#t/w Boothill spoilers

[lickthehilt]

keep you in a bottle

T/W: mentions of Boothills backstory and the reader who’s a direct victim of the IPC. Writing about it has made me think of parallels to current world happenings; I am well aware of the genocide happening in Palestine and I do not write this to glorify the situation whatsoever nor do I support the genocides. If you would like to help Palestine, there is a post by sulfurcosmos which explains different methods you can help Palestinians direct and non-directly:

These methods include donating, petitioning and campaigning (with inclusions of boycotting).

END THE GENOCIDE.

If my works do anything to offend you or any party, please let me know so I can amend or take down anything.

I do not mention descriptions of anything visceral in my work, the most being: “…the IPC fully invaded, but he told you that as he rummaged through the wreck of scorched land he'd found the chip at the entrance of where the nursery would've been in the shared house…” other descriptions include the idea of having a cybernetic body.

He'll pry the door open with his leg, too cool to use the actual handle, right about--

The door swings open followed by the beams of sunlight reflecting off the metallic surface of the medals and bullets hanging from his jacket and belt. Entering the hotel room, every movement he makes is loud and punctuated by the tinkling of metal and the clicks of his spurs -- in your daydreams sometimes he takes the form of a souvenir seller, like the ones they have in the big-shot planets he had travelled to in the past. You can see him hollering at smudged out faces, waving trinkets and brushing against people with his tassel-like long hair.

You love his hair; the length and how when he sways you can see the strands dance in river-like streaks. When you were younger you had to fight him tooth-and-nail to get your grubby hands on those clumps. Daylight burnt through fights that ended with you pinning his hands to his sides as he wriggled on his front, your weight pressing him down as you'd tear through his hair with your own hairbrush. Now adays you can't really brawl with him in the same way.

"What'chu dreaming 'bout, sugar?" He hauls a bag to the centre table, the contents clanking. His grin is razor sharp, cutting into his cheeks as he starts rummaging through it.

"You. Your hair. Braiding it and stuff, you know? You'd ever think about wearing it up or something?" From where you are, you can't quite see the emotion the flicks past his face. Moments like this, whenever he comes home with his bag of goodies, he looks like a wounded hound licking at his paws showing off the scraps he's managed to scrounge up. "I like that one."

From the bag he produces what looks like a panel of white metal, "like porcelain." Holding it up, he continues rummaging, "came with some fancy bits. Gold and all."

"All for me?"

His gaze momentarily flickers to you, staring through your form. You'd imagine how maybe he'd loom over you, bat at a strand of your hair, flick your forehead, brush his metal fingers against the flesh of your flesh. But the way he looks at you now, uncertain and alien. There are days he can't bring himself to look at you: thinks about what could've been-- what is. He likes to tuck you to his chest on these days, press you close to his non-existent heartbeat, have your hum resonate with the mechanical system inside him. His body is efficient, quiet and invisible to the naked ear, but some days you can really hear him, hear the sliding pumps and groan of metal joints.

"Only the best."

"Maybe you'll find something to fix that Synesthesia Beacon of yours."

Air passes through him in a throat chuckle, "ya think?"

Across the table he's laid out all sort of odd sheets of metal, some sturdy or bent, and he stands above the selection with his hands propped on his hips and leaning back. Cupping the bottom of his face he beckons you closer as you flicker next to him. "What’d ya reckon. Do ya like it?"

"The selection?"

"Naw, the table--" he clicks his tongue. "Yes the selection."

A smile would've pressed against your cheeks as you'd brush your hip against his. But, you don't have a physical hip to brush against his, instead your visage passing his form. The contact is non-existent, but he finds himself jolted still. "Sorry." You don't know what you're apologising for. "Well, um, it's a selection alright."

"Not good 'nough?"

"No-- it is! It's just… hard to imagine…"

"A body." You choose to not look at him.

When you had the chance to really inspect his body, the whole sleek design had been incredibly difficult to grasp for a country bumpkin like yourself. Imagine, mechanical bodies and not just the ones where the head's full of wires. His actual brain is in there, working and pumping whatever fluid they used for his blood or something. Does he even have blood? He'd never let you see the worst of his fights and you've only really seen him in action when he got good at what he did. When he had credit and cash spilling from his fingertips the same way that he let his bullets rain. Being a galaxy ranger was good for him, the best option for him after what had happened -- but he's never told you what went into that surgery, or more like he could never explain it.

"Look," he fidgets with his left hand, popping out his revolver chamber and spinning the wheel slowly, "it's not that deep when ya really think about it, honey."

"Boothill. I want you to look at me when you reassure me." He pauses. Then, he turns to look at you. Really look at you.

Your form flickers before him. There's a slight blue sheen over the visage of what you would've looked like -- what you should've looked like if you were physically alive. Boothill has razor sharp vision, even with one eye, but he struggles to look at you with a steady gaze. He fidgets in a way you don’t really see him, always one to ooze with confidence, dancing through bullet shells and pressing the nozzle of guns into his abdomen.

"When you made the decision to… did it hurt?"

"It hurt, alright." A belly-type laughter rasps his throat as he adjusts his hat, "but it hurt more know those little vermons would be going scot-free if I weren't chasing 'em down."

The thought makes you quiet. Outside you could make out the whizzing of hover cars and the cute little squishing sound those little billboards make as they trail behind you. There’s laughter and chatter and life.

Boothill adjusts his footing, his spur clicking as he shifts to be closer to you, just shy of what would be him pressing against your body.

"Yer'll still be you to me." He huffs, "metallic body er not, yer' still… Plus, I think it'll be easier for ya. No nerves to server, or gas to suck on. Just gotta boot you down."

"Gee. Real assuring."

"Ain't it?" And you think about it as he starts chucking the bad metal in the pile he's collected in the corner of your temporary living space.

You'd be awake as nothing more than waves of light one moment, then the next you'd have a body. Something real physical. And that'd be great-- but the morality of real death would come back, wouldn't it? No longer would you worry about Boothill losing you, or scratching your chip up a little too much, death would be in your hands once more. It's easier to be mad at someone else, but yourself?

Boothill never told you in detail on how he'd found your body the day the IPC fully invaded, but he told you that as he rummaged through the wreck of scorched land he'd found the chip at the entrance of where the nursery would've been in the shared house. It was small in size and a bit thick, almost lost amongst the greys and black, only found through its blinking blue light that winked through the rubble. He would've tossed it away if it weren't for your name etched into its surface.

He held onto the hope that it meant anything and clutched onto the chip well after he got his cyborg body, at one point forgetting it and keeping it in his boot for safe keeping ("… in your boot." "It kept ya safe, dun'it?"). Just by chance he had his hands on some holographic projector and popped the chip in. Then, there you were. Loading bit by bit, but just the same as you’d been the night before the wipe out. Same face, same body, hands and feet. You were still, as if frozen, and he'd been… well it was a lot. For him and you, who'd been in… well, not the best mind when you came to be.

"I… guess so. I-- and you'll be able to really find this doctor again?"

"Found her once, and I'll find her again, sugar. And before you know it," he tips his hat, averting his gaze to the whirring device projecting your form. "We can do all the hair braiding ya want."