[[ lexington, kentucky ]]

[itwasjustified]

[ "you brought me breakfast." ]

After a morning spent wandering the International Museum of the Horse, Raylan has soaked in more than he ever forgot about the history and role of the horse in modern civilization.

He can also rattle off the last dozen Derby winners in chronological and alphabetical orders now -- something he cheerfully subjects Reese to during the drive to Keeneland.

It's all gently rolling meadows, green grass, and picturesque white fences as they near the track; once Raylan pulls into the entrance and joins the long line of vehicles inching toward the designated parking lots, he fights the urge to (mis)use his badge to cut to the front.

Patience wins out, and fifteen minutes later, they're strolling through the main gate. The paddock is a smorgasbord of old money, new money, and laughing college students. Amid the riot of summery dresses, skinny jeans, seersucker, three-piece suits, and every fashion statement in between, Raylan directs Dani's attention to a pocket of grooms, owners, trainers and jockeys. A moment later, a bay trots out on a lead, sporting a cardinal-red blanket emblazoned with the number 11 in white stitching.

"Think that one looks like a champion?"

Comments

[itwasjustified]

A pause.

"Waffles."

A beat.

"Not from Waffle House, mind you."

[notenlightened]

She leans in to mutter amidst the loud chatter in front of them in line.

"There's only one reason you take a girl for waffles after a date, you know."

[itwasjustified]

He angles his head, all the better to hear her.

All too innocent, "Is this some L.A. secret you're about to share?"

[notenlightened]

She leans in, and there's just the slightest amount of pressure as she places her hand on his shoulder, lips hovering by his ear under the brim of the Stetson:

"Means she did something to earn 'em."

It's her turn in line, and she steps forward with a satisfied smirk.

[itwasjustified]

Swallowing a surprised chuckle, Raylan clears his throat.

When Reese steps up to the window, he digs the ticket from his pocket and passes it over.

The teller, who had been sending eye-daggers in the obnoxious talker's direction, offers a polite smile as she rings in the slip.

A moment later, she hands Reese a sum that's even more than Raylan ballparked, and Raylan grins.

"I don't feel so bad, now, seein' as how you can certainly afford to feed both of us."

[notenlightened]

The chuckle is more than enough of a signal to let her know her aim was good, though she's quickly distracted by the amount that's pressed into her hand.

"That makes two of us," Reese murmurs, looking over the bills and then discreetly folding them into her back pocket.

"Maybe I'll treat you to waffles."

[itwasjustified]

It's Raylan's turn to lean in.

"I'll have to earn 'em."

[notenlightened]

She hooks her thumbs into their respective back pockets, hardly shying away when he leans in.

"How do you feel about Belgian?"

[itwasjustified]

"Oh, they'll put me on my best behavior."

[notenlightened]

"And just how good is your best?"

[itwasjustified]

"I'm thinkin'," he says, voice low and eyes lit with mischief, "that's somethin' you'll have to judge for yourself."

[notenlightened]

She leans inward and in, close and closer, until it's almost her forehead, too, that's covered by the brim of the hat. Her lips part slowly, the sweet, citrusy zest of lemon on her breath -

"Fair enough."

[itwasjustified]

Looking down at her, his fingers itch to touch her hair; he tightens his grip on his plastic glass of lemonade to distract himself.

"All's fair in love and waffles, detective," he says.

"So in the meantime, maybe you should pick our next winner."

[notenlightened]

She wishes she could claim a technique, a method of how to pick the next due winner, but all she can do is look up at him, her smirk plain and clear, and nod.

"You got it, marshal."

[itwasjustified]

Two hours and five races later, Raylan's hat is off to Reese.

Literally.

"Be honest, now. You're a regular at Santa Anita."

[notenlightened]

She's not going to gloat.

Not openly, anyway.

"Beginner's luck," she decides, with a small half-shrug.

[itwasjustified]

"Uh-huh," he drawls, replacing his hat.

"That's fine, keep your secrets; I'm not complainin'."

[notenlightened]

She looks down at the folded bills.

"I don't even carry this much at once, normally."

[itwasjustified]

"Terrible cross to bear," he deadpans, lifting his third lemonade to take a sip.

[notenlightened]

"Yeah, well, you're not the one who isn't carrying a gun."

She feels surprisingly naked without it.

[itwasjustified]

"Assumin' you don't incapacitate your hypothetical assailant first," Raylan says, tipping his head toward Reese, "and that's a big assumption, I swear I'll do everything in my power to keep you and your newfound wealth safe and sound."

A beat.

"So help me God."

[notenlightened]

"Oh," Reese murmurs, fighting a smirk back all the while, "I just feel so much better now that you've gotten God involved."

The bills discreetly disappear into that back pocket, and she hitches her thumb over her shoulder.

"Want to get out of here?"

[itwasjustified]

He glances around the considerable crowd, then back to Reese.

With two races left, if they leave now, they'll beat the exit traffic.

"I'm ready to scoot whenever you are. You feel like quittin' while you're ahead?"

[notenlightened]

She surveys the crowd briefly, then nods.

"Why risk ruining my lucky streak?"

[itwasjustified]

He nods toward the exit.

As they make their way toward it, "You know, that makes you smarter than, oh, about ninety-six percent of the people here."