#rakhal.writes

Boothill worries. He can't help it, now can he? He grew up on a dadgum farm! He had to watch the sheep, look after the horses and keep an eye on the hooligans – younger and older – that he was (un)fortunate enough to call his siblings. It's only natural that after a lifetime of taking care of others, those habits would linger.

His friends – okay, everyone he knew – liked to call him a mother hen. His siblings said he was just like Graey, fussing and making sure someone doesn't end up banging their head against an electrical pole or get their leg chewed off by one of the rez dogs.

And alright, yeah. Boothill was also a fucking hypocrite. He'd be drinking enough whiskey to put any sane person into a coma but he'd also monitor everybody else's alcohol intake like a hawk. Sure, he'll be driving very a bit recklessly and you'll be in the passenger seat, muttering prayers to whatever deity you think may listen, but! He'll also practically yell in your ear if you go just a teeny tiny bit over the speed limit.

"Dammit, are ya tryna get us all killed?!" Boothill barks in your ear.

"With the way you're yelling in my ear, I have never been more tempted to," you answer with a glare.

"Woah there, firecracker. No need t'blow up on me," he chuckles, all gruff and warm and so fucking endearingly stupid that you really do contemplate driving into the truck in front just to put yourself out of this misery.

"I promise you, I can and will punch you if you don't shut the fuck up and let me drive," you grit through your teeth.

"Tch." Boothill sucks his teeth. "Some driver ya are. Any good host and driver worth their salt can keep up a conversation and drive with their damn eyes closed."

Your friends in the backseat only sigh. Every interaction between you and Boothill was agonizing to watch. He had a knack for getting on your nerves and you had a knack for making his mother-hen tendencies flare up.

It was a deadly combo, combined with the fact that the two of you had such obvious crushes on one another but were too emotionally constipated to properly show it.

On second thought, maybe a car crash that kills everyone isn't such a bad idea after all, your friends silently agree.

Anywho, the point is that Boothill, for all his flaws and infuriatingly cute habits and mannerisms, cared a lot. And it pissed you off to no end as it left you all too vulnerable to the whims of this godawful crush. Far too many nights were spent with you groaning into your pillow and morosely scrolling through his Insta, staring at the small dimples that appeared with every smile and the way certain locks of his hair would curl and frame his pretty face.

As it happens, Boothill wasn't faring much better either. He liked you. A lot. And he had already spent weeks beating himself up over it, feeling like a loser because who the hell falls in love with one of their best friends? That too someone who he clearly believed to be way out of his league. Yeah... nope. He can't do this. He cares too much about you and has gotten to the point where he debates subtly engraving your initials to the underside of his beloved hat.

Hopeless. Dumb dumb idiot dumb.

Salvation comes in the form of a party. Much to your disappointment delight, Boothill couldn't come for once. Everyone was thoroughly surprised since he was usually the first to say he'll go. But as it happens, he's come down with a cold and doesn't want to make it any better by recklessly drinking the night away. That's what he says though you hypothesize it's because his sister and her wife will be visiting the following day and he doesn't want word to get back to his parents that he's been partying too hard and sit through another 3 hour lecture.

But hey, you're no expert on the cowboy. You just happen to know a bit of this and that about a friend. That's all.

The party was good though. Decent. It would've been nicer if Boothill was there to make a fool out of himself, you surmise, but it wasn't the worse and hey! The drinks were good and didn't cost an arm and a liver for once. Shame, you'd been hoping to get even with Boothill for often covering your tab.

"how many drinks have ya had?? somethin tells me that im about 2b spammed with shitty selfies of ya"

Speak of the devil and he doth appear. In your phone, at least.

You squint at the screen, sipping on your… Eh, who cares about how many drinks you've had?

Well, Boothill apparently did.

"whats it to u???" You type back.

"Jus checkin in on ya. lord knows youre enough to send anyone into an early grave"

"right well im find"

"finne*"

"finland*"

"finn*"

"its alright. take yer time, darlin"

You glare at your screen before switching it off. Jerk. You're perfectly fine. It's not your fault that autocorrect decided now was the perfect time to commit suicide, nor was it your fault that the letters on your phone apparently had twins and appeared double. Whatever. The night was still young and they were playing one of your favourite songs now. You're not gonna let some irritating cowboy put a dent in your partying.

Though hours later, you were kinda wishing he was around. The party had ended some time ago and you'd declined your friends' offer to get you home. You lived nearby, there was no need, you'd told them. As drunk as you were, you should be fine, you had said.

Famous last words. Your feet hurt from all the dancing and you've nearly tripped over your own two feet twice now. Thrice, as you trip and bump into a solid wall. You groan, rubbing at your eyes and trying to push yourself upright. Huh.. weird. On second thought, this wall wasn't really that solid. Hard yes, but oddly squishy.

"Darlin', as flattered as I am that ya love my body, I'd rather y'don't squeeze my pecs like that."

You scramble off of him, as if you've been burned.

"The fuck're you doing here?" You glare blearily.

"Rappa texted me," Boothill replies, holding up his phone.

Traitor.

"You shouldn't listen to everything she says, y'know," You mumble. Your body felt oddly warm now. Whether that was from the alcohol or Boothill placing an arm around you to keep you upright, you're not sure. You hope it's the former. "She was drinking a fuckton."

"Yeh an' you and I both know that that gal has superhuman metabolism and never gets moppy," Boothill answers dryly.

"What I wouldn't give for that skill…"

"You an' me both, sugar. You an' me both."

You're about to answer back, something snarky about letting Boothill know that you can walk perfectly fine on your own and don't need his arm around your body, no matter how perfectly it slotted around you or how much you enjoyed leaning against him just a bit. But, he coughs just then. The crunchy kind, where you can hear him rack up all that phlegm and spit it out on the sidewalk.

"What? I told y'all I was sick," Boothill shrugs in response to your disgusted face.

Oh. So he was telling the truth after all.

"Didn't have to come and play babysitter with me if you're sick," You mutter.

I don't want your health to worsen on my account.

"Someone's gotta be responsible 'round here. Gotta make sure y'don't choke when ya end up hurlin' yer guts out in 5 minutes time."

You're more important than some dumb cold.

"No seriously. What if I end up throwing up on you and you get sicker and die and then I'll have your blood on my hands?"

You feel something press against your forehead. Soft and refreshingly cool due to the metal rings that pierced the tender flesh. You close your eyes and tell yourself that it's only the rain. It's only the rain kissing your skin and guiding you back home.

"If that happens, I'll be sure to haunt yer sorry ass 'til y'go insane and join me," Boothill murmurs.

"Promise?"

“You really are just like me, aren't you?” A voice taunts from a corner of your mind, one that you prayed you'd never hear ever again. It was enough to snap you out of your stupor. Bloodthirst be damned, surely that bastard hadn't somehow risen from the dead, had he?

Your body jerks away from Boothill, like a marionette suddenly tugged on its strings. Somewhere deep inside you, the beast protests and your own veins ache, as though sensing the impending loss of red ichor. Yet, no matter how badly your body hungered, you had more pressing matters to attend to.

Like an animal that knew it was caged, your eyes dart around the dim bookstore. Usually, you were quite grateful over the store's strategic placement. The large bank that proudly stood opposite always did a fine job in blocking out the worst of the sun's rays, offering safe refuge. However, for once, you curse the shelter you had fashioned for yourself. You could scarcely see a damn thing and the oil lamps carefully placed around the store did little to help save for casting long shadows that had your paranoia going into overdrive.

For what felt like hours but were in reality mere seconds, you observe each and every nook and cranny from where you knelt. Was he here? Had you miscalculated? But surely not, right? If memory served you right, then he ought to be dead. You would know. You killed him.

"Say, you wouldn't happen ta' have any ol' rags lyin' about fer this, would ya? I'm 'fraid this here hanky is 'bout as useful as a cowboy with no arms," Boothill drawls, the sheepish tone cutting your train of thought clean in half. You blink once, twice, the primitive instincts within gradually ebbing away. The long-limbed figures around you morph back into the harmless shadows they were.

“I’ll go get the medicine chest,” you say, making a hasty retreat into the depths of the bookstore. Your words sound distant, even to your own ears. Garbled even, though perhaps that was due to your fangs shrinking back to a more inconspicuous size. It takes a good while to locate the wooden chest. The sudden bloodthirst that had overcome you appears to have snuffed out your brain's capabilities of complex thought. Your body merely performs shaky motions in an effort to maintain some semblance of normalcy. Perhaps it was just as well. 

Your will was still as strong as before, that much was evident. But who knows how long it’d last? Anger and fear weren't stable preservers, after all. Eventually, your resolve would erode away along with your remaining vestiges of humanity until all that remains is a beast. Until then, all you could do was try to prolong the inevitable for as long as possible. You must. 

“Mighty obliged, lil’ librarian,” Boothill nods once you set the chest down with a heavy thud, the contents faintly rattling inside. You simply nod in return, putting all your focus on cleaning up the cut. 

“I ain’t usually this much of a butterfingers. Don’t know what’s gotten into me, really. Reckon it’s the lack o’ sleep,” he rambles away. Whether it was to stave away his feelings of guilt or just to distract himself from the pain, you weren’t sure. To his credit, however, he winces only slightly when the tarry-smelling cotton hits the wound. So perhaps it was the former.  

“You haven’t been sleeping?” you ask, busying your mouth with speaking lest the hunger takes over once more. You’d noticed Boothill had been just a tad sluggish than usual but had merely chalked it up to simple exhaustion from the day’s work. 

“Naw… or rather, not as much as I oughta. Been up the past few nights keepin’ watch fer my family. Now, it ain't like I make a habit o' playin' night hawk fer my folks but y'know how it's been lately."

"…No, I'm afraid I don't know how it's been lately," you shake your head. The cowboy falters at the pointed look you give him, reminding him of your homebody-esque lifestyle. The real reason had of course, nothing to do with preferring to stay home and everything to do with not wishing to implicate yourself in the current happenings in the town. You had worked so hard just to keep yourself above snakes, fleeing from town to town, crossing state borders and putting as much distance as you could between each life you'd been forced to lead. You'd sooner starve to death than let all your efforts go to waste simply due to other vampires who should know better.

"Ah. Well, it ain't much different from what I told ya a couple nights ago. Folks are on edge. Livestock won't stop dyin' an' their money won't stop goin' down the drain. 'S bad times, these are. Desperate, even, if things keep goin' like this."

"I see… But you're not gonna be of any use if you keep skimping out on rest like this. Today's a sliced finger, tomorrow may be a missing hand," you answer. Speaking of injuries, it seems as if the bleeding had stopped. Still, you'd rather be on the safe side. Not just for Boothill's sake but for yours too.

"Tsk. You an' everyone an' their fuckin' ma seems t'be hellbent on sayin' the same ol' shit over an' over again," Boothill scoffs, a stubborn set to his jaw. You could only imagine how often he must act like a mule, considering how familiar and natural his stubbornness seemed, despite him being an acquaintance at most.

"Must be some merit to it then, if you've been hearing it over and over again," you mutter, tying a piece of gauze around the sliced finger. Boothill flexes it once, twice, while frowning. You'd tied it too tight, nearly cutting off all blood flow. He wonders vaguely whether you have some fear of blood. It must've been why you'd been trembling so much when you brought the medicine chest over, as well as why you'd been so quick and overzealous in your efforts to staunch the bleeding.

Well, he can't say he's not charmed in a sense.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I can't rest." Boothill shakes his head as he fixes the tight knot. "Today's a dead sheep, tomorrow could be entire herds left t'rot. This town and its folks have suffered plenty throughout the years. I ain't havin' another buffalo slaughter happenin', not if I've got anythin' t'do about it."

You were glad your back was turned to the man, busy with closing the medicine chest so you could carry it back to its original space. You couldn't let Boothill see your reaction, the way your eyes had widened and your hands began to tremble once more.

For the umpteenth time in your agonizingly long life, you curse yourself for having gotten involved with him. He who'd left his horrid mark on history, making sure to haunt you despite having long since perished.

"Then I s'pose it's high time we start searching for answers then," you say upon regulating your breathing. You stand up, dusting off any remaining debris from the broken vial off your clothes. You'll clean it up later, you decide. Both so you wouldn't have the cowboy encroaching on your space for longer than necessary but also so you wouldn't have to deal with any more bloody fingers.

You grab Boothill by the hand, helping him back onto his feet. His hand was warm, almost unbearably so, due to all the blood that had rushed to the area because of his injury. You drop the offending limb quickly, but not before your stomach growls loudly at the mental image of getting blood fresh from the tap.

Boothill stares at you for what felt like hours while you wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Your face burned with moritifcation and it's all you can do to simply clear your throat and act unbothered.

Since when did sounds echo in the bookstore? And for that matter, has the store always been this quiet?

"Well ah… Reckon we better get to it then 'fore ya decide you're hungry 'nough t'eat a grown man like me," Boothill snorts, attempting to stave away the awkward atmosphere that had descended.

You warily eye him, wondering whether he was onto you or if he was simply cracking a joke that was unknowingly in poor taste. Considering the way he mistakes your wary expression for one of offense, even mumbling out a tiny apology, you relax. Still in the clear.

"No worries," you say in response to the apology. "I'm afraid a stubborn, bumbling fool of a gunslinger isn't to my taste."

"Darn shame, that is," Boothill grins, sharp and cocky, following after you as you head deeper inside the bookstore.

But of course, "getting to it" was much more easier said than done. For one, the exterior of the old bookstore did not match up to its interior. Simply glancing from the outside, as Boothill had done countless times before when passing by, the building gave you the impression of being about as big as the average two-room log cabins that decorated the frontier town. And certainly, the building was about as big as them but that brings us to the second point.

Without any need for furniture outside of shelves that spanned entire walls, a few tables and chairs along with the cash register, it was easy to fit well over a thousand old tomes and scriptures inside a room. Not that anyone was keeping count. You certainly weren't.

"So ah…. Where t'start?" Boothill asks, looking around the countless shelves. You don't answer just yet, taking your time in lighting enough lamps around the space to ensure there wouldn't be anymore unnecessary bumping and bruising.

"I've got a list of titles from the old records that should be helpful but I'm afraid they're gonna take some searching. The old owner wasn't very keen on keeping a proper system and I haven't had the time to make sense of it so this may take a while," you answer, handing a sheet of paper to the man.

Boothill squints at your handwriting, looking through all the titles listed. Some appeared to be encyclopedias about animals to be found in the west, a familiar topic that had him relaxing. If the mystery predator was just some rare-sighted animal, then this little case would be over in the twinkling of a bed-post. Speaking of which, he really misses his bed. He hopes none of the strays or his siblings had been taking his absence as permission to ransack it.

However, the next few titles had Boothill's jaw tightening at once. Books about the supernatural. Of course. It seems even a home-body librarian like you, is also folly to rumours and old wives tales. Nope. No matter. It wouldn't hurt to keep both eyes on the herd…. even if he could feel a headache beginning to form at the idea of having to read through the ramblings of folks gone senile.

"Geez… I took mah time in swingin' by and ya didn't ever find the time t'search fer these books yerself?" Boothill remarks in a dry tone, side-eyeing your figure as you search the shelves behind him.

"I was under the impression this was gonna be a joint effort, cowboy," you reply easily. You feel your hand twitch, aching to throw a rude gesture at him but refrain just this once. "Besides, two heads are better than one. Even if I had been searching for the books on my lonesome, which I assure you I was, there's no guarantee I would've made any progress."

"Stupid fuckin' town. Always gotta do everythin' 'round these parts," Boothill grumbles to himself, joining in on the search. "At this rate, I'll have more gray hairs than my ma an' her name literally is Graey!"

"If it helps you tone down the bitching, I already found three of the books on the list."

"Oh. Should'a said that earlier."

"What a world of change that would've made."

Thankfully, even if the bookstore seemed endless, it wasn't. After about two long hours of searching, almost all of the books were found. All but one, that is.

You had been right. Two heads really are better than one, as you and Boothill together managed to figure out the chaotic organizing system the previous owner had used. The bookstore did have a proper system. It's just that the previous owners had decided to make one of their own, following the Dewey decimal system as a guideline.

The numbers etched on the spines, were all fading however. You could only thank the Aeons for pitying you this once, as the fading numbers were no match for your vampiric vision and Boothill's eagle eyes.

That just left… a book way up on the top shelf. It wouldn't be impossible to reach, considering the rolling ladders each shelf was equipped with. However, you weren't exactly keen on climbing up a set of rickety wooden steps and risk breaking your neck. A quick glance at Boothill, who suddenly pretended to be very interested in something stuck to the bottom of his boots, told you that neither was he.

Bastard. You should've just drained his blood when you had the chance.

Cursing your luck in having to deal with a brash, stubborn mule of a cowboy, you grab the ladder and begin climbing. The steps creaked ominously under your weight and you have to stop to take a few breaths and steel your nerves. This is fine. You'll be fine. Broken necks aren't fatal to vampires…. you think.

"Y'doin' alright up there?" Boothill calls from down below. You swallow the urge to throw a book at his head.

"Peachy. Just… shut up and let me focus. I'm trying to find the last book," you grunt.

"Rude. Here I thought folks appreciated a bit o' morale-boostin'."

"Maybe not when they're busy trying to do something useful and not fall off an ancient ladde- Woah!"

Perhaps there's something to be learned in not letting your emotions get the best of you. Maybe if you hadn't been busy snarkily replying to Boothill, the step under your feet wouldn't have decided it's lived a long life and chosen now of all times to kick the bucket. As you're falling from the moderately-short distance from the top of the ladder to the floor, you wonder whether time really does slow down when you're falling or if it depends on the distance.

Boothill moves without blinking, sprinting to where he assumes you'd fall. He lets out a gruff "oof" when you land— not very gracefully — into his awaiting arms. He mentally claps himself on the back, smug that his cattle-roping skills came handy here, though he's careful not to mention it. He doubts anyone would like being compared to cattle.

You, on the other hand, feel the breath leave your lungs once Boothill catches you. Not for any romantic reasons, mind you. This wasn't some cliche love story where the main character is enchanted by the debonair face of their savior and feels their heart skip several beats of being in their muscled arms.

For one, Boothill was absolutely not the kind of man someone should be losing their breath over. Not because he's ugly. He's unfairly handsome, really. But rather, it's because any words of appreciation immediately fade from your tongue at the sight of the shit-eating grin he had plastered as he stared down at you. Second, the only reason you even lost your breath was because anyone would, if they suddenly fell from a tall ladder and were deftly, yet suddenly, caught.

"Reckon it's a good thing it wasn't me on that ladder, eh?" Boothill grins. "Don't s'pose you'd have been able to catch me."

"You wanna test that theory out?"

"Naw. You make helluva example," he chuckles, shaking his head. You snort at his words, feeling a bit ridiculous. Ah well. At least you had managed to grab the book you'd been searching for, right before falling.

"You don't say. But thank you, for catching me. I mean it."

"Much obliged, lil' librarian. I'd say we're even now after I broke yer lil' glass vial. And hell, brawn ain't much use without brains, ain't that right?"

"I don't think that's how that works."

"Semantics, lil' librarian. I'd have thought you of all folks would know."

You roll your eyes and try to envision smacking the cowboy over the head with the book in your hand. Unfortunately, that image is ruined by the fact that you were still carefully being held in his arms. It's hard to stay mad at someone when in such a position.

"Right well…. How about you put me down first before we argue over semantics?" You say, clearing your throat.

Boothill stiffens, feeling his face burn with embarrassment. He scrambles to put you down, mumbling out an apology. But in his excitement, he ends up dropping you flat on your ass to the wooden floor.

So much for catching you.

"Shit. My bad!" Boothill says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. He holds a hand out, helping you to your feet and makes a point of not meeting your glare head-first.

"It is a miracle that someone like you is this town's best gunslinger."

"Y'know, my siblings say the exact same thing. Reckon y'all would get along like peas in a pod."

"Surely. Anyways, we've wasted enough time. Let's get to reading through these books."

"Yeah, uh. In a minute," Boothill mutters. You raise an eyebrow but choose to not push it, instead heading to the table where all the books had been haphazardly stacked. You'd like to make some actual progress before the day was over so you could get the cowboy out of your hair.

Boothill watches you take a seat by the table and open a dusty old tome. He feels his lips twitch when a cloud of dust hits your nostrils, leaving you in a coughing fit. He looks away quick enough, focusing on his hands.

Over the course of his gunslinging career, Boothill has had to carry countless people and help them out of harm's way. Whether it be a spooked animal, a scared little kid or an old lady about to breathe her last, he's done it all. Yet something about you makes him pause.

Was it the fabric of your clothes? Surely not. What about your weight? Nope, not that either. Besides, Boothill's a strong and experienced man, thank you kindly. He knows his way around carrying people who weigh no more than a feather to those on the heavier side and everyone in between. So it can't be that.

Boothill curls his hands into loose fists, the realization dawning on him then.

Your body was unnaturally cold.

—

People's ability to put words to their thoughts and knowledge is truly remarkable. Truly, there is no other creature who has the ability to connect words into long eligible chains to convey their message. However, you do wish writing in a simpler language was more popular. You could feel your eyes beginning to hurt after hours of holding pages close to the lamplight and reading the same sentence over and over again in hopes of understanding the prose.

At least Boothill was in the same boat as you.

"Y'know, readin' these books made me realize it's a wonder more folks ain't illiterate. Hell, if I had ta' read this shit everyday, reckon I'd have lost it," Boothill sighs, leaning back in his seat and stretching like a cat.

"You're telling me," you groan, resting your head on the table. The wood felt wonderfully cool on your aching eyes and throbbing head. "If I have to read one more passage that could've been rewritten as a simple sentence, I will scream."

Boothill pats your shoulder in sympathy, eyeing your exhausted figure. He could barely hear you breathe, perhaps due to the table muffling the sounds.

"Well, if ya ask me, I'd say we've made plenty o' progress. I'd say we've earned ourselves a lil' break."

"Yeah… I'm gonna get some shut-eye. You go and do… whatever," you mumble, waving a dismissive hand. Well, Boothill's not gonna argue against that.

Standing up from his chair, Boothill stifles a groan and rubs his ass. He's never had much there to begin with but after sitting for hours on a wooden surface, he's quite sure whatever little meat he had there had promptly been flattened. What a catastrophe! I mean, what's the point of wearing leather chaps if he doesn't have an ass to match?

Seeing as you were currently nowhere near rejoining the land of the living, Boothill undertakes the decision of snooping browsing around the bookstore and see what goodies this old place may be hiding. Truth be told, he didn't really have any high expectations. At most, Boothill expects to maybe find old love letters or something of that sort hidden here and there.

He decides to try his luck in searching the shelves that hold books about the supernatural. Granted, the topic made his head hurt and he'd rather not think about creatures that he wishes to not get mixed up or creatures that were made up by bored old fools, but! He surmises that if he wanted to find something juicy and insane, it would have to be in the section written and read by the senile.

The vast majority of tomes were old and dusty, Boothill notes. He trails a finger along the worn spines, marveling at just how much dust builds up on its pad. A flash of red catches the attention of his ivory crosshairs and Boothill pauses, pulling the book out of its snug home. Its cover was bound in goatskin, decorated in red embellishments that shone when the light hit it just right.

"Vampyres, Dhampirs & Nachzehrers: A Guide to the Nocturnal"

Boothill raises an eyebrow as he pores over the cover. It appears to have been written by some fella named Le Fanu, though perhaps it would be more accurate to call it a compilation of several authors over the past centuries. Normally, he'd rather not have anything to do with the words and superstitions of white men who were far too comfortable preaching their worldview as the only correct one. But this time, something compels him to crack it open and take a look.

"What're you doing?"

Boothill jumps, the book slamming shut in his excitement. He turns around to face you. When the hell had you gotten here? He hadn't heard a peep, not even any chairs scraping against the floor. Unfair really, he thinks to himself. You had chastised him for slinking around like a cat and here were you, doing the same!

"I'm doin' whatever, like ya said," He replies.

"Whatever doesn't mean snooping around," you say while rolling your eyes. You were suddenly quite jittery, he notes, as you grab the book from his hands and place it back on the shelf.

"It ain't snoopin' around if it's a bookstore," Boothill argues. " 'Sides, what's so wrong with me readin' that?"

"I thought you didn't believe in vampires."

"I don't. But that don't mean I can't learn more 'bout them old wives tales the ol' coots keep ramblin' about."

"Well…" You pause. Boothill was watching you again. It was strange. Humans were, by all means, prey for vampires. But locked in an impromptu staring match now, the roles feel switched. You swallow roughly.

"It's a limited edition. One-of-a-kind, y'know? Can't have just anyone roughhousing with it."

"I'm plenty gentle with my hands, swear on mah hat!"

"I'd rather not take the risk."

Boothill grumbles under his breath. One of these days, he'll show you just how gentle he can really get. No, not like that. Get your head out of the sand!

In the hopes of getting this situation back under your control, you suggest comparing the notes you both had taken when poring over all those books earlier. Boothill obliges, following you back to the table, though he bitches plenty about stuffy and ignorant librarians.

"So… Shall we start with the natural or the supernatural?" You sigh, staring at the pile of notes.

"I'd rather not make the bangin' in my head worse."

"Natural it is."

You and Boothill read through the notes, searching for a completely reasonable and scientific explanation behind the livestock that were dropping like flies. Unbeknownst to you, the cowboy was also searching for a reason that would explain the agitated behaviors of the local fauna. Yet…

"That don't make a lick'a sense," Boothill pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling the crooked little hump. "Who the hell has ever heard of a goddamn wolf partnerin' with a snake?!"

"It's not out of the ordinary!" You argue. "Mutualism happens all the time between animals. And it makes sense! A snake could very well bury its fangs inside an animal and render it paralyzed in seconds!"

"Yeah? What 'bout the poison? Don't reckon I've ever heard o' wolves that are immune to snake venom."

"Animals evolve all the time. It could be a new sub-species or a mutation!"

Boothill feels a sense of deja vu at that. He bets if Nick were here, he'd be laughing it up at his expense.

"Right. Then what 'bout the missin' blood? Let's say, in theory, that the wolves wait 'til the ranchers throw the dead cattle away 'fore diggin' in. That don't explain why there ain't a drop o' blood left!"

"Maybe-"

"They ain't bleedin' t'death either," Boothill huffs, poking your forehead as if trying to drill some sense into you. "If they were, hell, I reckon Aeragan-Epharshel's grass would'a turned as red as its sand by now."

"I never said it was a perfect theory," you mutter, swatting his hand away.

"You're right. It's a shit theory."

"Go to hell."

"Already there, lil' librarian. Already there."

The two of you glare at each other, locked in a stubborn match like two stags duking it out. You can feel what little blood you had starting to boil. This was proving harder than you had anticipated. A cowboy who knows the land, that too one as astute as Boothill, would need a lot more than mere hypotheticals to swallow whatever excuse you threw at him.

After all, there's a reason why shepherds lead and sheep follow.

"It could be vampire bats. Says here that they feed on blood from livestock," You suggest, taking a look at the notes Boothill had taken. "It's possible they've migrated north from their local habitats."

"Mmn… Reckon you're onto somethin' there," Boothill concedes. "But I don't see how such tiny lil' critters could leave an entire animal drained dry."

"It could be an entire colony working together?"

"I'd think folks would'a heard a fuckton of bats flutterin' around in the dead o' night. The animals would'a caused a ruckus too."

"Not unless the bats know which places to target, that'd leave the animal unable to make a sound."

Boothill narrows his eyes, scratching his chin in thought. Thus far, the notion of vampire bats was the only theory that held any merit. Granted, it didn't explain how sheep would be found with their wool ripped off, or that there'd only ever be one set of puncture mark but it was a start, wasn't it?

A rocky one but right now, he was tired and getting desperate. Throw a hungry dog a stick and it'll gnaw on it like a bone.

"So, we've got wolves an' snakes maybe workin' together, a shit idea by the way (You flip him off.) or bats from further south," Boothill lists off. Naming the possible culprits out loud made him feel silly. But the situation was absurd enough as is.

"Are we missin' somethin'?"

"Well," you start, checking the other notes you had taken. "It could be skinwa- I mean a-"

A calloused hand immediately crashes atop your lips, cutting you off immediately. You stumble back from the force and glare, offended, at Boothill.

"Are ya outta yer fuckin' mind?!" He hisses, voice low as if expecting the creatures to suddenly barge inside the bookstore. The dim lighting from the nearby lanterns did not help his sudden jittery nerves. "This town's already got enough problems o' its own an' you're here tryin' t'bring more?!"

You wrench Boothill's hand off your mouth, resisting the urge to bite down for the sake of petty revenge. His hand smelled like gunpowder and horse. An odd combination.

"I wasn't gonna say it, thank you kindly," You huff, dusting your clothes off in an attempt to regain your composure. "I corrected myself immediately!"

"Don't reckon more than half the damn name counts as immediately."

"An honest mistake."

"Right. Well, it ain't them," Boothill sighs. He has to take several deep breaths to calm down before continuing. "It ain't them or the other one either."

He gestures to your notes at that. You glance down, frowning to yourself. They had seemed like plausible explanations, at least ones that Boothill and the townsfolk would be more willing to believe. Guess time has made your brain a bit rusty.

"How can you be so sure?"

"I dunno what parts o' this country you've been in, lil' librarian. But over here in the west? Ain't a soul who ain't familiar with them. This ain't how they act."

"For a man who's so…" You gesture vaguely with your hands. "Against the concept of the supernatural, you sure are knowledgeable on the topic."

"Tch. Ain't against it. I just got 'nough sense t'know what's real and what ain't."

"Right…"

The two of you stare in a silent standoff, each firm in your stances. Boothill is the first to break, blinking when he thinks he sees a flash of red. Nope. Nothing. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, wanting to wrap this up without any further problems.

"It could be a chupacabra," Boothill finally says. If the realm of the supernatural was inevitable, then this was the one creature he'd bet all his money on as the culprit.

You feel relief flood your veins at the suggestion. Yes. Of course. How could you have forgotten? You had been so preoccupied in trying to find explanations that would shift the suspicion off of you and potential others that you had ignored the simplest of answers to all your problems.

"Mm… It fits all the criterias," you nod, trying to mask your relief.

"Mhm. Though… Ain't heard hide nor tail of 'em reappearing here," Boothill replies, scratching at a scar on his cheek. "Thought the bastards would'a gone and stayed elsewhere."

"Oh?"

"Don't lookit me like that," he scoffs. "Wasn't nothin' special. They're still beasts at the end o' the day. Jus' gotta show yer strength and they run with their tails betwixt their legs."

You don't argue against that logic. Every creature, whether natural or no, followed the same rules as anyone else. Power is the one language universally spoken and feared. It's as simple as that.

"That's a wrap then, hm?" You hum, beginning to tidy the books away. Stress sure had taken its toll on you. You hadn't even realized how heavy your body had been feeling until now.

"Yeh. Reckon so. Mighty obliged, lil' librarian. Folks can rest easy now," Boothill grins. You don't return it as a thought occurs to you. You know this town. The folks may be kinder but instincts and habits remain.

"How will you prove it?"

"Huh?"

You work your jaw, trying to figure out a way out of this. If you were to fix this mess and block off any possible chances of this going awry, you had to be careful with your words lest you dig yourself a new grave.

"Folks won't take your word for it so easily. They're going to want proof," you say.

"Eh. I'll jus' hunt down the beasts," the cowboy shrugs, the action betraying a hint of tension. What was your problem?

"Alright. Let's say we manage to hunt down any one of these beasts. That'd be great, wouldn't it? But the question remains, my good sir…" Boothill’s eyes twitches. You must be doing this on purpose, he's quite sure of it. Stars above, this is why he never wasted time with tenderfoots. They're all too busy looking down on the folks who know the truth of this world, who have experienced the harsh realities and survived.

"How will you know the beast is our culprit?"

The cowboy is silent. If it weren’t for the movement of his jaw working, grinding those sharp teeth to dust, you'd have thought he was a statue. Perhaps you've- No, you're well aware you've hit a sore point.

No man appreciates being reminded of his failures, regardless of how many kills and achievements he's got under his belt. To remind him that he's been running around like a headless chicken to chase coyotes and wolves that he knew damn well had nothing to do with the recent happenings, that he knows next to nothing about what could be behind the killings… You must have a death wish.

"S'pose we could take a look at their teeth," Boothill finally says. He looked damn near ready to riddle the nearest book full of holes.

"Teeth?" You prod, tilting your head slightly as if the raise of your eyebrow wasn't enough to convey your patronizing confusion.

"Teeth. We don't know much 'bout these beasts, I'll admit. But what we do know is that none of the livestock so far's been mangled to death. They've all got clean puncture marks," he explains. "Clean puncture marks that'll tell us what kinda canines this sonuvagun's got."

"And you're positive it's the canines being used?"

"Them's the sharpest and longest teeth all animals' got. 'Sides, I've been bit plenty to know my shit."

"It's a miracle you haven't contracted rabies."

"What can I say?" Boothill flashes you a cavalier grin, his teeth on full display. "Death jus' don't want a piece a'me. Hurts my feelings, it does. I always reckoned I'm a handsome feller, wouldn't ya say so?"

You huff and roll your eyes. You don't bother answering. Both because you're certain it's a rhetorical question and because there's no use stroking the ego of a self-assured man like Boothill.

"Right, well… It seems like this time, death might just manage to make an honest man out of you," you say.

Boothill raises an eyebrow, wondering where you were going with this line of questioning. If he were to be perfectly honest, you'd been getting on his nerves for quite a while now. Granted, it likely came with the territory of owning a bookstore, this know-it-all attitude that appeared whenever you posed a question. Like you knew something he didn’t and were dangling it in front of him, just out of reach.

He watches you leave briefly, disappearing past a door just beside the cash register. When you come back, you held two fruits in your hands. Apples, both of them, from the looks of it.

Just what kinda game are they playin' at?

"Let me frame it this way," you begin, holding up each fruit in one hand. "I've got two fruits here. One's a Golden Delicious. The other's an Asian pear. Both two different fruits but they look the same. The only thing that sets them apart is the taste."

"And yer point is?"

"None of these fruits are gonna let you get close enough to take a bite. Not without a considerable amount of risk. So, my point is, cowboy, how do you identify the pear from the apple?"

A low scoff is heard from Boothill. So this was your ploy. He had to admit, you raised a good question. If he were anyone else, he'd probably be scratching his head and conceding his lack of intelligence the way every city-slicker undoubtedly expected the folks of the country to behave.

But that's just it. He's not just anyone else.

And his name doesn't mean Loaded Gun without a reason.

You hear the gunshot sooner than you feel it, the bullet grazing past your cheek and embedding itself into the flesh of the pear in your right hand. You stumble, the backs of your legs hitting the edge of the cash register.

"Seems t'me, my lil' librarian," Boothill drawls, blowing the smoke from the muzzle of his six-shooter. "That you've forgotten who you're talkin' to."

He chuckles, handing you his dirty handkerchief. It still smelled strongly of iron, his blood crusted into a mouthwatering pattern. Mechanically, you press the fabric to your cheek, even though you know there won't be any blood seeping from the wound.

As if making a trade not unlike the ones he'd often make with merchants, Boothill leaves the handkerchief in your hand in exchange for the pear in your right. He digs the bullet out with his teeth and spits it to the side before biting into the fruit, juice dribbling past his lips.

You swallow.

"Guns are what runs the west. Just so happens, I'm the best gunslinger this place has seen since Wild Bill Hickok and my ma retired," he continues, gathering the handful of notes he'd written from earlier. All the while, his teeth don't stop tearing into the pear's flesh.

"I'll be seein' ya around," are his parting words. With a wink and a tip of his hat, Boothill is gone, his poncho billowing behind him like a sea of blood. You wave in farewell, still feeling a bit dazed from the suddenness of his actions.

Brash, theatrical and impulsive. Three words for a man with an overwhelming amount of presence.

You sigh to yourself, throwing the apple away. All's well ends well, you think. After all, the bullet could've lodged itself in your heart instead. But it hadn't and you've lived to see another day. Several, even, considering how well you played your cards this time. Congratulations were in order, you surmise as you finish tidying the books.

Instinctively, your eyes flit across all the shelves and you freeze. Your heart starts to race and you swear out loud.

Up until your first meeting with Boothill, you had never heard of the planet named Aeragan-Epharshel. Not really, at least.

Vaguely, you could recall a small amount of outrage over something the IPC had done about a decade or so ago. Ever eager to dig up more dirt on the organization that you swore was not what it seemed, you had tried following the incident to the best of your abilities. Unfortunately, the IPC was quick to sweep it all under a rug and trample out any small-time bloggers and journalists who tried to keep it all on record.

If you really concentrated, you may remember statements posted by an IPC spokesperson, talking about a new planet under their jurisdiction before those too were erased without a trace. Only a single sound had remained, butchered and ugly. It was as if the speaker's tongue knew they were not pure enough to speak of beauty that they had destroyed.

It begged the question: Who will protest for the unknown and forgotten?

The answer came in the form of a cowboy Galaxy Ranger. Dressed in black with splashes of blood-red and hair reminiscent of snow, he went by the moniker Boothill. You had raised your eyebrow at the introduction back then. An odd choice for a name, especially when he elaborated on its meaning. But as you spent more and more time with him, you recognized that it was morbidly fitting.

Boothill didn't like to speak of his past. He clammed up quite quickly whenever the conversation took such a turn. He'd cough and excuse himself, claiming to have received an important notification about a new bounty. Other times, he'd just stay quiet.

Silence can be loud, you came to learn. With Boothill, his silence screamed.

"Please don't ask me to name it," it begged.

It was only when the walls that surrounded the man's blue heart began to crumble for you, that you learned of the tragedy that was etched unto his soul. Even then, his story didn't come coherent and tidy, like a book for consumption. It came in short, abrupt memoirs, none in chronological order. It was all Boothill could manage before grief muzzled him, cruel and unfeeling like the men in black.

It was a jigsaw puzzle, laid bare for you. The puzzle pieces had jagged edges and more than once, you cut your heart and bleed on the sharp sides. But you piece it together, slow and steady as more and more pieces slowly make themselves known. The final picture was of a man who teetered on the line between life and death, a man who only showed himself when the mask became too heavy to bear and his laughter turned hollow enough to shatter.

A Loaded Gun.

—

"I think I'd really prefer it if you didn't just hand out my contact information all willy-nilly like this." You sigh, tossing your phone at Boothill's lap. "I like my sleep and doom-scrolling sessions undisturbed, thank you very much."

Boothill swivels around in the pilot chair, a half-eaten bullet between his sharp teeth. He swallows it in one go before flashing an unrepentant grin.

"Can't blame me, now can ya, darlin'? I'm a busy man! ("And I'm not?!") I can't be gettin' bombed every hour o' the forkin' day with messages. Actual bombs are bad 'nough," he says, shrugging in a cavalier manner. He picks up your phone, opening it to whatever new message it had been that had disturbed you this time.

"It ain't real stealthy if my phone's vibratin' like one'a them toys fer grown-ups," he adds in a dry tone.

"Okay, not funny, first of all. Second, I'm pretty sure stealth is the least of your worries when- I dunno, just look at you!"

"Hey. The best hunters are the ones that you least expect."

"Right…"

You roll your eyes and plop down on the pilot chair beside Boothill's. At your pointed glare, he quickly focuses on the message that you wanted him to read instead of fooling around on your phone like you suspected he had been up until then.

Boothill mutters something under his breath, something about sons of nice ladies always having sticks shoved up their ash. You'd call him out on it but your attention is quickly shifted to the way his expression suddenly sobers up.

A myriad of emotions flicker in his onyx iris. Pain, hope, anger and a whole other range that you weren't quite sure on how to name. Most likely, neither did he.

"What's up? What's it say?" You ask, tentative and careful.

Boothill exhales slowly, tossing your phone back to you. You catch it deftly and give him a curious look as he punches in a bunch of coordinates into the spaceship's navigation pad.

"Nothin' much. Jus' that a bit o' much-needed pest control's been done and well. Reckon it's high time I pay home a visit."

—

Boothill didn't visit Aeragan-Epharshel very often. There were a whole range of reasons as to why he couldn't bear to go back to his homeland and quite frankly, he didn't have the time to sit down and work through them nor did you have the heart to push him further on the matter. But if you were to try your best to word it, you'd say it came down to one emotion.

Love.

Although this was your first time visiting the planet, it was clearly not the case for Boothill. He easily lands the spaceship in a discreet area of the planet, one where there wasn't a single soul to be seen for miles around.

You gingerly step out of the spaceship, holding Boothill's hand for balance so you don't end up eating shit on a wayward rock. Once on solid ground, you glance around the place. It was… Well, the planet had most definitely seen better days, that was for sure.

Aeragan-Epharshel wasn't ugly. No matter how many colonizers may come and dig their foul nails into her fertile soil, the planet still stood proud in spite of the scars that marred her body.

The very first thing you note is the scent of ash. The area upon which you and Boothill had landed was covered in lush green grass; yet there were visible bald patches of burnt flora. Some looked to be fairly recent with the ground caved in, the areas left to rot once the IPC realized there was no black metal to excavate there. Others appeared older with craters and slowly disintegrating remains of what or whom that may have once stood there.

You close your eyes and look away, fighting the bile that threatened to rise in your throat.

"Well! It ain't much," Boothill remarks, his expression grim. Still, his gaze flicks towards you briefly, silently hoping your verdict won't be too harsh. He's aware of the shortcomings. He knows that in comparison to the countless other planets that the two of you have traveled to, Aeragan-Epharshel was more like a dumpster. He knows the IPC has stripped the planet so it looks befitting of the uncivilized savages they claimed him and his people were. And yet, he hopes.

Treat his broken heart with kindness, won't you?

"No… It isn't much," you agree. "But, it has its own charm. The nature is wonderful."

At least, what remains of it, you and Boothill can't help but add silently.

"Hah. You're tellin' me. You should'a seen the place when I was 'bout knee-high as a grasshopper." Boothill huffs out a laugh. "Used t'run 'round the plains with my siblings, tryin' t' outrace the other. Come nightfall and we'd be runnin' around like headless chickens to catch fireflies. The grass was always cool, even in the summer. Try it, darlin'."

You glance down at the grass beneath your feet, trampled under your shoes. Vaguely, your ears register the sound of Boothill toeing at the dirt, soft and careful and trying to remember how it once felt.

Without further complaint, you remove your shoes and step onto the grass and shiver. He hadn't been lying. It really was cool to the touch, with lingering morning dew misting over your feet. Boothill smiles at the sight, the sharp edges softened for once.

"Told ya so," he says.

"Mhm. This really makes me realize just how hot and stuffy shoes can get sometimes."

"Yeh… Really makes ya think- Oh, I wouldn't eat those berries if I were you."

You pause in your movements, having been seconds away from plucking a couple dark berries from a small bush. You frown and draw back, stumbling just slightly before Boothill's hand presses against the small of your back, keeping you steady.

"Why not? They look edible to me. They look like blueberries."

"Ah, but they ain't. Lan above, ain't no one taught ya how to forage? This here's one'a the first things I learned while I was still in diapers!"

You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath about misguided flattery. Boothill pays you no mind and instead leads you to another bush just a few meters away. With nimble hands, he plucks the berries and presses one to your lips, coaxing you to try it.

"Now these are blueberries. Sweet, ain't they? You jus' gotta keep an eye out fer the calyx," he explains. He keeps feeding you the berries one by one while you pluck the rest and tuck them in your pockets. When you ask if he won't eat any himself, Boothill simply leans in and presses a chaste kiss to your lips, suckling gently on your bottom lip.

"Yep. Sweet, as I expected."

His laugh echoes throughout the grasslands, loud and boisterous, when you land a playful swat upside his head.

The grasslands, at least what remained of it, were beautiful. If you had it your way, you would've liked to linger in the place with Boothill. It would've been nice to lay in the soft grass, listen to your lover tell you about the plants and the memories attached to them, to feel the dirt slowly cave under your combined weight and bury you both in its gentle arms.

But you catch the way Boothill's gaze kept flickering southwards. If you squinted, you could just make out a couple buildings and if you strained your hearing, even voices. The reservations. That was where Boothill wanted to go.

So you lace your fingers with his, warm flesh squeezing cold metal, and allow him to lead you towards the still-beating heart of Aeragan-Epharshel.

As you walk, you pass by the crumbling ruins of homes that had once sheltered many. You pass by rotting wooden gallows from which skeletons hung, cracked walls riddled with bullet holes and painted with blood. The IPC had never cleaned the place up. They never allowed the locals to retrieve what remained of their beloveds. Instead, it all stood as a morbid reminder of what happened when one dared to go against the Amber Lord.

Pretty soon, you and Boothill reach the reservations. You had expected to see the place crawling with IPC lackeys but the proud glow on Boothill's face confirms your suspicions on what he had meant when he'd said some pest control had been done.

The houses that stood were a testament to the locals' resilience. They had done their best with the materials they could scrounge up, building cabins and shacks upon burnt land. A few brick buildings still stood here and there, likely ones the IPC had been "kind" enough to spare. Colorful patterns adorned the sides of homes, a tribe's effort to breathe life back into their land despite the circumstances. There were slogans, here and there, some painted over while others stood loud and proud.

Children ran past you both, laughing as they played with tyres that looked to be from IPC machinery. Boothill huffs out a low chuckle and you smile at the sight. Young men and women and everyone in between milled about here and there. Some were conversing amongst themselves. Others were carrying the day's hunt, going about the mundane tasks of daily life.

"You look acock," Boothill remarks, raising an eyebrow as he gauges your expression. "Didn't expect the place t'be so lively, eh?"

"Kinda," you admit with a sheepish little smile. "I dunno what I expected, really. I guess… I sorta assumed everyone would be sad and gloomy."

"Mmn. It ain't like we don't mourn. 'S a part o' life, to mourn what we've lost. But so is laughin' 'til our bellies ache and gettin' into petty fights."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"I know." Boothill gives you a weary smile, sad yet loving. "But it's what you were thinkin' in that pretty head'a yers. Can't blame ya. I was much the same when I first returned."

You catch the eyes of a couple elders, sitting on the porch of a cabin. Their eyes were filled with wariness, some downright fearful. It's only when they notice Boothill beside you and he tips his hat in greeting that their expressions soften. He gives your hand a squeeze, a silent request to not take their vigilance to heart.

"Reckon that's just life. Gotta keep goin', even when we don't want to," Boothill sighs, his gaze now distant. "Gotta live, whether out of spite or with a quiet desperation."

You don't say anything in response, don't even try to. What was there to say? That you're sorry? That they're strong?

No. You stay quiet. Something told you that right now, Boothill wasn't looking for an answer, at least not for one that he already knew. Having you beside him was more than enough. And when you don't make a show when you hear Boothill's breath stutter while he rambles? Words aren't enough to describe how grateful he felt.

The reservations were small. Worringly so, in fact. Your surprise was evident when you both had managed to walk through all the reservations within the span of two hours. Boothill's jaw clenches and you look away when he kicks at a fence out of frustration.

He was about to suggest leaving. He could feel the familiar sensation of his ligaments beginning to lock, a heavy paralysis spreading through his limbs and his heart aching with each beat. He never stayed for long. Couldn't. Wouldn't.

"Sinagé!"

The two of you turn at the sound of a young woman calling out. She was jogging towards you both, thick braids flying behind her, and stops, panting when she skids to a stop in front of you two. Boothill's expression softens a smidge.

"Alopay," He says, huffing out a small laugh. "The hell are ya doin' here?"

"You didn't stop by t'talk!" Alopay replies, a hint of accusation in her voice. Boothill winces, looking a bit guilty.

"Ah… It ain't right if I stay fer long. Was jus' plannin' on droppin' off a couple things before leavin'. Bounties to complete and dirtbags to chase, ain't that right, darlin'?"

You blink, not having expected to be dragged into the conversation like this. You hesitate briefly before murmuring in agreement, backing up Boothill's flimsy excuse.

"C'mon! Stay fer the night, why don't ya? 'S been ages since ya last visited and folks wanna see ya!"

"Gal, I ain't so sure that's a wise idea."

"They won't bother us, I swear. They're too busy countin' losses at one'a the mines."

"… Any of ours?"

"Naw. Just theirs." Alopay winks. Boothill looks mildly impressed and ruffles the young woman's hair who swats lightly at the offending hand. But despite it, Boothill still looked hesitant.

"We'd love to stay the night," you interject. Boothill gives you an offended glare, opening his mouth to protest before closing it with a grumble.

Alopay beams, giving one of your hands a squeeze before running off, likely to spread the news.

"Look what ya've done now," Boothill grouches from beside you.

"I don't see what the problem is. We don't, or rather, you don't stop by here often. We might as well take the opportunity." You shrug.

"Forkin' hell. You're lucky I love you."

"What's that? Say it louder, I didn't quite catch that."

"I said I hate yer guts."

"I love you too."

—

The campfire burned bright, its flames licking high up into the night sky. Folks around you chattered and laughed. You could hear a few singing and others dancing to the beat of drums. The air was fragrant with the scent of frybread and spiced meat, making you help yourself to as many servings that you could manage.

Boothill wasn't very talkative, to your surprise. In fact, he almost seemed to be avoiding any interactions with anyone who wasn't you. It was a far cry from the flamboyant and brash extrovert you had come to know and love.

He could only manage a couple minutes of easy conversation with the youth, teasing and humble. But then, a switch would suddenly be flicked and he'd fall silent, leaving you to carry the conversation.

You didn't mind. The youth were curious and sharp, begging for more details on the various missions you and Boothill have been on. You blush when they tease you about your closeness with the cowboy and you laugh at the jokes they make.

It was the elders that Boothill continuously dodged. An old couple would tap you on the shoulder, asking to talk to the man and without fail, you'd fail to locate him when he was needed. You'd apologize and promise to tell him they had asked for him but they'd simply give you a rueful smile and shake their head. Some would linger for polite small talk before eventually leaving.

When it had been a full fifteen minutes since Boothill was last seen, you decide you've had enough. You search around the perimeter before spotting a familiar figure in the distance, sitting atop a hill and gazing at the horizon.

"You good?" You ask quietly, sitting down beside the man. You follow his gaze and see an area of the plains scorched black. Rubble still cluttered the space. You feel Boothill's fingers twitch beside yours, as if recalling the phantom pain of skin blistering whilst he dug frantically for anything that might've resembled someone he loved.

"I…" Boothill trails off with a heavy sigh. He looks away from the scorched land and instead stares at the grass beneath him, idly ripping them from their roots. "I used t'live there, y'know. At least, 'til I was old 'nough to make a name fer myself."

"Ah…"

Silence descends. Boothill didn't wish to talk anymore about the ruins of the home he'd once laughed and loved in. You didn't wish to prod further.

"They look up to you, y'know," you say after a while. He lets out a small scoff in response. "I'm serious. And the elders… they're clearly worried about you. They just want to talk."

"Yeah? Well, they shouldn't. I ain't some pure-hearted son of a fudge who folks oughta look up to. Hell, they shouldn't even talk to me too much. You got any idea what the IPC would do if they caught wind of me bein' here?"

"Clearly, they know what they're doing. They're strong people. I mean, look at Alopay and the other youngsters! They're still fighting and giving the IPC hell in their own way and just look at the-"

"And their efforts will go to shirt if I stick around."

I failed my people as their leader.

"… Is that what you believe?"

" 'S what I know."

Your jaw clenches, stubborn and unwilling to back down, just like Boothill. The two of you stare decisively at the ground, letting silence fill the space.

But the tension bleeds out and you feel a familiar weight against your shoulder. In response, you rest your head just atop Boothill's.

"… Aeragan-Epharshel was beautiful," he croaks softly. "My home was the finest fer miles around, no fibbin'."

That's what it all came down to, didn't it? Aeragan-Epharshel as Boothill knew it was dead. The planet was home in name only. He can't go back to what once was. He can't hear the rowdy laughter and crude songs, can't feel the sun on his back and the grass under his feet.

Lord, I'm afraid I won't be welcomed back.

"… Aeragan-Epharshel is beautiful," you reply, just as soft and quiet. "Your home is gorgeous. I've never seen anything like it."

For how can Aeragan-Epharshel have died if a piece of home still lives? How can the planet have perished if you can still feel its warm sun in Boothill's smile, smell the grasslands in his hair, hear the clear rivers gushing by in his movements and feel the moon's gentle glow in his eyes?

How can its people have died when their teachings are carried by the brass gun on Boothill’s hip? How can their memories have been desecrated when he stands guard day and night?

How can a place die when its memory lives on in every breath Boothill takes, in every bullet he fires and every word he speaks?

He who became Death to lay their souls to rest amongst the watchful stars, has done more than enough.

Boothill closes his eyes and you feel him smile. You rest your hand atop his and lean into him. The moon blankets you both in her soft light and just this once, lets the world stand still. He may rest for now.

You never quite liked your birthday. You can’t really pinpoint when exactly this revulsion for such a beloved celebration began. Certainly not during your younger years. That much, you were certain of. But when taking into account the reason behind why you hated your natal day, you think you have an idea of when the seeds were first sown.

A child’s birthday has always been such an enormous occasion. Another year alive! Another full orbit around the sun and the moon and all their cosmic siblings! It’s an achievement that all too many take for granted and perhaps that’s why so much pain is undertaken when it comes to these celebrations. It’s why guardians put so much effort to make sure the parties are nothing short of a fairy tale come to life. 

And it’s why you began to dislike your own birthday and all that came with it, candles and cakes and all. 

The sight of funds stretched thin and worried wrinkles that no amount of makeup could ever hope to disguise, none of it escaped your attention. You had been a growing child, after all. All the finely packaged presents, sugary sweet confections, and well wishes in the world couldn’t keep the magic alive forever. Especially when they began to dwindle.

The gifts on the dining table began to decrease in number as did the well wishes. After a point, it hurt to expect words that never came from people that never really cared. The treats were next. 

There’s always been something almost magical about sugar and its ability to completely change a person’s state of mind. Just a few bites as a child had you bouncing off the walls and obscured your vision with rose-tinted glasses. How could the world be so miserable when you were so full of joy?

The confections began to shrink in both size and number. When you were just knee high as a grasshopper, it was expected to find a large cake bigger than your own chubby face, covered in icing and cream and topped with all your favorite goodies. Fast forward a few years and the cake had turned into a simple slice that you shared quietly with your guardian. A small piece of luxury before everyone returned to the same old routine, whiling away the years with quiet desperation.

It was all just as well. Your birthday was no cause for celebration. When the celebrations stopped save for the wayward words of the few that remembered, you were glad. Magic didn’t really exist. If it did, then it had never belonged to you.

–

For as long as Boothill could remember, he always celebrated his day of birth on the day the first snowflake fell on Aeragan-Epharshel.  The second the air turned frosty and the tiny stars began to drift down from the heavens, the large farmhouse in the midst of grassy plains became host to a flurry of activity. Even more so than usual, believe it or not. 

The plates were cleared so the table could be adorned with one of the finer tablecloths owned and reserved for occasions like this. With each year that passed, Boothill could notice the amount of white lilies on the cloth visibly growing as his sisters would cover up any wear and tear with their careful embroidery. Not just white lilies of course but all sorts of flowers that the members of his family liked. There were magnolias for Graey, swamp sunflowers for Nick, bluebonnets for the young’uns and hibiscus and azaleas for the older siblings.

Boothill preferred white lilies above all, so it was only natural that he’d take note of them. If he squinted at the far left corner of the table, he could also find a wonky little incomplete flower embroidered from when he was younger and had tried to help his older sister out. He never got far with it before he was shooed away in typical older sister fashion but he always made a point to sit as close to it as possible. Perhaps out of sympathy for his poor younger self. 

Speaking of white lilies, Graey always managed to fill the vase with the flowers each year on his birthday despite the flowers having long gone out of season by the time winter drew near. Boothill had tried asking once but they’d simply put a finger to their lips and say in that gentle voice: “Good cowpoke never give away their secrets unless they wanna run their damn business to the ground.”

Speaking of secrets, the cowboy never managed to figure out just what the secret was to the mouthwatering sautauthig that served as a centerpiece to all the other dishes that would decorate the table. Each year, Boothill would try his damndest to get home early from a long day of hunting both animals and men in an attempt to sneak inside the kitchen and solve the mystery but alas. The dishes would already be steaming hot and ready to be served to hungry mouths once he got home. 

The gifts were never grand nor did Boothill want them to be. He was content with the embroidered bandana, beaded earrings, new boots, custom holster or new belt he’d receive each year. The fact that it was created and chosen by loving hands was all that mattered to him. 

The very last birthday gift Boothill had received was the most expensive one. It was the very same six-shooter that he carried to this day. It must’ve cost a fortune. 

Looking back, he wondered if his family knew it was the last gift they’d ever give him. He wondered if he wished upon a birthday candle now, whether the universe would grant him just five more minutes with them. 

It’s not like he’d ever receive an answer. He stopped celebrating his life once all that had been snuffed out like the candles on a birthday cake.

–

It was hard to keep track of time in space. It was the one place where time broke all its rules and did as it pleased. Sometimes the clock would say it’s one o’clock for two whole system hours or at least, what you assumed was two whole hours if time would’ve chosen to behave instead of acting like a stubborn mule. Other times, five hours would’ve passed within the span of what you were sure had been five minutes. 

Navigating calendars was about just as possible as finding a needle in a haystack. Seemingly impossible but entirely doable if either you or Boothill had the energy and motivation to put that much effort into such a measly task. Better to just stick to the trusty time and calendar system that the IPC had created although the cowboy did always grumble about it so. You couldn’t blame him either. The concept of  everyone tracking time based on when Qlipoth chose to swing THEIR hammer felt like some form of hidden religious indoctrination but maybe that was just you. 

It was only after your run-ins and escapades with the Astral Express that you and Boothill came to the mutual agreement that the Trailblaze calendar system was far more simpler and the closest thing either of you had to the almanacs used from your respective homes. And thus, the two of you adopted it and soon thereafter, had your own Trailblaze calendar hanging in the lounge of your spaceship.

It definitely made your lives easier, having a more definite way of tracking the endless passage of time beyond mere system hours. Plus, it was fun to leave behind little doodles beside every reminder one of you would’ve written on the paper. 

“Don’t forget!! Bounty today!” would always be accompanied with a doodle of a gun or your weapon of choice. 

“Pit stop to take out trash, Boothill’s turn” tended to have crude drawings that you’d chide the perpetrator over. (“Seriously? A penis? You’re not 5, Boothill.”)

The more sweeter doodles of hearts and kisses would be reserved for the reminders you both would keep for your dates. Once Boothill had caught you leaving behind the hearts and didn’t let you hear the end of it for three whole days.

“Aw shucks! A heart with our initials on it with a ‘I love you’ right beside? Yer gettin’ soft on me, darlin’,” He’d teased and flashbanged you with that frustratingly charming and boyish grin of his.

“I dunno what you’re talking about. I think you’re just stupid because that was not a heart and I definitely did not write that message beside it.” “Y’know that excuse would’a worked if I really was illiterate like folks think I am.” “Fuck off.”

All in all, the new calendar was well received and the doodles even more-so. Boothill would’ve even gone as far as to say that it made the ship feel like home. If he weren’t so scared of what might happen if he admitted to it, that is.

– 

For two people who had long ago decided their life was not worthy of celebration, you were both quite skittish whenever the day of your birth (or the day he was found in the snow, in Boothill's case) drew near. The spaceship would be filled with a tense silence, as though it were awaiting the worst with bated breath. But nothing ever happened and you yourself were quite quick to hide away any messages from stubborn people who refused to give up on their love for you. 

You didn't want Boothill to find out. Knowing him, he'd somehow out-stubborn the folks you knew— a feat in and of itself— and would surely plan some grand and reckless celebration just for you. After years of pulling your own weight and standing on your own two feet with nary a person in your corner, you refused to become a burden again. Especially not to Boothill.

Boothill, on the other hand, found his body settling with a cold and heavy feeling that definitely was not coming from the blue fuel coursing through his cybernetic veins. For someone as eagle-eyed as himself, he should've figured out the reason behind your sudden spike in anxiety and withdrawn behavior whenever a certain date would draw closer. He should’ve, considering the fact that he acted much the same whenever the calendar said winter was drawing near. 

It was a few days later that he realizes the feeling was embarrassment. 

Penacony had been meant to simply be one of the many planets the two of you visited on your various missions. A one-and-done planet that neither of you would really think of returning to. But alas, it was hard to pass up the opportunity to freeload a bit when your dear friend owned such a luxurious airship as the Radiant Feldspar. 

You and Boothill had been lounging by the pool, nursing a drink in one hand and mindlessly tracing shapes on each other’s palm with the other. It was easy to get lost in the rare yet comforting lull of silence that would befall you both whenever time chose to be kind for once and slow down for you both. You had been lost in it until your ears registered cheering and noticed a server wheeling out a giant, three-tiered birthday cake for a child. No, a pepeshi. Or perhaps a child cosplaying as a pepeshi? It was hard to tell. Maybe you should lay off the drinks a bit.

“Birthdays, huh…” Boothill murmurs thoughtfully, more to himself than anything. It’d still been loud to make your train of thought come to a stop only for the familiar train of anxiety to start its course.

“What about them?” You ask, trying to appear casual. But this time, the cowboy was quick to take note of the shift in your behavior. Nothing could ever hope to escape those ivory crosshairs. Least of all you.

“Jus’ got me takin’ a trip down memory lane, ‘s all. Haven’t… I ain’t had the chance in a long time t’ jus’... slow down like this an’ reminisce. Ain’t ever been my style,” He hesitates before glancing at you, briefly meeting your gaze. He didn’t need to explain via words. The way the tips of his ears were darkening and the way his pierced lips trembled ever so slightly gave him away. 

It was hard being vulnerable after what feels like a lifetime of looking over his shoulder. But he’d try for you.

“Yeah. I get what you mean. Ain’t often we get to relax like this,” You reply, determinedly staring at your intertwined fingers and not at the sharp smirk on his lips that always appeared when his southern twang chose to bleed into your speech. But most of all, you were hoping he’d drop this topic about birthdays and memories.

“When’s yer birthday?” 

So much for that hope.

“Excuse me?” “Yer excused.” “Boothill.” “When’s yer birthday?” He repeats himself with a sigh that was equal parts fond and equal parts exasperated.

“I don’t know if I should feel offended that you don’t know my birthday despite us having dated and known each other for so long,” You attempt to deflect. Unfortunately for you, Boothill matched you easily in both wit and stubbornness. Quite a feat, really.

“Yeh well, ain’t like ya know mine either, darlin’.” “Yes I do.” “When’s it then?” “...”

“That’s what I thought. Ain’t nobody ever taught ya to know when it’s best t’ jus’ hold yer tongue?” “You love my tongue.” “An’ lookit all the trouble it’s landed me in over the years.” You yelp and swat at Boothill when he reaches over to pinch your tongue, as if to punish it for its crimes. You could think of a few ways he could punish it and this most certainly was not on that list. 

“I’m serious, sugar. When’s yer birthday?” You sigh. It didn’t seem like he was about to let this go anytime soon. Maybe it was time to just rip the bandaid off. Some wounds would never heal if they never see the light of day, after all. So you muster up enough of the liquid courage that had settled in your body and told him the date, already bracing yourself for the reaction that was sure to come. “What?! That’s so soon! And yer stubborn lil’ ash chose t’ keep mum about it like it’s them top secret papers the IPC guards!” 

There it is.

“Well you can’t blame me, can you?! And don’t use that tone with me. You know damn well I don’t like it.”

“Darlin’, all I’m sayin’ is tha-” “No. You have your own skeletons in the closet and I have never once asked about them. It’s only fair that you do the same for me.” “Well pardon mah manners but I fail t’ see how yer birthday classifies as some forkin’ deep dark secret that oughtta be locked in a chest and buried in the sand! I’m so fudgin’ sorry fer carin’ an’ wantin’ t’ show mah love fer ya by celebratin’ yer life-” “Maybe I don’t think my life is something worth celebrating. Ever thought of that?” You set your drink down with a sharp clink and stalk off, ignoring Boothill’s protests.

“...Note t’ self. Never talk ‘bout serious things over drinks.”

–

Quarrels and arguments between partners are commonplace. Neither you nor Boothill were the same person so disagreements are bound to arise and heads are bound to be bumped. But this time, the cowboy doubted this was something that could be smoothed over with a simple apology and some flowers. 

As much as it pained him just a teeny tiny bit, Boothill had to confess to himself that he’d been acting hypocritical. Who was he to judge your feelings regarding birthdays when he himself shared the exact same opinion as you?

And yet… 

If this had been the Boothill before he’d met you, he’d have let the matter drop and mutter something about not sticking his nose in places where it’s clearly unwanted. He’d have refused to acknowledge that even if it hurt, some things had to be faced. 

But this was the Boothill that had met you, taken his time to know you and let you through his metal walls so he too could be known beyond the bloodthirsty thug wanted by the IPC. And perhaps it was another case of the pot calling the kettle black but he couldn’t let you walk down this destructive path. As a matter of fact, neither would he. 

Some things are easier when faced together.

–

“I’m sorry.” You look up from your phone, brows raised slightly in surprise. It’s not like it was rare for Boothill to apologize. He did it pretty often. Just two weeks ago, he’d groveled at your feet for dragging you into a bounty without informing you about said bounty beforehand. 

It was rare however, for Boothill to appear in your room when you were visibly sulking and without having waited for your mood to lighten up.

“You’re…sorry?” “I am. I… I shouldn’t have gotten all up in a tizzy like that, darlin’. Wasn’t right of me t’ add onto yer problems like I’m some no-good ten-cent man.”

Fuck. It was hard to stay mad at him when he was like this.

“It’s… It’s fine. Was my fault too for overreacting like that,” You reply after a brief moment of chewing on your bottom lip that had been promptly stopped by Boothill gently tugging your bottom lip free. When the hell he’d crossed the distance between the doorframe and your bed, you had no idea.

“Naw. I reckon I know why ya acted like that an’ I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the drinks.” You stay silent. Boothill sighs, soft yet heavy all at once. He was good at that. Being a walking talking contradiction of a man. 

You feel the mattress dip and feel the familiar weight of Boothill draping his body atop yours like a glorified weighted blanket. You feel his head rest on your clavicle, like it belonged there. You never had the heart to push him away like this.

“I ain’t gonna ask ya t’ tell me why ya don’t like yer own birthday. Ain’t gon’ ask ya what happened all them years ago. What I do want, is fer ya to let me do a lil’ somethin’. Nothin’ big, I swear on mah hat. But jus’ a lil’ somethin’.” A big part of you wanted to say no. To stay in the bed you’d made over the course of several years amongst foxgloves and fungus. Another equally big part of you wanted to let him try. Boothill had never hurt you intentionally. He’d probably sooner carve his own blue heart out of his chest than even think of doing something of that sort. So it was no surprise that the latter part of you won the internal battle.

The smile that Boothill gave you, eyes crinkled and soft, cheeks dimpled and sharp teeth and gums showing made the decision worth it. The unhurried and tender kiss that followed sealed the deal that you’d made the right choice.

– 

“When you’d said ‘ a lil’ somethin’’, I thought you meant maybe a piece of cake. Not…” you vaguely gesture your hands about the candlelit room. “Not whatever this is.” The “whatever this is” in question was the spaceship’s dining space transformed into a cozy candlelit date. Boothill even had your favorite flowers in a vase and your favorite dishes on a few plates. What got your attention the most was the dish in the center that appeared to be some sort of pudding with blueberries. When had he gotten the time to prepare all of this? Why had he done all this for you? “Ah hell. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought mah decoratin’ skills had faded over the years.” “No no. It’s… beautiful actually.” “I know.” “Bastard.” “Reckon that’s why I was abandoned as a young’un, huh?” “Okay, not funny.” Boothill laughs, warm and hearty like a home cooked meal and gently ushers you into your seat, even taking care to pull your chair out for you. For someone that cussed more than it was worth and who embodied the very vision of a rogue who’d stab you in the back in the same breath he kissed you, Boothill really could be a gentleman. Perhaps it was who he really was, tempered with teasing smiles and bullet casings that shone like the gold tooth that he’d proudly flash. 

“What’s that?” “Hm? Oh. That’s a… an old family recipe. Ain’t sure if I got the taste right but reckon it shouldn’t be too bad. We call it sautauthig. Used t’ eat it all the time when… when we all used t’ celebrate mah own birthday.” You feel a bitter and heavy sense of dread pool in your gut. This was exactly what you’d feared. Almost as if on command, you could envision the lines of stress that’d disguised itself as smile lines so you wouldn’t know funds were stretched thin. You stare at the food, as though bracing yourself for when it’d all disappear and all that would remain would be a note telling you that you’re a burden.

“Y-you shouldn’t have. There was no need to go to all this trouble, Boothill. I-” It was your turn to be cut off now as Boothill gets down on one knee in front of you and clasps your shaking hands betwixt his own. His onyx irises bore into yours and you keep your lips sealed shut as he begins to speak instead.

“Naw. I didn’t need’a do all this. Would’a been easier t’ say ‘Happy birthday’ and go on ‘bout our day but that ain’t who I am. I love you, darlin’. I love you an’ wanted t’ do this fer you. It ain’t ‘bout doin’ what’s expected. ‘S ‘bout showin’ that I care.” “I dunno what the fork happened fer ya t’ think yer life ain’t worth celebratin’. Dunno if it was some muddle-fudger who I oughtta put a few bullets in or a bad experience. What I do know is that yer lyin’ t’ yerself if ya think ya ain’t worth celebratin’ ‘cause I reckon yer heart don’t agree. If it did agree, ya wouldn’t have put one foot in front a’ the other despite life bein’ a cruel mistress an’ kickin’ ya down.” You swallow hard. If your hands hadn’t been shaking earlier, they were definitely shaking now, despite Boothill’s tight grip.

“If yer heart agreed with ya’, I reckon you’d have gone through with them plans ya once told me y’used t’ have. But ya didn’t. Instead, ya picked yerself back up, fought yer battles one day at a time an’ lookit ya now. At an age I reckon ya never thought you’d make it to.”

“So don’t. Don’t say you ain’t worth celebratin’ when everythin’ I know tells me otherwise. When I tell ya ‘Happy birthday’, I mean it with every bit of humanity left in me. I’m happy yer still here an’ so are many others. Don’t let them demons in yer head say anythin’ but, else they’ll hafta answer t’me.” You snort, your laughter mixing in with the quiet sobs that spilled from your lips. Boothill smiles and thumbs gently at your tears. He never considered himself patient and yet, here he was, brushing away the liquid sorrow like it was a sacred ritual and he continued to do so until you calmed down.

“Now c’mon. No more tears. ‘S a happy occasion an’ it’s time t’ blow the candle.” “I’d rather blow something else,” You sniff, watching Boothill hold out a candle in front of you. He’s unable to hold back the sharp burst of laughter but reins it in surprisingly quick.

“Later. But fer now… you gotta make do with this downgrade.” A watery laugh leaves your lips at the cheeky wink he gives you and you blow out the candle. Refreshingly cool lips press against yours, prompting an even bigger smile from you as you respond with equal fervor.

“Happy birthday, darlin’. Wanna tell me what ya wished fer?” You pull away and give him a wink of your own.

“It’s a secret.”

“Reckon I know what it is, anyhow.”

“I’m not telling either way. Otherwise the birthday magic will be ruined and  it won’t come true.” Boothill shakes his head and affectionately feeds you a spoon of the pudding he’d made. “Ain’t no need fer magic. I’m right here and hell if I won’t make yer wildest dreams come true.”

“Promise?”

You’re not sure when it began. Like most things, it started slowly; taking baby steps until it had seamlessly made a place for itself in your life. Almost as if that’s how it should’ve been from the very start, although you beg to differ. You enjoyed it. You really did. But not like this.

Perhaps it was only a matter of time, you reason to yourself. Two lonely people drifting amongst the stars with nary a person to keep them company save for the other. Boothill could argue as much as he wants about how he’s a lone wolf, how he doesn’t need anyone else in this dangerous path that he walks along, about how much he despises unwanted company. He’s the one eating his words, whether he acknowledges it or not.

Organic lifeforms were never meant to be solitary creatures. It wasn’t just an opinion. It was a fact proven time and time again by all the various scientific advancements made over the course of several Amber Eras. Why else had they looked to the stars, back when mankind had just begun to stand on its own two legs, and said “Hello”, hoping for an answer back? Why else had mankind sent rovers into space time and time again, trying to find life on other planets? 

Because they couldn’t bear the thought of being alone in the vast cosmos.

Boothill was no such exception to this. One look and you knew this was a man that put up a heartless facade only to fail miserably. No such man would cling to childhood mementos nor would he walk around with a tattered serape that smelt of fire and grief. Try as he might with his literal walls of metal but he couldn’t hide his heart from you, once red with passion but now blue with sorrow. 

It all started innocently. The cowboy slipped into your room one night, his footsteps heavy yet silent. He stood in front of you, watching, contemplating, hesitating. Eventually, he carefully sat down by your sleeping form. His ears pick up the even breaths you take and he tries to mimic them. In and out, not too fast but not too slow. Whether he knew you were awake or not would remain a mystery.

Gradually, Boothill took things further. He’d adjust the covers when his hands would ever so slightly touch your arm and he’d pause. The way your flesh gave way under his touch, pushed back just enough to remind him that his limbs were now cold and unforgiving iron instead of warm, calloused skin. 

“Y’mind if I crash in yer bed fer the night? Reckon mah weight’s too much fer mine and accidentally broke some part o’ the frame,” Boothill asked one night, his movements quiet but his mind abuzz with every single emotion that existed under the sun. 

You didn’t bother pointing out the flaw in his excuse, how if his weight alone was too much for his bed, then the combined weight of you both would likely break the bed altogether. Or that he doesn’t even need to sleep. You simply lifted the covers in a wordless invitation for him to crawl inside. 

Later, you’d remember vague memories of how Boothill muttered apologies and a generous amount of “fork”, “screwwubbaboo” and “dadgum bag o’ bolts” under his breath each time his body would brush against yours or accidentally crush a part of you under his weight. He’d flinch away, as if he’d been burned despite the sparks of this all-consuming fire only just beginning to catch. 

The laws of nature and physics suggested that it can take a long time for an action to gain enough momentum to start. And once it did, only another action with equal force could make it stop. 

Those nights, that now seemed a lifetime ago, were peaceful, despite Boothill’s initial restlessness. He learned quickly enough just how to position his body so it’d be comfortable for both parties. Your head tucked underneath his chin, soft breaths misting over metal plates, his arm over your waist and legs tangled. 

It wasn’t every night where you’d have been asleep by the time he laid down in your bed like clockwork. Some nights, you’d be awake but your eyes closed, thinking and nitpicking and overthinking. By then, Boothill had re-learned the tells that gave away when someone was awake and when slumber had overcome them. As though it were second nature, he’d rub gentle circles over your skin, tentative at first before growing confident, laced with a yearning to feel once more just how soft humanity could be. 

From there, it only spiralled faster and faster until one night, you’d gasped with both confusion and pleasure, wondering just how the hell did you get here. When had skinship turned into copulation? When had kisses on the top of your head turned into a searing hot tongue laving at your skin? When had the lines blurred to the point you didn’t even want to know where you stood for fear the answer would hurt?

Except you knew. 

Just like before, it had started innocently enough. Metal thumb rubbing gentle circles on your skin and a gruff voice murmuring against your head about how someone like you needed all the rest you could get. Until you felt his hand slowly slip under your shirt, tracing the curve of your spine and drinking in each shiver you gave him. Pierced lips traveled down from your temple, carving a gentle patch down the apples of your cheek, ignoring your lips and moving towards your ear. His augmented teeth nibble your earlobe before he asks:

“Do you want this?” “I do.”

Briefly, you had wondered whether Boothill had done this before when he went by another name. How many beds had he warmed in similar fashion? How many lips had he kissed, cool piercings against hot flesh, the other person’s name slipping out betwixt pauses for air in that devastatingly suave voice of his? Was he trying to chase a past comfort through you? 

Any minute now, you’d brace to hear a name that wasn’t yours. But it never came. His gaze was transfixed on you, ruby pupil casting a faint glow against the planes of his face. 

So you silenced the nagging voice at the back of your head and fell back into arms that held you with a nigh uncharacteristic gentleness. You reciprocated his kisses, occasionally nipping at his bottom lip to hear a quiet chuckle. You tilted your head back against the pillow when he began pressing open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck, teeth grazing ever so slightly to leave raised skin in its wake. 

Boothill’s hands were just as busy. Years of wrangling cattle, handling bullets and six-shooters like they were mere toys had left his hands dexterous and skilled, even if the muscles upon which the memories were engraved are now mere phantoms.

He touched you here, squeezed you there. They mapped out the entire expanse of your body, figuring out what made you tick and what would leave you in a dreamy headspace where no worries or fears could ever reach you, not when he was there by your side. 

Lithe fingers that plucked guitar strings now plucked your nerves, causing sparks of searing hot pleasure to travel straight to your brain. A skillful flick, a playful pinch, teasing tracing, deep and gentle strokes, languid thrusts. 

Your brain was melting. Your hands would scramble blindly for purchase before tangling your fingers in snowy white locks that tickled your skin whilst Boothill hovered above, drinking in your reactions and pacing his actions so as not to overwhelm you. You’d tug and earn a soft hiss from him. Tug again and he’d huff quietly, moving to detangle your hands from his hair. He’d press a kiss against the pulsepoint of your wrists before effortlessly pinning them down with a single hand, going back to his previous ministrations.

Every night started the same, with a question, and ended in similar fashion, with a kiss. Boothill would help you come down your high, whether it was one or several varied from night to night, pressing gentle kisses and holding you until the waves stopped crashing on your body. He’d get up and grab a towel, cleaning you and himself up before adjusting your clothes, sometimes muttering to himself about changing the sheets in the morning. He’d ask whether anything hurt and if they did, a flicker of remorse would flash across his face before he’d massage the area, whispering apologies along the lines of “Ah…forkin’ hell. Guess I still ain’t got my strength under control. ‘M sorry, darlin’.”

Every single night, Boothill would stay until you went to sleep. He stayed just long enough to leave no doubt that he cared. But by morning, he’d be gone without a trace. The other side of the bed neat and tidy as though nobody had ever been there. 

Boothill didn’t avoid the topic, per se, should you bring the previous night up. He’d offer you a cup of your hot drink of choice, replying to your questions with vague answers before going back to the usual dynamic. Him, brash, reckless and playful and you, steady, reliable and keeping up with his banter with witty remarks of your own. 

Yet, no matter how much the two of you tried to pretend, a certain hollowness remained. One that grew when eyes lingered, hands brushed in passing and when laughter turned soft.

“Do you feel shame?” The question tumbled from your lips one night before you could stop them. Boothill’s fingers stopped tracing the rim of his glass of whiskey. A break from your usual routine. 

Had you been anyone else, the question would’ve felt like an insult. Like salt on an open wound. But you weren’t just anyone else and for better or for worse, Boothill had learned your tells and could read you like an open book. 

You were asking if he was ashamed of you.

“Ain’t no man, livin’ or dead, who ain’t ever felt shame, darlin’. ‘S only natural. Like the sun risin’ every day.” “Like the leaves changing colors in autumn.” “Like flinchin’ at a loud noise.” “But you know that’s not what I’m asking.” …

“I do feel shame. But not at comrades who slip up. Not at allies who could get hurt easily. Not at life. Not you. Never you.” So what was Boothill ashamed of? The answer was there, hidden in words unsaid. He was ashamed of himself. He was ashamed of his past failures and blunders that had rendered him incapable of saving those he cherished most. He was ashamed of all the things he could’ve done and what he’d chosen to do instead. He was ashamed that he’d once believed his humanity made him weak. 

You didn’t press him for any more answers after that. You let him leave every night because you knew now he’d be there come morning, fixing a drink for you. You pretend to not notice how he stays just a while longer with each night that passes by. 

Healing was a process that took time. Try to rush it and you’d only risk making it worse. Leave it alone and the wounds would fester until the pain became unbearable. Healing was a delicate process and a job that belongs to the person requiring it. So despite how much it hurt, you didn’t rush Boothill. You simply gave him gentle nudges in the right direction in the moments he risked going astray. You wouldn’t let him run and leave.