psl for Raylan: post-shootout

[the_cupbearer]

Ganymede sat in the back of a parked ambulance, shirt off and his arm held up, braced on the open door as one of the EMTs dabbed at his skin. There was a bloody graze along his ribs from a gunshot he'd mostly avoided, and though it stung quite badly Ganymede was hardly in tears over it. He'd been hurt worse and survived it, but no one knew that here.

He fully anticipated getting an earful from Raylan later--he'd ended the hostage situation with a gunshot of his own, though he'd been the one on the safe end of said gun, although one had been pointed at him. Ganymede had met his friend and sometime-lover's eyes just a second before the shot, wide and alarmed, but in the ensuing chaos and cleanup they'd lost track of each other.

"Hey," he murmured, seeing the lanky marshal ambling his way.

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[tinstar]

"We'll sort that out," Raylan promises softly, smile spreading at how cute that was. It's just frying chicken. Cook it until it's done. But he understood - everyone learned differently and not everyone grew up in the south where, inarguably, the art of it had been perfected.

He squeezes Ben gently, nodding into the crook of his neck. "I hope that's an opinion that doesn't change."

The few times they'd talked about Winona, Raylan had been as frank as he could be. Best he figured it, she left because she couldn't handle staying up at night, worrying about if she was going to get a call that he'd been shot. Again. He didn't blame her. He wouldn't blame Ganymede either. It was a lot to shoulder.

"And thank you," he follows in a half whisper, kissing his neck again before slipping around him to get the rest of his things, ready to go.

[the_cupbearer]

He could handle the cooking part; it was everything that came before it that he hadn't yet mastered. Not quite, not enough for him to want to make it for Raylan and have it turn out tasting bad. He could figure it out with enough time and trial, yes, Ganymede wasn't unintelligent: it just wasn't something he'd tried to gain ease in doing for himself alone. But having a lover who liked it...that was much better motivation. Raylan usually was.

"It won't," he murmured back to the soft hope his friend voiced, holding tight until Raylan let go first. Ganymede knew he would worry about Raylan when he was working, that was simply part of life. But the marshal was smart, skilled, determined...and lucky. And he could do nothing more than trust Raylan wouldn't gamble with his own life too recklessly for something that he didn't believe in. He trusted that Raylan could do his job, and do it well.

He had evidence now too, and that certainly made the trusting easier. Ganymede could recall with a truly startling clarity the look on Raylan's face as he'd aimed and fired at the man who'd been holding him at gunpoint hours ago.

"Always," he murmured back, returning the kiss to the soft skin just below Raylan's earlobe, following him out once he'd slipped a shirt back on, carefully hiding the bandage on his ribs. The nearest place to get food wasn't far, and Ganymede decided to just watch Raylan for a moment, studying the way the man held things and marveling for a flash of a moment how those fingers could be so dexterous in so many other ways.

[tinstar]

It would be fun, them doing it together. Ben learning how to weigh down a table with southern goods so rich as to make any man that sat at it satisfied to his core. If there was one thing Raylan was good at that wasn't shooting, it was eating. Once he was out on his own, making his own food was the only way he got that satisfaction.

He was reassured by the promise in return that Ben's feeling wouldn't change, though only time would prove the reality of that promise. He would do his best on his side to hold it up right, to hold it in a way that honored Ben properly.

His keys spin in his hand and once and once Ben was ready, he leads them out the door and to the car.

"I know this place just down the road, sells some chicken that'll blow your socks right off. My treat. We can go eat it down by the river if you'd like, get some beer, make a real meal out of it."

[the_cupbearer]

"Oh, then it must be good," Ganymede teases back with an impish little grin; he rarely ever wore shoes that required socks, unless they were boots for work, which he was still in now. He climbed in gamely--he hadn't taken off the bandage on his side, and after the exertions earlier he knew it wouldn't be healed over yet--but fluidly enough to fool most observers, and with every indication that although it hurt, he wasn't going to ease up in most anything he did.

"I only learned to cook relatively late, considering everyone else. My mother certainly didn't teach me--it was unlikely she knew how herself, being the Queen. And at the time I truly didn't think I needed to learn how from the kitchens," he murmured, once the car had rumbled to life. "I'm decent at a great many dishes, and better than average on a few others, but...southern cuisine has always baffled me. It did even when I first had it." Which had been long, long ago and far, far away indeed; the swampy inlets of the Carolina coast held several close memories for him.

He sighed gently, looking out the window at the twinkling lights that filtered through the night: he loved seeing cities at night, when everything that man had built gave way to the dark, and mortals hurried inside and shut themselves in where it was safe. He and Raylan, on the other hand...safety was often bypassed, either by their own decision or someone else's. It was a very large part of why he could be so circumspect on the prospect of his lover facing harm.

"It's been a long time since I've done this, you know."