You know, Raylan, you’d probably said the same thing last time. Before they fell asleep, sweat soaked and sheet tangled and all, and Malcolm burst in on them draped all over each other like a slutty oil painting. At least this time it probably wouldn’t be too much of a surprise.

With a long, suffering sigh, Henry’s hands linger low on Raylan’s waist as he pulls back a little, cocks his head to one side and raises one pointed eyebrow.

“And here I was thinkin’ you were tryin’a wine and dine me first...” he drawls, a dry, deadpan sort of taunting humour that occasionally triumphs over the dribbles of wit and wisdom.

“Suppose I could settle for paradise.” At least the wine part would be covered. And admittedly, it does sound nice, in a selfish sort of way, not thinking about the other house and the people in and around it, not worrying about this shithole at the warped end of the universe. They can be alone together, without censure or admonishments, have their back country moment uninterrupted.

Don’t mind him stalling. He’s just going to steal another kiss while he can. Touch where he can. Slide his hand down into Raylan’s... back pocket. Maybe there’s something he can grab while they’re there on the road to paradise.