Ganymede gave a soft, inelegant little snort of laughter at the joke, but it put him at ease to know Raylan could tease him about it. It would be okay, the marshal could handle his extraordinary age, even if it would have to come in fits and starts and not all at once. Ganymede could deal with that all too easily. Even if his smile dimmed a little at the explanation, it didn't disappear, just softened.

"It doesn't have to be moot that you worry. It does still hurt if I get cut or break a bone." Or get shot, but he doesn't say that. The bandage still taped to his ribs says it plenty loud. "I still worry for you too. I know you're going to have guns pointed at you, and I know your draw has to be faster than everyone else. And I know it is," he murmured, fingertips tracing nonsensical patterns over his lover's skin just to feel. "But killing does something to a person. Even those of us that don't regret what we have to do at times."