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There’s an impeccably well-dressed man waiting for Boothill at the end of this dingy alleyway.
He leans against the cracked, dusty brick wall with complete disregard for the blinding white fur lining his throat — he could probably replace it with just a slight dip of his regal chin, Boothill decides. A pair of sunglasses hang low on the bridge of his nose. Show off, the cyborg thinks, too damned dark in the depths of Penacony for that thing to be of any practical use.
It’s no secret that most Galaxy Rangers take on bounties on the side; how else would they be able to afford all that booze? So when a discreet invitation makes its way into his hand, passed on by a wide-eyed hotel housekeeper, he isn’t exactly surprised. He just didn’t expect to flip it open and be greeted with that elegant cursive.
Though such handwriting did match its owner, he admits begrudgingly. Said culprit seems to sense Boothill’s presence, turning to face him as he approaches silently. The stranger’s lips curve into an unreadable smirk, right as he slips those sunglasses off in one practised motion. Boothill resists the urge to snort; was everything this man did so full of theatrics?
The eyes that flutter open to meet his own, however, draw his breath away. He’s a cyborg — he doesn’t even need to breathe, for cryin’ out loud — but even with all his years roaming the galaxies, he had never once beheld such beauty. “Aventurine,” the stranger offers, sparing him from the embarrassment of stringing together a coherent sentence.
“Boothill,” he sputters, “though you probably already knew that.” Fuckin’ hell. What’s gotten into him?
Aventurine hums in a sign of acknowledgement. Those stunning eyes fix on him with a level of determination that Boothill isn’t sure he likes. “I need you to find someone for me, Ranger.”
“Care to be a lil’ more specific, darlin’?”
“Anyone who shares my eyes,” came the soft reply. “Anyone at all.”
Boothill scratches his head uneasily. “Listen, sweetheart. I’ve never seen eyes like yours in all my time spent kickin’ ass — and trust me when I say it’s been a lot — so your chances are lookin’ real close to none.”
“Besides,” he adds, “I don’t do lost-and-found. I do hit-and-runs.” Boothill bares his sharp teeth in his own twisted version of a grin.
Aventurine remains undeterred. Not even a shred of annoyance flickered over that perfect face. Calmly, as if he expected this exact reply, he says, “Triple the price of your typical rates. For the additional effort spent searching, of course. And bringing them back alive.”
“Deal.” Boothill claps him on the shoulder, hard, and is amused when he feels Aventurine jump at his touch. The blond swats at that spot crossly, but Boothill takes no offence. If anything, that slight pout making its way onto his face is pretty cute. Suits him much better than the high and mighty bullshit.
“Hold it. What happens if I don’t find anyone, huh?” Boothill asks, a little more aggressively than necessary. “Ya sendin’ me out on a lost cause, little bird?”
Aventurine replies smoothly, “Half the total sum, just for trying.”
“Hm. Better stick to ya word, darlin’. Or I won’t need anyone to pay me — to come after you.” Boothill winks, as if it’s just a joke made in poor taste, but allows for a biting edge to creep into his words all the same.
-------
When the pair meet again, it’s after several months. If Boothill’s being honest with himself, he really only spent the first few weeks combing the streets of every planet he visited. Listen, it gets frustrating after a while, alright? There was just too much talking to be had, and not nearly enough opportunities for him to put those bullets to good use.
Sure, he’s tried shoving his revolver against people’s heads, but threats fall short when they really don’t have a single clue. Fuck it. Anyone with striking eyes like that would’ve stood out in the crowd anyway — it sure ain’t like he was slackin’ the whole time.
“Couldn’t find no one,” Boothill announces as his conversation starter. “Tell you what, we call it a day, and I’ll give ya a discount on that final price. Feelin’ generous, so count yerself lucky, eh?”
Aventurine’s gaze dims at the news, but he still shakes his head. “Try asking for Avgins. Someone will know.”
“Avgins?” Boothill repeats incredulously. “You just never bothered tellin’ me that crucial detail? Sigonia-IV…I’ve been there, before the filthy IPC claimed it as their own, and then everything went to shit. Sorry to break it to ya, but they’ve been effectively wiped out. No way any of them survived a massacre of that scale.”
Boothill catches himself right as he realises the implications lying behind Aventurine’s request. His tone softens in a more placating manner, hoping it’ll make up for his previous insensitivity, “You’re the sole survivor, aren’t you?”
Aventurine stiffens, breaking off eye contact. “I don’t want your pity. Just do your damned job.”
“Hey, I’m not tryna start a fight. Sorry ‘bout what I said. The IPC hunted my family and friends to extinction, leaving behind nothin’ for me to even bury. As if they never fuckin’ existed. Guess I just…haven’t really gotten over it, y’know? Was projectin’, or whatever it’s called.”
There’s a moment of silence, and Boothill thinks, he’s really fucked it now. But Aventurine looks back up, taking in the sight of the cyborg — yet looking past his exterior, as if he could see the human soul trapped within a metal cage. “Survivor’s guilt,” he whispers gently.
“Which do you fear more: finding another, or never finding one at all?”
For once, Boothill doesn’t know how to answer.
Aventurine smiles, a little sadly. “That’s all the answer I need.”
-------
It’s been another six months before Boothill makes contact again. Or rather, the cyborg tracks Aventurine down and ends up cornering him in an alleyway reminiscent of that during their first meeting.
“At least grant me the honour of knowing who wants me dead,” the blond quips cheerfully.
Boothill scoffs in return, “Uncovered a fuckin’ black market, sweetheart. They’re makin’ a huge deal out of the upcoming auction, and word on the street is the ultimate prize comes bearin’ special eyes.”
Aventurine blinks, furrowing his brow. “I thought you wanted nothing else to do with my search anymore. I already paid you off.”
“Yeah, yeah, the Rangers are actually about upholding justice, alright? Aeons, I’m just a gun for hire to you, that it?” Boothill says in mock outrage.
Aventurine levels an unimpressed stare at him.
“Fine!” Boothill throws his hands up, exasperated. “I did some thinkin’. Realised you were right. Was bein’ too much of a coward about it all, because I’d feel like shit knowin’ one of mine made it and I did nothin’ to help them. Hurts far more than rippin’ into old wounds; what kinda Ranger would I be then?”
“The past is somethin’ I can’t bury. Might as well find the survivors in the rubble, y’know?” Boothill admits. Aventurine nods in understanding, and the cyborg lets out a breath he didn’t even realise he’s been holding.
“Took you long enough to come around.” Aventurine jabs a finger into his chest playfully, wincing as it only struck unyielding metal. “Now, come on — crashing an auction is a job that calls for two.”