough time to let breakfast settle."

And gave him enough time to say goodbye even if it felt like they were trying to stall that clock.

Malcolm watched him move from the stool, watching the play of muscle under his undershirt, watching his face, watching his fingers fidget the coffee cup.

He gestured to the french press.

"Do you want me to make some more coffee?" he offered, pushing his yogurt away.

Raylan gave him a passing smile of graciousness that played on his lips as he continued. "I'm good, but thanks. If I ever have a permanent place to stay again, I might have to get one." Standing, Raylan pulled out an over shirt and slung it on before buttoning it most of the way up and tucking it in before he was looking over at Malcolm again with the last adjustments.

"Might have to talk you into delivering your favorite kind." His smile threatened to broaden a little as he came to collect his holstered gun off the counter-top. "What do you do here alone, when you're not working?"

He wasn't leaving immediately, and he still had to collect the tux that they'd stripped off last night, and decide if he was taking it with him or not.

Malcolm pushed his own french press across the counter. "Why don't you take this one," he said. "I can literally pick up another one this afternoon. It'll give me something to do. Mostly I try to distract myself when I'm here alone. Listen to music. Yoga. Read. Walk around the neighbourhood."

Look at the phone. Hope Gil calls with a case. Go to the station and beg Gil for a case. But he didn't want to look too hopeless.

"Sometimes I stop by to see my therapist."

He gestured to the french press. "Let me get you the coffee grounds that go with it," he said, getting up to go to one of the cupboards.

At the push, Raylan was already shaking his head but he let Malcolm finish as he slipped his hat on and ambled over to Malcolm's side of the island. When Malcolm went to get up, Raylan put a hand on his shoulder to stop him with a fond curl of his smile.

"This all implies I have anything more than a bathroom sink." He was basically living out a gym bag. "It's getting better use here, trust me," he continued with a pat on Malcolm's shoulder as he eyed his tux jacket from last night and went to fetch it. "I think I ought to leave the tux here. The garment bag doesn't fit in mine and Tim will have a hayday with it."

Raylan ambled back towards Malcolm's side. "If the tailor won't take it back, maybe you can mail it to me?"

Malcolm glanced over. The hand on his shoulder did ground him and dial back the manic that was just bubbling up. He followed Raylan with his gaze to the tux jacket and tie draped over his stairs as the other man picked them up.

He was unexpectedly a little sad that Raylan wasn't going to take anything with him, but he did seem like the sort of man to travel light.

"It's custom," he said. No returns. "I'll mail it."

He nodded, draping it over the counter. There was a little of his own disappointment, but it might have been for the better. Sentimentality got Raylan into trouble. Just ask Gary, the realtor that Winona left Raylan for. Raylan was hard to get rid of completely.

There was a tension left in him as he looked over Malcolm's face as he wrestled with himself internally and he nodded again, stepping over to collect his duster jacket and slip it on, taking a few extra seconds to turn his collar down. He wanted to say thank you, he wanted to kiss Malcolm goodbye, he didn't want to leave at all, but they both had things to do. Lives to live.

With resolution, Raylan walked over and picked up his bag, putting on as warm a smile as he can as he straightens and makes his way back over to Malcolm.

"You were right, earlier, about last night. It was great." His eyes said everything else that he couldn't.

Malcolm stepped over to meet him as he approached and held his gaze for a moment. Then he reached a hand up to cup his jaw and gave him a tender, lingering kiss before wrapping his arms tightly around him.

"Be safe," he murmured into his collar.

Like he was one to talk. Only one of them had a knife at his throat the previous afternoon and was left with a little red line of a souvenir.

The relief at the reach of Malcolm's hand was visible, Raylan's face relaxing some of the seriousness that had set in it, as he leaned down to kiss him back, free arm sliding around Malcolm's waist. The tight hug was returned with a deep breath from Raylan.

"Thank you," he whispered, and it had nothing to do with Malcolm's safe travel wishes, though he appreciated those too. Raylan pulled back enough to pull Malcolm's face back into view and, forever a little dramatic, kissed him again.

When it broke, Raylan gave him a pull of a smile. "I'll see you later."

It wasn't going to be later but it was a good lie to leave on. A hopeful one. With more than a little reluctance in the smile, Raylan pulled away and headed for and out the door.

Once outside and in the car, Raylan had to take a minute to just breathe and process the heavy stone in his gut. Everything felt different. As the night replayed over in his mind, from the hanging out trying to watch TV, to Malcolm's ordering perfectly for him, his mother, his sister, that fuckin' party, Raylan pulled out into traffic and started driving.

Twenty minutes later, he'd finally made a decision and turned around. Twenty minutes after that, US Marshal Givens was back at Claremont Psychiatric hospital, this time, with his hat.

Malcolm walked over to the big semicircle window by his bed once Raylan was out the door, his hands in his pockets, and he looked down at the street. He watched until Raylan's car drove away down the street, then wandered around the apartment, picking up pieces of tuxes, putting his own away and carefully reassembling Raylan's and putting it in its garment bag.

Martin Whitly, on the other hand, was not expecting any visitors and, when told one was on his way in, he looked pleased as they shackled him.

"Is it my son?" he asked expectantly.

Mr David didn't answer, heading back out the door to meet the visitor and escort him in.

When the door opened to allow the visitor entry, Martin's look of pleased anticipation gave way to slight confusion as the door closed behind Raylan and Raylan alone.

"Deputy... Givens, wasn't it? This is... unexpected. Did my son send you?"

The brim of the hat greeted Martin before Raylan did, though he did so with the same, careful mask of a smile that he had before.

"Only insofar as introducing us," he replied. "I came to tell you what happened to your fan club pen pal. Thought you might be interested." That casual always extended index finger of Raylan's came out to gesture at him.

"Unless I'm sorely mistaken." The Not-Ask was stated with a faint lift of his expressive eyebrows.

Edited 2020-04-23 19:48 (UTC)

Martin smiled at him. It was a predatory sort of a smile, as affable as it was.

"I take it you were able to capture him with the information I helpfully provided," he said pleasantly.

The Lengths That I Would Go To

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