"Mm," is all Raylan says to the condolences, politely accepting them with a faint nod of his head in return, but it wasn't something that he was going to focus on. He'd like to think Collins meant it, but he didn't know enough of the man yet. Coulda done some good with him, Raylan thought, if we'd had some time.

"That is what I'm worried about. Some people get a hobby, find a job that lets them get a little cruel and bloody - slaughter houses are still around, if that's your kinda thing; racin' cars, gamblin', I could go on. And I'm not ignorin' what else you said. What else you might want. But I also know I got a job to do. One that puts me well outta reach for helpin' you find any consistant kinda.. enjoyment." Therein lay the consequences. Raylan caves to his baser needs that had a thin connection to reason, leaves for a job, comes back to have his life blown up because the guy he fucks around with can't help his impulses. Not to mention the ever looming possibility that Raylan will have to shoot him. Or the possibility that Collins gets bored with him and decides to kill him outright instead.

He wasn't blaming Collins. Collins was what he was, just as much as Raylan was what he was.

"I'm sure we can find somethin' but that'll be it's own work, on your part."