#yeahhhhhh.

*sees ex-friend who indirectly makes me feel bad about myself at fucking vidcon*

                    he’s at the kitchenette fixing himself a cup of coffee--dash of cream, three sugars--when the gruff question interrupts his thoughts. raylan lifts his eyes from the chipped ceramic mug, spoon tinkling off the sides, to find his new desk mate leaned against the countertop. staring at him intently. ashley graves has the bearing of a military man, but that’s all raylan’s been able to glean thus far--his background is hush-hush. file locked away in art’s vault, somewhere beneath that top-shelf bottle of bourbon he keeps in case of emergencies. 

                   ❝  what gave it away?  ❞   raylan quips, brows raising as he brings the cup to his lips. the first sip is scalding, and he can barely suppress the small flinch it elicits. the last thing he wants is to appear foolish in front of this man, but he thinks vaguely that he should be forgiven--after all, he wasn’t expecting ashley to sneak up on him like this. he’s got a way of moving silently, appearing where you’d least expect him that unnerves raylan.