itwasjustified | [[ conversations with dead people ]]

Goddamn, it's humid.

Two minutes out of the air-conditioned bar and halfway down the deserted pier, Raylan's collar is sticking to the back of his neck.

This feels like midsummer Miami all over again, with heat as thick and suffocating as an electric blanket.

He reaches the end of the dock; eyes on the inky surface of the lake, he contemplates stripping down for a quick swim.

"Well, if it isn't the cowboy."

Raylan turns, and lifts an eyebrow.

"Tommy Bucks," he says, voice flat. His tongue feels fat and slow in his mouth, like a salt-sprinkled slug. "How's the afterlife treating you?"

Tommy laughs. The harsh, ugly sound carries across the still water, its reverb slicing Raylan's inner ears.

"You're still a joke a minute," Tommy says. "You refused to share a meal with me, missed out on the best crab cakes in town. You shot me at the table, and here you're cracking wise again the whole time." His mouth twists into a gnarled, red-brown gash. "Boyd Crowder was right — you do have ice water in those veins."

The air grows even hotter, shimmering between them. Sweat beads at Raylan's temples, below the brim of his hat.

He frowns.

"How would you know what Boyd said?"

Tommy grins, and Raylan feels his anger ratchet.

"You might be surprised at how much I know," Tommy says. "I know you're a mean son of a bitch, Givens."

"Now, there's no need for name-calling, and certainly no reason to bring my mother into this."

Tommy's jellied eyes narrow.

"I know you got shipped back to Kentucky because you killed me. I know you worry that you would've pulled the trigger anyway, if I hadn't gone for my piece under the table."

"But you did go for your weapon," Raylan says, mild as a cloudless spring day.

"What if I hadn't?"

Raylan keeps his gaze steady on Tommy's desiccated face, forcing his clenched jaws to relax.

"You did."

"Oh, I see." Tommy nods, once. "It was justified, as you like to call it."

"Yeah," Raylan says. "Something like that."

"Well, fuck that, and fuck you."

Before Raylan can so much as side-step, Tommy slams one shoulder into his torso. Raylan pitches backward, into the water, with the smell of rancid meat jammed in his nose.

He waits for the icy slap of the lake, but when he opens his eyes, he's standing outside of his childhood home in Harlan.

The house sits dark and silent; Arlo and Helen must be in bed.

And, Raylan realizes, he's not even wet, but his Stetson's gone missing.

Glancing up from his dry clothes, he squints toward the three granite headstones at the side of the house, mostly hidden in the shadows of the yard. Tommy is perched on one of them — his mother's, Raylan realizes, when his eyes adjust, and he can see that Tommy's to the far left.

He steps closer, taking care to keep his boots quiet on the grass as he approaches the family plot.

"Welcome home," Tommy all but spits.

"Get down."

"You gonna shoot me if I don't?"

Raylan smiles without humor.

"I just might."

Tommy hops off Frances's tombstone.

"You're no fun, marshal."

"Oh, you don't think so? Maybe you should take me out to dinner sometime."

"Maybe you should watch your smart fucking mouth."

Tommy moves faster than Raylan can register, his fist meeting Raylan's jaw with unholy force.

Raylan staggers sideways, intending to catch himself on Arlo's headstone, but winds up on his back in the dirt beside his own.

Raylan Givens
Beloved son of Frances and Arlo
1970 —

Tommy looms in his blurred vision, his outline bleeding into the black, black sky.

"Enjoy your stay, asshole."

Raylan can't make his bloodied mouth form a response; he closes his eyes, letting the welcome chill of of the ground seep into his jack-hammered skull.

Chirps of cicadas buzz in his ears, droning louder and louder, until that's all he can hear.