Collins sitting down let Raylan relax his shoulders some, more of the tension that had been built up slipping away. There was no forgetting what just happened, but it felt like they were further away from an exploding edge. They could get back into the grey of calmer emotions, less starkly black and white like the fight for life always was. The Irishman look, in a word, tired as he talked about himself, like the weight of it was sinking him down a little. Raylan was sympathetic, but didn't pity him. Everyone had their weight to carry.

Four or five decades of life always came with some weight, no matter where you came from, no matter what you did.

"Plenty of wet work to be found. People willin' to pay for things I can't endorse-" But generally, he understood. Passions were what they were, greed was what it was, hunger - Well, they all knew what side of the line Raylan had dedicated himself to. He knew it happened, he couldn't recommend it, but it was still an option for Collins. A hard and dangerous road, but no one could make Collins choices for him.

He ambles forward, close enough to be in Collins reach, a concession of space. A concession of possibility, however fucked up it might be to entertain it. But he couldn't bring himself to really poke and dig now, to try and pry up Collins' pavestones and make the man drag out whatever was underneath them.

"An' killin' me?"