Work Text:
Until The Lights Come Back On
The thing about Raylan Givens is that he never quite learned how to relax. He is always waiting for that next thing. The next crisis. The next disappointment. The next dangerous moment.
You’ve seen him stare down dangerous and armed men without blinking. You’ve seen him walk out of impossible situations with a level expression on his face that was startling and unnerving, at best. Something that should have made you question your own judgement.
And yet, trap him in a dark and silent house, with nowhere to be? He’s in Hell. He’s facing off against a monster that he doesn’t quite know how to tackle.
Boredom.
The storm raged outside, lightning dancing through the windows, followed by the loudest thunder you had ever heard in your life. The lights went out almost immediately after the first bright flash, and Raylan is standing in that hallway, tinkering with fuses and breakers, as if he can fix the city wide problem on stubbornness alone. It’s been at least twenty minutes of fussing.
“Raylan.” You call out to him, quietly.
He closes the breaker box, and his cowboy boots click on the floor as he steps back into the room where you stand, holding your little flashlight. His eyebrows are raised, as he questions you, just with his expression. It’s nearly impossible not to laugh at the image of him in the very dark house, hat tilted back on his head and sweat beading across his upper lip. You’re tempted to shine the flashlight at him, just to get a better look.
“The entire block is dark, baby. That means it’s not...us.”
“It could be us.” He argues, as stubborn as ever.
“Raylan...”
“I’m saying we don’t know. Maybe the house got struck by lightning and we’re the cause of the whole block being out.” And he shrugs, an exasperated look on his face, like he’s desperate to explain the entire situation to you. Like he is waiting for you to admit he has a point.
“Raylan Givens. It’s the entire neighborhood and you know it. Why don’t we light a few candles and just wait it out? I promise that you’re not going to combust if you sit still for an hour.”
As you explain, Raylan removes his hat, sighing, frustrated as he shifts it from hand to hand. It’s like he is miserable in his own skin, thinking about all of the things he can’t do without electricity. Or maybe he’s just angry that he can’t fix...it.
“And if you’re wrong, I’ll have you know that my life insurance policy isn’t exactly great. I also don’t think it would be the easiest thing to explain to the adjusters. I burned...in your living room. Might look like a scam.”
There’s that twinkle in his eyes. The one that shows that he’s tense, yes, but his humor is there. In the midst of all that frustration, he’s still the same idiot you fell for months before. The same idiot that had been leaving his boots by your door since the first night you brought him home.
“Then, you’ll have to die in the front yard. It makes it look more like you were struck by lightning.” You laugh, tilting your head fondly. Raylan pauses, just watching you for a moment, until a bright flash of lightning and an immediate crack of thunder startles you both back to reality. With a sigh, you point toward the kitchen with your flashlight, “Why don’t you go get that old oil lantern from the pantry, light it up, and I’ll kick your ass in cards to keep your hands busy.”
Placing his hat on the coffee table, Raylan steps away with a waggle of his head, like he’s mocking your bossiness, but he does disappear into the kitchen. At least it’s something he can do. It’s busying his hands. You hear him rummaging, as you retrieve a pack of cards from the end table by the door, and take a seat on the floor by the coffee table.
“So, we’re going to sit around on the floor, like we’re at a slumber party, and play poker?” Raylan complains as he steps back into the room, lamp in one hand and a lighter in the other. With a sigh, you open the cards and shuffle them, turning your eyes up to give him a stern look, gesturing down toward the other side of the coffee table.
“I promise...I promise you won’t die from being still for an hour or two. No stakes. No money. No crisis. Just cards and us. If we get tired, the house is nice and quiet and still. We’ll sleep like babies. It’s not the end of the world, Raylan.”
Raylan situates himself on the floor, leaning against the couch with a look of contemplation. He’s quiet for a moment, but then, he rolls his shoulders, rolling the tension free and nods his head, “Alright. Slumber party it is. Deal us out.”
For Raylan, agreeing to sit still without another argument feels suspiciously like surrender. He takes the globe off that little lamp, and lights it, replacing the globe. The light fills the room suddenly, casting a pretty glow on both of you. With a little tip of your lips, returning that smile, you deal the cards out.
That loosening of his shoulders doesn’t last long. As soon as those cards are in front of him, his brow furrows. He’s quiet. He’s not relaxed. He’s studying.
The cards. The table. You.
There’s something he doesn’t like about his cards, and he’s doing his best to find a path to winning.
“You know...” You say, looking up from your hand, calm and collected, “Most people play cards to have fun. It’s a fun way to pass time.”
Raylan’s response is far away as he continues to study, “I’m having a blast. I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at.”
“You look like you’re preparing a case.”
“That seems a little dramatic, to me. I’m simply strategizing.” Raylan mutters, shifting cards from one spot in his hand to another, replacing one with another. He still doesn’t seem happy.
“I’ve seen you less serious while interrogating people. If I took my shirt off right now, you wouldn’t even notice, baby.”
“Now, that is ridiculous. If you took your shirt off, I would lose my train of thought. I would lose, and then all this thinkin’ would be for nothing. Though, I won’t discourage such behavior. You look pretty in this light.” Raylan quirks the corner of his lips as he looks up at you over the cards, and absolutely notices the blush creeping into your cheeks in the dim light.
“I’ll make a deal with you.” You proposition, moving some of your own cards around, before dealing out the table cards. “You relax, and accept defeat and I’ll...”
You don’t even get to finish your sentence, before the tv flickers on, and the lights nearly blind you, powering up with a loud buzz. Raylan looks around the room for a moment, pouting his lip out. He turns his eyes back down to you and frowns.
“You’re gonna finish that sentence, because I have the shittiest hand that’s ever been dealt in the history of poker. I want reparations...”