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Summary
"I was only wondering," Sunday murmurs—Boothill's eyes flicker, Sunday counts the flaring of his pale pupils—once, twice, he's curious, would his temple throb if tagged as a target, are there warnings for such things, "If you had a pulse. I'm sorry for being impolite. Ranger, are you injured?"
"Ah, that's funny. You gonna patch me up with those itty bitty prince hands?"
Sunday smiles. "Would you prefer that?"
Boothill bares his teeth. "Naw. Not at all."
