Title: The Swear Jar 27/X
Author: Romantique
Email: dolph1n
Classification: Raylan/Winona Family/General
Rating: This chapter is rated M for sex and language.
Summary: Raylan is a new dad. This one is a stand-alone, not a sequel to 'A Change of Scenery.'
Disclaimer: It's 'Justified' hiatus time, and I'm bored. This fic is based on nothing but my imagination and takes place sometime after the end of Season 3.
Legal: These characters do not belong to me. I'm just a fan and have not made a dime. Please email me to obtain permission to post.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
After leaving the penitentiary, Raylan and Art stopped for lunch in Corbin as planned. The ride to the restaurant had been a fairly quiet one. The whole experience of seeking the truth took quite a bit out the deputy marshal.
Seated in a booth at Sonny's, Raylan finally asked his boss a question he had wanted ask him, ever since he heard the words come out of Art's mouth.
"Did ya' really mean it when you said I wear my badge with distinction?" Raylan asked, wiping his fingers with a moist towelette to remove the barbecue sauce from his fingers. "Or were ya' just tryin' to make a point with Boyd?"
Chewing on the last bite of his pulled pork sandwich, Art held up a finger to signal his mouth was full. A moment later, he swallowed and then washed down the food with a few sips of sweet tea. Only then did he finally answer. "I meant what I said … but don't let it go to your head and get all cocky and overconfident on me. Okay?"
Raylan was surprised at the answer. From past experience, he expected the answer to be the latter.
Pleased, Raylan nodded. "Okay, fair enough."
After Art ordered some banana pudding from the waitress, Raylan informed his boss that he had an appointment scheduled with Dr. Freid the next morning and that he would be in the office directly afterwards.
"I know you're not supposed to talk about your therapy sessions … if you don't want to," Art began. "So, I don't want you to think you have to answer this. What I'm curious about is, does Carolyn Freid know you went to see Boyd today?"
Holding a mug of coffee up to his lips, Raylan answered. "Yeah, she knows. Thus, the appointment in the mornin'. She was supportive of me goin' out to talk to Boyd, and I'm sure she'll be glad to hear you came with me."
"Well, good," Art nodded. "Are you doin' alright after piecing together some of those missing parts of your past?"
A puzzled look came over Raylan's face. He hadn't really thought about how he felt. Shrugging his shoulders, he finally answered, "Yeah, I guess so."
Not convinced, after a beat, Art observed, "You don't sound too sure."
Extending an index finger out from his hand, as if to make a point, Raylan made another attempt to answer Art's questions. "I don't like what I heard today, if that's what you're askin'. I mean, who would? I have a hard time tryin' to justify what I did as a young man."
"Raylan," Art sighed, "Not everything can be justified. Sometimes, we make mistakes or errors or lapses in judgment. It's best to reconcile those incidents as learning experiences, and hopefully, they are few and far between."
"You sound like you have experience with this," Raylan suggested.
"Oh, hell, no," Art rebuffed. "It's just a little wisdom I acquired at last week's seminar."
Raylan gave a little smile, suspecting Art would never tell him if did.
Soon, the waitress returned with Art's pudding. As he dug in, Art said, "I gotta hand it to you. Bubby's is better than Sonny's."
Raylan chuckled. "I had the ribs, and I must say, Sonny's does a good job on them, too. Like I said earlier today, it depends on what you want."
"Well, I'm enjoying the hell out of this place," Art continued to sing the praises of Bubby's. "I don't get out this way very often, so I'm storing it up." After a beat, he suggested, "You could use a piece of pie or some other kind of desert yourself. Maybe get yourself something 'to go.'"
He was referring to Raylan's slender build.
"Well, hell, Art," Raylan scoffed, rubbing his full belly. "I just finished a full slab of pork ribs with all the fixin's. I don't have any room left." Continuing to sip on his coffee, he added, "And besides, I want to be alert. You drove all the way up here. Least I can do is to drive us back."
"Is that why you're drinking all that coffee?" Art asked. "You're on," he agreed, after a beat, finishing the last of his pudding and scraping the bowl for every last bit of the sweet and creamy confection.
After they paid the bill for their meal, they headed back to the Courthouse. As offered, Raylan drove and as soon as they hit the Interstate, Art nodded off, needing a nap after his big meal. Raylan rather enjoyed the quiet. He was tired of all the talking and just wanted to drive and not think about anything.
They returned to the Courthouse where Raylan finished the remainder of his day, mostly catching up on paperwork. At the day's end, he called Winona to tell her there was something he needed to do and that he'd be home later.
The tackle box. The one buried in Arlo's yard. It had been on Raylan's mind for days, and he was unable to dismiss it. It was making his neck hairs stand up. He drove out to Harlan while there was still some daylight remaining. Once he arrived at the house, he walked out to the storage shed where he had previously rearranged all the tools over the past several months. Since Arlo had been incarcerated, Raylan had done quite a bit of cleaning, organizing, and hauled away lots of junk. He really hadn't given much thought as to what do to with the house after his father died. But whether it was rented or sold, he figured the clean-up would have to be done, anyway.
He made it to the shed and reached into his pocket, only to discover he didn't have the key to the shed on him. Frustrated and not wanting to drive all the way back for it, he thought for a moment as to what to do. Finally, he pulled his spare gun out of the back of his waist band and shot the padlock and quickly backed away. The lock was blown to pieces, with small pieces of metal flying through the air. He was then able to open the door. He pulled the chain to the overhead light to turn it on, stepped inside the shed, and came out a minute later with a shovel.
He walked out to the spot where he had long ago buried the tackle box and started digging. Soon, he hit metal with the end of the shovel. He reached down into the dirt and felt around with his fingers.
After all these years, there it was!
He knocked the earth off the box. As he pulled it up out of the ground, he began to work on the metal latches which had long since rusted. A trip back to the shed, and he thought a couple of sprays of WD-40 might do the trick. He placed the box on a counter and generously sprayed both hinges. Grabbing a greasy rag that was nearby, he gave the hinges a firm swipe. Quite a bit of rust came off. He continued to work at it, spraying and wiping, until he was finally able to open the box.
He found that it was empty, except for a note on a decaying piece of paper that was scrawled in very bad handwriting that said, 'Eat Shit.'
Raylan began to laugh. He dropped the box on the counter, threw his head back so far he almost lost his hat, and he began to laugh and laugh … to the point where he just as suddenly became angry.
A myriad of thoughts began to flood through his head:
'That note was meant for me to find it one day.'
'He's known all these years I took his money.'
'He must have hated me so much. So much, he thought he'd killed me?'
Then, he stepped outside the shed, looked up to the sunset sky, and screamed … emphasizing every single word.
"I-HATE-YOU, AR-LO GI-VENS! MY-GOD, I-HATE-YOU! YOU FUCK-IN' SON-OF-A-BITCH!"
Breathing heavy from letting out the screams, Raylan was so angry … so angry, he was red faced with steam coming out of his ears. He turned on his heel and marched back into the tool shed. He emerged a minute later carrying a sledge hammer and marched directly out to the Givens family headstones near the house, where his mother, Frances, was buried. Swinging the sledgehammer all the way back behind his shoulder, he struck his own headstone with full force. Over and over again, he struck it until it pieces of it began to chip away.
"SHIT!" he cursed, continuing to wail on the large piece of stone. Just as he always suspected, the headstones were not made of solid granite, as Arlo liked to brag, but of some kind of a concrete that was reinforced with a glazed coating. It seemed that Arlo, the scammer, had been scammed himself.
Through his repeated assault on the stone, it finally began to crack and eventually broke into large pieces. Encouraged, Raylan continued pounding it … panting and covered in perspiration.
He continued to rant at his father.
"YOU NO GOOD, ROTTEN, PIECE-O-SHIT! SON-OF-A BITCH. I HATE YOU!"
More pounding and more yelling, Raylan continued as if Arlo was in the past tense. For as far as Raylan was concerned, Arlo was already gone.
"I'LL BE DAMED IF I'M GONNA BE BURIED HERE WITH THE LIKES-A-YOU! I DIDN'T MARRY YOUR SORRY ASS!"
He was referring to his mother, whom he loved, but that wasn't enough to make him want to remain tied to this place in the 'hereafter.'
"YOU'RE AN EMBARRASSMENT, A DISGRACE TO THE FAMILY NAME!"
Raylan continued to slam both the stone and his father's name into the ground. Finally, the headstone was smashed into smaller chunks of concrete. Tiring, his pace started to slow, but the power behind each strike remained. Soon, there was nothing left but powdered cement on top of what would have been … could have been … Raylan's final resting place.
Out of breath with his chest heaving, Raylan fell to his knees in exhaustion, satisfied with his handiwork. And then, he looked over at his mother's headstone which was right before him. All alone, he began to cry.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
"Where've you been?" Winona asked Raylan, frightened by his disheveled appearance when he walked in the door of their home. He was in his work clothes, and he was filthy. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," he said. His voice was noticeably hoarse from yelling. "I'm gonna go jump in the shower."
He removed his boots and socks which were also filthy dirty, and he left them by the front door, so as not to track the dirt into the house. There was no more talk from him, and he headed straight for the master bathroom. Once inside, he turned on the shower and removed his clothes, and then, he threw them all in a pile on the floor so as not to make a bigger mess than was necessary.
Next, he stepped into the shower and stood there, allowing the spray of water to cascade over the top of his head. He scrubbed and scrubbed with shampoo and then soaped his body, washing himself … clean.
When he emerged into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, Winona was there waiting for him.
"I feel much better," he acknowledge her presence, his voice cracked.
"Do you?" she asked, trying to temper her concern.
"Yeah, sure do," he answered in a soft voice and then confessed, "but I owe the Swear Jar at least a couple hundred dollars."
Winona looked confused.
"Long story," he said in whispered tones, regretting he had brought it up. "I'd rather not go into it, not tonight."
She accepted whatever he was saying. In response, he walked over to her, reached up, and slowly twirled a tendril of her hair through his fingers, along the side of her face. Her hair was soft and smelled of lavender.
"It might break the mood," he further explained.
A smile came over her face. It had been awhile since Raylan was the one who initiated intimacy between them.
"Cait's asleep," she informed him.
Winona lightly cupped his jaw with her hand and ran the back of her thumb over his bottom lip. He gazed onto her eyes and leaned towards her face. Juxtaposed against his stubble, the softness of Raylan's lips met hers, and he tenderly kissed her. Eyes closed, their tongues met. He tasted of bourbon, something her pregnant mouth had not tasted in a long time. He tasted good. He smelled good.
She pulled him down to follow her down to the bed where she shifted her weight onto her side, and he moved closer, their bodies embracing each other, as their hands explored and their kisses deepened. Still kissing, Winona began to unbutton her blouse, allowing him access to her breasts. Raylan peeled down one cup of her bra, exposing the breast that was ripe with pregnancy. She moaned at his touch, as she wiggled out of her skirt. He reached down and helped her panties follow the skirt, as he slid them down past her hips. She kicked them aside. Once again, he reached down, only this time, he placed his hand between her legs. Again, she groaned and melted at the touch of his fingertips. She began to slowly gyrate against them and gave a firm tug on the towel around him until it was gone. Then, she reached down and felt him grow in her hand.
He positioned himself over her, his weight propped up by his hands and knees.
"Tell the twins to hide their eyes," he growled from somewhere deep in his throat, "because we're gonna get down tonight."
Winona smiled and let out a little giggle. She guided him inside her where he entered in one sensual move. She moaned with pleasure. He pulled back and repeated the motion again, only this time, her hips met his. She continued to meet him, as their heart rate and breathing accelerated. He buried his face into her cleavage, tracing it with the tip of his tongue. His hot breath made her moan, again.
He then switched positions so that he was behind her, with her on her side … a much safer position. He resumed his pace, and she quickly responded. He wrapped his long arms around her as they both surrendered into a mutual release. As their breathing returned to normal, the two drifted off to sleep with Raylan's arms still wrapped around his love and their buns in the oven.
(To be continued …)