In the grand scheme of things, Neal had done the least to Raylan and the mountain of bullshit that the New Yorker would have to climb on top of to get him to the point of walking out was astronomical. Raylan loved him, in his own way.

"Anything will be better than what's there," he admitted with a bob of his head, glancing over his shoulder as Neal pointed out the paint cans and ambling over that way. A spare screwdriver to pop it off and a bit of odd wood to stir it up before Raylan poured some out into the paint pan.

"Been at least a few months since I painted a wall. Less than for drywall repair but I doubt we'd have the stuff to do that, even if we needed it." Yes, Raylan was ~Handy~.