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For a long time, all that he could feel in his new second life was hatred. Every part of his metallic being was drenched with it, every part of that something still living in him was full of it. Or so he thought.
Because then it was sorrow. A woe that was burning through his veins from his shattered heart, a cantle of metal now, to his still human mind. His mind, still racing, still full of human ideas and regrets is now supposed to settle on something above, something that he is meant to be now because of his so-called saviors. The IPC, people who saved him, people, who brought him back to his life again never asking him if he ever wanted that. He couldn't even call it a life now.
Existence.
He was only existing now, not sure what to do with his body that wasn't listening to him at all, not sure if he could ever be what he once was. Not sure how he was supposed to come back and live for himself.
He clenches his fist on the thin glass of a beaker, used to the sound of a sturdy iron, used to the way it wouldn't hurt no matter how much force he would put in such a gesture and how tight the pieces crash into his hand. No longer any sensation. No longer any pain there.
But when a gloved hand covers his own, something stirs in him. He doesn't look up, preferring to stare into emptiness, already able to recognize the intruder.
"Too stiff," a voice rings somewhere right beside him, and he sighs, fighting the urge to wince at just how good the voice sounds. Good. This word. He's not good at describing his emotions and feelings at all, but it's just good. Angelic. Too out of place.
"What are you doing here?" and this thing. He won't be able to even ask anybody to fuck off properly. Xipe bless IPC.
Though she's the last person he would want to ask to leave.
No response comes and he knows that. He knows that he has no right to say such things to her due to the time they know each other, but he was having his moment of sadness and he does not need her reassurance.
Boothill sighs heavily, letting his head fall on the bar, his hat almost sliding off, but he doesn't care at all.
"Haven't thought the alcohol can affect you," she murmurs, her delicate fingers tracing his metal phalanges, trying to force him to ease his grip. No success.
"It does not," he mutters, words slurred slightly, but he's still not going to look at her, despite her efforts to make him release the poor glass. As if he cares if he will break one.
But she knows that he has a soft spot for her. And she never misses an opportunity to exploit it.
So with a groan of defeat, he indulges, letting his hand rest in her both now, feeling some sort of unknown satisfaction.
But he still is supposed to be annoyed.
Because there are things he hates about Robin.
And that's not her beauty — he accepted that from the beginning, that's not her brother that was trying to boo him, no.
That's, for example, her making him feel things.
He can play his favorite game of 'I'm a Galaxy ranger, I'm remaining positive', but she managed to get under his skin much earlier than he noticed. It's like she owned all his iron vessels. And, maybe, deep down he didn't want to deny her at all.
But he was not supposed to let his rising interest go that far.
And certainly was not supposed to let this evening lead them both to another night together. But it is what it is.
He can't help his toothy smile as he watches her.
He always watches her.
He worships.
And that's another reason to hate her.
He thought that with his new life, he wouldn't ever be a sinner, but he turned out to be a pilgrim instead.
Because Robin brightens his world.
Because Robin has him in her gentle and loving hold that he doesn't deserve.
Because Robin never lets him to refer himself as an unfeeling being.
Because Robin managed to burn down all his super-new-innovated-systems-of-self-control and blah-blah-blah by IPC.
Because Robin makes his iron damn hot.
Because Robin manages to set his systems at alert every time he loses her out of his sight.
Because Robin... well, because she exists and he's forever grateful to her mum for that.
He runs his hands through the silk strands of her hair, though sometimes he still wishes he was warm to touch. Sometimes he wishes he was still a human to hold her like normal couples do, but the way she leans to his touch means otherwise.
Boothill pulls her close and holds her tightly to his chest, but always careful enough with his force. He lets himself bury his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent, trying to memorize it and hold it not in his system, but in his mind. She chuckles, tossing his hat aside to give herself access to his hair too, twirling his lock on her finger.
Here he is content. Here he is at peace. With her in her arms, cradling her lightly and pressing soft kisses to her neck, each giggle of hers feels like a reward.
He's aware that he should go soon, and she's supposed to leave too, to prepare for another show of hers, but oh, Aeons forgive him, he needs another moment.
In the end, Boothill is also greedy.
Greedy of these kisses she plants on every scratch on his metal body, greedy of every sound of her voice, of every touch of her hands — he wants it all.
And he is grateful to her for letting him take it. Grateful for the time she spends with him, grateful for her just being here and always bringing him to his forbidden heaven he will never see.
He's not sure of many things, and he's unsure in processing his feelings and especially voicing them, but he rasps softly "I love you" every time they wave goodbye, and when he sees the blush on her face, he knows he will do everything in his strength to come back here as fast as possible.
Because his heart still lives. Tenderly congregated by her, he feels its beating.
Because every time she pecks him on the lips as a farewell he's able to hear hers "I love you too".
Because every time he's away he has her songs on repeat and he yearns and craves as a mere mortal man.
And it's enough for him. Enough to wash away his regrets and to lay himself all in her arms.