The words 'come with me' had almost slipped out of his mouth at least four times that evening and he'd swallowed them because he knew two things: that Raylan couldn't and that - if he asked - that Raylan might anyway.

This time, as the words tried to get out, Malcolm glanced down and huffed a laugh.

"Always making a mess," he breathed as he let himself get steered under the spray so his hair could be properly wet.

He loved this ritual. He loved washing Raylan's hair, in particular, as much as he had the first time he did it.