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Boothill's fingers trace the strings of a guitar rested across his knee.
The bonfire before him crackles, and the stars above his tent shine.
The metal of his finger scrapes a string and he winces at the noise, then someone appears in his peripheral view and he snaps his head up to look.
Sunday has his hands behind his back, and an intrigued expression. Boothill's shoulders relax marginally.
“Whatchu doing out here?” He mumbles, and Sunday tilts his head, his eyes shining gold in the glow of the fire.
“I didn't know you played guitar.”
He pauses, then looks down at the guitar.
“I don't.”
“Then why do you have one?”
A sigh heaves from him.
“Hell if I know.”
Sunday is quiet for a moment, the sound of wood burning filling the silence.
“Did you used to play?”
The brim of Boothill's hat hides his eyes from view as he stares into the flames.
“...I think so.”
“Why do you not know so?”
“My muscle memory's gone.”
Sunday hums, then sits down cautiously on a log, careful of his coat.
“So you did play, once?”
“Somewhere in my past, I think. And I was damn good.” He scoffs. “But my-” His throat constricts and interrupts him.
It's silent again until he takes a deep breath and keeps speaking.
“My fingers can't do the chords.” He lifts a hand, illuminated in orange light against the metal, and bends his fingers. They click against his palm and he sighs, both him and Sunday watching as he lowers it again to rest on the body of the guitar.
“...I don't play guitar.” He mutters, and Sunday can hear… grief.
“Can you try?”
Boothill frowns, staring into the dark centre of the instrument.
“I dunno.”
Again, it is silent. It's heavy and grief-stricken.
“Tell you what, all these fingers are good for is pulling triggers.” Boothill whispers, and Sunday bows his head.
“That is a useful skill.”
“Sure, but I got a feeling it's all they kept me for. I used to do things, Angel. I played guitar and I could feel if my horse was overheating, and if I took a handful of dirt in my hands I felt real. But I could pull a trigger, and I could keep a straight aim, so when-” His voice cracks, and he takes a shaky breath. “When it happened, and all I had was a head, they thought to hell with it. Keep my brain, keep my eyes, and make me pull a trigger. That's all this body is for really.
I ain't any good at playing guitar, and I ain't any good at loving anymore. But I got memories of when I was, and that… that's the bit that hurts me. The memories.”
Sunday stares at him, and Boothill keeps his head bowed.
“...I ain't played a note in years.”
“Do you want to try?”
Crackle goes the fire, and up the embers rise to the sky.
Boothill's hands rest the guitar in the right place, against his thigh, and he holds it like he used to.
His hand, with none of the smoothness of real muscle, lifts and strums down once. The chord hums out and tapers off.
He sighs and turns to his other hand, on the neck of the guitar. He carefully, oh so carefully, moves each finger individually to rest on the right string. One by one, with effort. A trigger is much easier. A trigger doesn't have wrong notes.
He takes a deep breath and strums, then changes chord wobbly.
He changes chord again and his strumming hand speeds up a little, and Sunday smiles.
Boothill clears his throat, a repeating melody playing.
“You mind if I sing?” He raises his head to watch for a reaction, pausing his playing.
Sunday shakes his head. “Not at all.”
He nods, and bows his head again to focus.
He clears his throat again and plays, stumbling every few notes.
“You are my sunshine, my only sunsh-” He hits a wrong note and freezes, then takes a shaky breath and goes again. “Sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey.” His voice is low, warm and soft, for what feels like the first time ever.
“You'll never-” A shrill note pierces through the song and he stops, staring at his fingers.
Sunday hums, a “go on” sort of gesture to prompt Boothill to keep going.
“...You'll never know, dear, how much I-” His voice breaks and Boothill stops, putting the guitar down next to him abruptly.
Sunday stares.
“What's wrong?”
The cowboy stands, and when the halovian looks up to meet his eyes, he finds tears.
“...Nothing. I'm going to bed.” He mumbles. “Put the fire out when you're going.”
He shuffles away and into his tent, and Sunday hears a quiet sniffle that's supposed to be hidden.
He stays sat there a while, staring at the guitar and the fire reflected in its smooth polished wood.
Boothill's voice loops in his mind, low, warm and soft, and his heart aches for the man he was before.