Malcolm interrupts their silence with the faint rattle of porcelain on a tray, setting it down on a dusty coffee table.

“I made tea,” he announces needlessly. A beat. “Kinda hoped some kind of words would happen in the meantime, but I can start.” He pours tea into three cups from the rather fine teapot the house had in the cupboard, offering one to each of them before sitting crosslegged at the coffee table with his.

“Neal, let’s talk about what you need, because punching Raylan wasn’t it. It was another outlet. You haven’t been doing well since the chupacabra attack.”

Someone had to play counsellor.