Work Text:
Raylan stayed awake over night for a thousand different reasons. Some nights it was work: he had a stakeout to do, or he had to finish a report, or the fugitive got him chasing the whole night. Some nights it was a troubled heart or a troubled mind: he was worrying over his mother, over the mine; later he was worrying over his marriage, over his job. Over Boyd.
Lately Raylan learned how to stay awake to look over Graham: the child was still too small to spend much time away from his momma, but some nights Raylan would take care of him, and understand the hard way no one was telling tales about sleep-deprived parents.
Raylan wasn’t much of a party man, so he barely remembers a night he spent awake in a club or a bar. But surely, many nights were spent drinking away ‘till the sun was up, and those weren’t necessarily bad nights.
That being said, Raylan has never suffered from insomnia. He never stayed awake in his bed, listening to the quiet sounds of the empty street, unable to silence his restless mind. He never swore against his pillow, trying to find the perfect position to become unconscious, feeling as if ants were crawling over his arms and legs. No, he was never the kind of man to run a fever without a temperature, to count the slow seconds of the night, to breath the dark still air of the sleepless hours.
Not until tonight, it seems.
“Why you turnin’ and tossing so much, goddammit?”
And it was really bad timing as well. If he were to become a restless creature of the night five months ago, it would be probably without any harm: he would walk the small apartment over and over, maybe turn the lights on, take a shower. As it was, he was sharing the bed with Boyd Crowder, now, and that meant his (lack of) sleeping would affect more than just his work tomorrow.
He would like to have a good answer to Boyd, at least. Would like to say he was worried, or unhappy, or too wired up: but no, nothing like that. The day had been quiet, normal, uneventful. Raylan had worked, came back home, had dinner, took a shower, laid beside Boyd. He hadn’t drunk too much coffee, and there was nothing disturbing his peace. Everything was exactly where it should have been: his Tombstone poster, his hat, his gun, Boyd’s books, Boyd’s shirts, their cellphones, their half empty bourbon glasses. The pieces of their quiet life all lined up in perfect stillness, and even the bar was quiet down stairs.
For some reason, it sounded like the whole night was shouting something at Raylan, keeping him alert and impossibly awake. He turned around once again, tired of staring at the ceiling, trying to find some comfort at the bedside table.
“For fucks sake, Raylan, go to sleep already.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Go drive ‘round or somethin’ then. Some of us have work to do in the morning.”
“Oh, am I taking your rest away? You have to shoot criminals and deal with lowlifes the whole day tomorrow? ‘Cause I was under the impression you sold books for a livin’ and I was the US Marshal.”
“Once upon a time I used to shoot criminals and deal with lowlifes, and I needn’t be a marshal for that.”
“You so funny, Crowder. Good thing I can pretend I was asleep while you confessed your crimes.”
“I may commit a crime right now if you don’t stop your talking, boy.”
Raylan considers for a second how much of his maturity points would be lost if he swats Boyd, and comes to the conclusion it’s worth it anyway. Boyd yelps and laughs a bit, punch Raylan’s shoulder lightly: it’s weird because it’s a game, but it doesn’t feel childish at all – it feels somewhat dangerous.
Raylan is fucking tired of this night already, and he would very much like to shut his brain.
Boyd is sleeping again in no time, but he stays close, as if his body has half a mind to keep hitting Raylan even in his sleep. He usually sleeps on his side, but as it is he’s sleeping on his stomach, face turned towards Raylan, his left arm pressed against Raylan’s side.
The nights would begin to warm up pretty soon, but that night was amenable enough that Boyd’s warmth didn’t felt uncomfortable. It should have felt, however: Raylan is sure he shouldn’t be so relaxed with that amount of naked skin touching his own, just as he shouldn’t feel as if Boyd’s scent is the scent of his own bed.
No, not Boyd’s scent, not only: their scents combined, their warmth combined, their collection of body odors and skin cells and the hair that sticks to the pillows. That’s his bed, their bed, and Raylan wants to feels disgusted by it, wants to think about Boyd’s finger nails and Boyd’s drool with some sort of repulsion, but the only sentiment he’s able to conjure is familiarity.
He slowly turns around towards Boyd, praying the man won’t wake: he knows it’s a weak hope. Boyd’s eyelashes flick but he doesn’t open his eyes; Raylan knows, by the intake of breath, that he’s awake. Raylan doesn’t turn away, though, doesn’t pretend he’s not staring. He can’t shut his own mind and he’s freaking out over skin cells, so he might as well creep Boyd out a bit, make it worth the ride.
Boyd stays still, and Raylan is not entirely sure if they’re both pretending he’s still sleeping or if they’re both waiting for it to be over, whatever it may be. The walls are still silent, and Raylan scans Boyd’s face, searching for something in the dark path of stubble that shadows his jaw, in the voluptuous line that marks his mouth, in the angle of his nose. If the man was awake, the shape of his mouth would probably be lost to Raylan, as all you can usually take from Boyd is his million dollar grin, those shark teeth that always threaten to bite. That and his five mile long forehead, the spiked black hair making his profile even more unusual…
“What’s so funny ‘bout my face?” Boyd doesn’t even open his eyes, doesn’t move at all, his arm still pressed against Raylan.
“You got ‘nough of a forehead to give shelter to a whole family, don’t ya?” Raylan whispers, laughing quietly at his own joke. He raises a hand to touch Boyd’s face, just two fingers against his brow. “They could build their lil’ house here… a nice lil’ yard over here… maybe some chickens as well…”
“And where will I storage the patience to deal with you, hm?”
His fingers are still against Boyd’s skin, and Boyd is not moving, is not hitting his hand away, not telling him to stop, so Raylan’s not quite sure how this game should end. He doesn’t answer Boyd, but he feels he should, then he feels he wants: wants what, he’s not sure. But his fingers are still touching, barely brushing the warm skin of the other man’s face.
“Is there something you wish to do tonight, Raylan?”
Raylan wants to pretend he doesn’t understand the question, but he does, he understands pretty well what it is that Boyd is asking against his fingers, his breath raising shivers on his skin for no good reason. And he wants, but he’s not quite sure, and there’s not enough courage left in the night.
“No, Boyd. Not tonight, no.”
“So you won’t mind if I fall asleep then?”
“…you want me to stop?”
The man smiles then, his eyes still closed, his face working under Raylan’s fingers, something amazing and alive. Boyd pats Raylan’s hand lightly and sinks back in the mattress, tired and half-asleep already.
“You can keep going ‘till you’re tired. I’ll sleep for both of us.”
It seems only fair that one of them should get to rest.