Raylan had opted to take off his shoes and roll up his jeans to stand in the rolling surf. It helped him banish Mathis into a temporary rearview as he dug his toes into the cool wet sand. But still he was, as still as a statue, head tilted back into the faint breeze as he breathed in the salt like it might wash him clean.

The sense of someone behind him is what breaks him from his reverie and he glances over his shoulder, holding Neal in his sights for a handful of long seconds before offering him a tired smile.

"Come on in, water's fine."

Telling Neal to fuck off didn't even occur to him, even if his lip and eye were still healing. They'd dealt with the large bits; he imagined there were fragments missed on account of Malcolm being there at all, as necessary as he was in being a facilitator for their conversation in the first place. But if Neal wanted to join him, Raylan wasn't going to say no. To the company or to Neal himself.