Author's Note: This scene starts as a rewrite of the final confrontation in 1x13, "Bulletville."

I hate to turn up out of the blue, uninvited

I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it.

I had hoped you'd see my face

And that you'd be reminded that for me it isn't over.

The cabin walls splintered and groaned under each subsequent spray of bullets, and Boyd was mildly afraid that the structure's inevitable collapse would kill them before the bullets had a chance.

"Just send us Raylan Givens and you can go free," the petite Hispanic woman with the automatic weapon shouted to him. "We have no quarrel with you."

Raylan looked him dead in the eye, as if telling him it was his best option, then shouted back, "I'm Raylan Givens," ducking to avoid the hail of bullets that followed his words.

"No, I'm Raylan Givens," Boyd heard himself say, thinking fast in his panicked need to stop Raylan from getting himself killed.

The look Raylan shot him was by no means friendly as he asked angrily, "What the hell do you think you're doing, Boyd?"

"Trying to stop you from getting yourself killed with that martyr complex of yours! I'm not going to let you do this alone!" Boyd yelled in return, not backing down an inch.

Their argument was interrupted by several short blasts from the machine gun and a voice shouting, "You've got five minutes to figure out who's who or I bring out the really heavy artillery."

Crouching even lower to the cabin floor, Raylan continued in a heated whisper, "Boyd, I am a US Federal Marshall; it is my job and my duty to risk my life. I can't let a civilian go into a fire fight with me."

With a meaningful glance toward their assailant, Boyd gave him a rueful smile and replied, "It's a bit late for that tactic, Raylan - I'm in it. More importantly, I am a man with ten lost souls on my conscience; I welcome the chance to do something to begin to tip the heavenly scales back again."

Raylan's tone softened a bit as he said more calmly, "Boyd, the deaths of those men do not lie on your conscience, but on Bo's. You were trying to help them; even I see that now. You couldn't have foreseen the consequences.°

"Couldn't I?" Boyd asked, the despair seeping through into his voice. "I'm a planner, Raylan, it's how I've survived in Harlan this long. I'm always two steps ahead. But I wasn't this time, and ten good men are dead. That is not something I can lay on anybody else. I owe a debt, and I intend to discharge it."

"Damn it, Boyd, you don't owe your life! What you're suggesting is too goddamn dangerous and I won't let you do it." Raylan was getting more upset than Boyd had seen him in a long time.

"You don't have much of a choice," Boyd said. "We both stay in here, we're sitting ducks, and she can just wait until nightfall to pick us off. But if one of us goes out as a decoy, the other one has got at least a chance of sneaking around back and getting a hit in. You're the better shot, which makes me the decoy. Come on, Raylan, you know I'm right; it's our only chance."

Raylan stared off stormily into the distance for a few moments saying nothing, but eventually he nodded reluctantly. He then removed his jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt, at which point Boyd was about to interject in confusion until he noticed the Kevlar vest Raylan was wearing beneath it. Then, as if guessing what Boyd was about to say, Raylan said firmly, "No objections, Boyd. You wear this or there's no deal." He slipped it from his shoulders, being careful to remain below the line of the windows, then slid it over the dusty floor to Boyd.

Seeing in Raylan's stony expression that argument was useless, Boyd removed his own outer clothing until he was wearing only his undershirt and jeans. He was about to shrug on the vest when he looked up and was startled to find Raylan only a few inches away, breathing hard and looking like he wanted to say something important. Instead, he lunged for Boyd, kissing him fiercely and possessively, hands bunching in the white cotton of Boyd's undershirt. Boyd returned the kiss just as passionately, unsure if he would ever get another chance.

Raylan broke it off after a minute, placed his hands on either sides of Boyd's face and growled out, "Boyd Crowder, don't you dare die!" He then returned swiftly to the other side of the room to reload his gun with a fresh clip.

Boyd stared after him for a few moments, thinking vaguely that if they both made it out of this alive, they would really have to discuss Raylan's hit-and-run style of kissing, then continued dressing, placing the vest under his shirt and jacket. Once he was ready, and with a curt nod from Raylan, he shouted, "Hold your fire; I'm coming out!"

As he got up to leave, Raylan looked at him and instructed, "Do not go out into the open. Do not engage. Just keep her talking until I can find a shot."

Boyd nodded, took a deep breath, and, with a last glance at Raylan, opened the door. He shouted, "I'm coming out! My gun is in my hand, and I am now placing it on the ground. You do the same, and then we can negotiate." Boyd remained hidden behind one of the wood pillars of the porch, being careful to always keep something between him and the woman's machine gun, even if it was only a comparatively flimsy wooden structural support.

"Okay, okay," she said, lowering her gun to the ground and raising her hands in the air as she walked into the open area in front of the cabin. "Now, let's talk."

Boyd tensed up; he knew she shouldn't have given in so quickly - something wasn't right. Before he could decide what to do, the world around him exploded with sound and movement.

A single bullet whizzed out from the side of the house and hit the woman in the shoulder. She screamed and fell to the ground, screaming, "Manuel!" At this, a young Hispanic man emerged from behind the large truck parked in front of the cabin, firing a hail of bullets toward the porch.

Boyd felt a weight strike his chest and vaguely registered hearing a loud crack as he fell backwards onto the porch, his head striking the boards with a sickening thud. He had this strange sensation that a little voice was trying to tell him something, as if it wanted him to remember something; he saw little flashes of Raylan, Ava, a dining room, but, really, it didn't seem particularly important.

All around him, time seemed to slow down, and he would have sworn that it took a good half a minute for the bullet leaving Raylan's chamber to hit the man called Manuel in the stomach. As Boyd watched Raylan run in slow motion toward his car, grab the radio, and yell something frantically into it, the edges of his vision grew suddenly hazy. Darkness pressed in on him from all sides, and Boyd felt himself puled down helplessly, inescapably into it.

Suddenly, he was running through the forest by the lake he and Raylan frequented as teenagers, darting lightly between pine trees, his feet barely glancing over the soft grassy floor of the forest.

"Boyd, Boyd!" a teenaged Raylan called from behind, running after him like he always did. Boyd just ran faster, not ready for the game to be over yet. It was just so beautiful there with the lake and the trees and the moonlight that he paused for a moment to admire it, and suddenly he felt Raylan slam into him from behind, propelling them both laughing down the hill. They hit the bottom with a soft thud, Raylan half on top of Boyd, half sprawled lazily on the grass.

"Come back to me," Raylan said languidly, his fingers playing absentmindedly with the hair on Boyd's chest, which had begun to ache from the landing.

Boyd laughed and kissed him, asking, "What do you mean? I"m right here."

"Come on Boyd, come back to me," Raylan whispered again. Suddenly, he was no longer young and carefree, but older and worried-looking, bits of gray dusting his temples. Boyd frowned and reached up to touch his face, but in a flash Raylan was gone.

"Raylan? Raylan?" Boyd yelled, panic swelling in his still aching chest. He got up and spun in a circle frantically searching, haunted by a strange feeling that unless he found Raylan, something terrible would happen. As he continued to hunt for him, panic escalating into frenzy, rain began to pour down relentlessly from what Boyd would have sworn was a perfectly clear sky moments ago.

Finally, through the haze of rain, Boyd caught sight of a figure on the other side of the lake, seemingly motioning at him. "Raylan?" he called, running toward him, now thoroughly drenched, "Raylan?" As he approached, a voice began to filter through the rain, faded and patchy as if being transmitted by an old ham radio. Boyd ran faster, slipping on the mud forming around the lake, and as he got closer he began to catch a few discernible words from the hum of static: "Boyd," "Damn it," "Wake up," "Not now."

As he continued to rush forward in ever-increasing desperation, the ground became muddier and even more slippery. Suddenly, Boyd lost his footing and plunged deep into the lake. Strangely, the voice did not stop when he hit the water, but became louder and more insistent. Boyd could still see the silhouette of the man glimmering above the water, seemingly so close, yet as he kept trying to swim up to him, he could get no nearer.

The figure began to flicker and fade, and Boyd, knowing he could not hold his breath much longer, pulled together his remaining strength, closed his eyes in concentration, and impelled himself with all his might toward the surface.

As he felt himself break through a barrier, Boyd gasped desperately for air, but was stopped from inhaling too deeply by a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. Still trying frantically to breathe, he flung his eyes open and was surprised to find himself staring into Raylan's worried face. As his vision focused even more, he could see that Raylan was speaking to him, and Boyd concentrated his energies on getting his ears to work again.

His hearing returned in a whirling rush of sound, and he had to filter through the chirping birds and car alarms to hear Raylan saying urgently, "Boyd, Boyd, I need you to calm down. You're all right." As Boyd obliged and made an effort to slow down his frenzied breathing, he realized that he was essentially lying in Raylan's lap, the Marshall's arms cradling him loosely.

He tried to sit up and say something, but the intense pain exploding in his chest made him gasp audibly and fall back down. This prompted Raylan to place one hand on the side of Boyd's face, the other still supporting his torso, and speak to him firmly: "Boyd, I need you to listen to me. Stay down, and don't try to talk. You've been shot. The vest absorbed most of the force, but because your sternum and a few of your ribs were already weakened from, well, from when I shot you, I think they may have shattered from the impact and sent bone splinters into your lungs, which is why you're having trouble breathing. I've phoned an ambulance, and it will be here in a few minutes. Until then, you just have to stay with me; just stay with me, and everything will be fine. You'll be just fine." His voice softened a touch as he finished, and, staring up at him, Boyd could see the relief and worry battling it out under his take-charge demeanor.

Wanting to know what had happened, but remembering how much it hurt the last time he tried to talk, Boyd inclined his head slightly toward the truck parked in front of the cabin and looked at Raylan questioningly.

"The hired guns?" Raylan asked, and Boyd nodded.

"Both dead," he said matter-of-factly. "Initially only wounded, but the one called Manuel tried to draw on me when I was trying to radio in for help and, after I shot him, the woman sat up and attempted to finish you off; needless to say, I did not take kindly to that. Let's just say Art will have a pretty big headache to deal with for the next week or so."

Boyd attempted a small laugh to lighten the mood a little, but this led to a fit of coughing that made him feel like his lungs were on fire. Raylan shifted him up gently so Boyd's head was resting in the crook of his neck and rubbed a hand up and down Boyd's back until the agonized shaking caused by his coughing fit had subsided. Boyd said nothing, but turned carefully so his weight was resting entirely on Raylan and closed his eyes, his left hand weakly gripping Raylan's lapel. Raylan kept his arms wrapped around Boyd and rested his chin on the top of his head, and they remained exactly like that until the ambulance came a few minutes later.

"Only two pills, Boyd, doctor's orders," Raylan warned as handed them over. Boyd muttered something about cruel and unusual punishment, but took the pills readily enough, chasing them with water since Raylan had refused him bourbon.

The doctor's had officially confirmed Raylan's diagnosis of a shattered sternum and ribs, as well as a mild concussion from the impact of the porch, and unofficially confirmed that without the vest, Boyd would not have had his second miraculous escape from death. They had pieced his chest back together like he was a jigsaw puzzle, removing the bits of bone that were putting pressure on his lungs, and reluctantly released him into Raylan's care, with strict instructions that he do nothing but rest for the next few days. They had also strictly forbidden Boyd the use of alcohol while he was on the pain meds.

In an attempt to deflect the attention from his battered and bandaged chest, Boyd began examining the room, strolling around it and swirling his water glass as if it did indeed contain alcohol as he spoke. "Jesus, Raylan, how have you been living here a year and not gone completely nuts staring at these paintings? They're terrible. I'll bet you anything the desk clerk did them himself."

"Next time, I'll be sure and request the room with the Picasso," Raylan remarked dryly, playing along.

"Would've taken you for a Georgia O'Keefe man myself, but anything would be an improvement," Boyd stated, finishing his water and placing it on the table by the bed. But doing even that small lap around the room had his chest throbbing from the exertion, and he was forced to rest a hand on the wall for support.

Evidently tired of pretending everything was fine, Raylan addressed him head-on. "You almost died today, Boyd," he said quietly, the slight tremor in his voice telegraphing more than his words, "You almost died because of me."

"I made the choice, Raylan," Boyd replied resolutely, "I knew the risks. What happened was on me."

In response, Raylan walked over to him slowly, laying his hands lightly over the bandages wrapped tightly around Boyd's chest. Boyd placed his own hands over Raylan's, holding them in place, the waves of warmth they were sending through his whole body more than compensating for the pain the pressure caused. At first occupying himself with tracing little circles over the backs of Raylan's hands with his thumbs, finally Boyd lifted his head slowly and looked up at him; Raylan looked back, and in that moment Boyd felt like every barrier they had each erected between them over the years had finally been stripped away.

They kissed, not as they had once, like twin waves crashing furiously together, but, with the trials of the day and the weariness of time, rather as two continents drifting slowly but inevitably toward one another, destined to form something new. Boyd sank comfortably against Raylan, his hands resting lightly, but firmly on his shoulders, while Raylan moved his arms down to wrap around Boyd's waist as tightly as he dared, as if he worried Boyd might break apart and drift away at any moment.

When they finally pulled apart a few inches, Raylan lifted a hand and skimmed it gently across Boyd's cheek, tracing the line of faded pink scar tissue, his face posed in thoughtful contemplation.

"That fight you had with the Rawlings boy," he recollected, "You were winning, so he pulled out a switchblade."

Boyd nodded, very slightly so as not to dislodge Raylan's hand. "If I remember rightly, Raylan, you also have a scar from that particular incident," he responded with a smile.

Raylan smiled back, saying, "It was hardly sporting of him to pull out a blade in the middle of a fair fight. I was merely expressing my disdain for the violation of Robert's Rules of order in a physical manner."

"Uh-huh," Boyd returned dubiously. "So, really, it had nothing to do with me at all, then?"

"You were merely the beneficiary of my rule-abiding nature," Raylan replied, still grinning good-naturedly.

Boyd responded by slowly unbuttoning the top of Raylan's shirt and resting his hand on the small gash running across his clavicle. He looked up slowly into Raylan's eyes and said, "No, I wasn't."

Raylan stopped grinning, and this time he laid his hand over Boyd's. "No, I don't suppose you were. The second I saw him coming at you with that knife, I just saw red. Next thing I know, I'm tackling a guy twice my size to the ground and wrestling a blade out of his hands."

"But not before getting slashed for your trouble," Boyd finished quietly.

"My momma had a fit when they called her at work. I can still hear her yelling at me about 'playing with knives' and 'that damn Crowder boy,'" Raylan remembered with a chuckle.

Boyd shook his head, also smiling again, and said, "I certainly wasn't the best friend she would have picked for you."

"Maybe she thought that at first," Raylan conceded, "but she grew to love you, Boyd. She just worried that you were a bad influence on me."

"She wasn't wrong," Boyd admitted.

"Maybe, but she also knew you had a good heart. So when your Daddy would come over late at night, drunk and looking for someone to beat on, she never let him past the deadbolt. Even threatened him with a shotgun once or twice," Raylan remembered proudly.

"I was always grateful to her for that," Boyd said, meaning it. "Not too many people would've stuck their neck out for me against my Daddy, but she never hesitated."

"I think it was because she knew you would've done anything for me," Raylan admitted. "Remember that March sophomore year when I was so mad at you for asking Susie Baker to homecoming before I could? She told me that we both knew you would've have jumped in front of a train for me, and that friends like that were worth holding onto." He placed a hand once more on Boyd's bruised and battered chest and finished quietly, "Clearly she was right."

Boyd smiled a little at that and Raylan kissed him softly on the mouth, his hand still resting on Boyd's chest. Boyd returned the kiss, simultaneously unbuttoning the rest of Raylan's shirt in a slow fashion, for once in no hurry at all. As he stripped it gently from Raylan's shoulders, his gaze rested on the various scars that dotted Raylan's chest, some known to him, others new.

Boyd traced his hand slowly over each of them, all the while deep in thought. When he finally looked up at Raylan, he said with a sigh, "A lot of years have gone by since then, Raylan. Life's beaten us both black and blue many times, not to mention the pain that we've caused each other. What makes you so sure we can put all the pieces back together again?"

Raylan looked up at him calmly and said, "When I came back to Harlan, I wouldn't have dreamt in a thousand years that we could find our way back to each other. But you were right in what you said to me that first day - do you remember? That we were more alike than I ever wanted to admit. I have done a lot of terrible things in my life, Boyd, however justified. So have you. We both have blood on our hands, and we'll both have to live with the consequences. But that makes you the only person in my life I don't hold back a piece of myself with. I know that you'll always understand because, underneath it all, we're the same."

"You've seen me be mean and violent and scared and selfish," he continued, talking more in one stretch than Boyd usually got out of him in a matter of days. "I'm not an easy man to get to know, even harder to love so I'm told. I'm not a fan of talking, talking about feelings even less. I've shot and killed thirty-six men, and I've stopped feeling much of anything when I pull a trigger. I'm not used to looking much past tomorrow, which is probably why I've been living in this motel room for the past year. But you see all of that - you're the only one who ever has - and you're still here, standing with me."

"And me, Raylan?" Boyd asked, his expression vulnerable. "I remember that day you came back as well as you do. You came riding back into town on your white horse -"

"Chevy," Raylan corrected. "You know how I feel about horses."

"Chevy," Boyd conceded with a roll of the eyes, "and looked at me like you couldn't believe someone like me had ever mattered to you. What's changed? Why are you still here standing with me?" Boyd wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer, but he knew he needed to.

"You've always seen me, Boyd," Raylan said slowly, as if trying to figure out how to phrase it, "But I haven't always seen you. I look at you today, and I see what I should have all along - a good man who made some bad decisions when life punched him in the gut. I thought before that your sudden religious conversion was some sort of ploy, but I realize now that it wasn't. It really was you trying to change and make amends."

"Doesn't matter anymore," Boyd said with a bitter sigh, walking a few feet to stare forlornly out the window, "It's all turned to ashes now. I tried to bring light to people, Raylan, but I only brought pain. What do I have to show for my crusade? My boys hung from trees like animals, Daddy shot dead in front of me, and the meth's showing no sign of slowing down."

"Hey, hey, you tried to do some good for Harlan to balance out the bad," Raylan said gently, coming up behind him and placing his hands on Boyd's waist, prompting Boyd to lean back to rest against him. "I may have not always understood your methods, Boyd, but for the first time I understand that whatever you have done, you have done according to your own code of honor. I respect that."

Boyd whirled around to face him, and, throwing his arms around his neck, asked quizzically, "So you really think we have a chance, Raylan? A convicted felon and a Marshall, in Harlan County? Come on, what kind of tomorrow could we have?"

"Well," replied Raylan, a sly grin creeping onto his face, "I was thinking that tomorrow we could go up to the lake and fool around like we used to do before life got so complicated."

"Don't you have to work tomorrow, Mr. US Marshall?" Boyd asked facetiously, lifting Raylan's hat off the table and placing it jauntily on his head.

"Boyd, I haven't had a day off work that wasn't the direct result of a bullet wound - mine or otherwise - in fifteen years. I think it's about time I played a little hooky." Raylan suddenly lifted Boyd up, causing him to laugh out loud in surprise, and tumbled them both playfully down onto the bed, taking care not to bruise Boyd's ribs any further.

As they lay facing each other on the cheap, scratchy comforter, Raylan grinned happily at Boyd and gently ran his hand through Boyd's hair. When he finally spoke, however, his face had grown more serious, though his hand was still absent-mindedly stroking Boyd's hair: "I know we've got a lot of strikes against us going in, Boyd - our pasts, our families, our jobs, our Harlan stubbornness. But at this point, there are gonna be a hell of a lot more strikes going with anyone else. We've known each other for twenty years and saved each other's asses more times than I care to recall. And yes, you may have not always been on my side of the law, but at the end of the day, you've always been on my side, and there's no one I'd sooner pick to have my back in a fight. Face it, Boyd, we're the best shot either of us is going to get for a "happily ever after."

"So yeah, tomorrow may be a bit uncertain, but it also has the potential to be one of the best damn days I've had in a very long time. So I suggest, for both our sakes, we take it one day at a time and just see what happens. Now, how does that sound?"

Boyd stared at him for a few beats, marvelling at how much a little bullet wound could get the Marshall top open up, and, as his response, shot Raylan a silly grin, which he reasoned he could blame on the pain pills if necessary, and kissed him firmly on the lips. He then laid his head contentedly on Raylan's chest and said, "I think I can live with that."

It wasn't until that moment, after they had finally talked away all the ghosts that had been haunting them all these years, that Boyd realized how bone-tired he was. He barely registered Raylan pulling the covers over both of them, turning out the light, and drawing him in tightly before he fell into the first real sleep he'd had in months.

That night, Boyd dreamt once more of the lake; this time, however, the stormy sky was gone, replaced with a sunset that bounced a pinkish orange light off the water, and whenever he reached for Raylan, he always found him.