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In the weeks since the new Boothill was brought back to the One and Only, Argenti has stopped sleeping alone. It wasn’t planned, or intentional, but it began a few mornings after they’d returned, when Argenti had first woken up to Boothill asleep at the foot of her bed. She’d been curled up like a dog, pressed against her leg. The moment Argenti stirred, so did this Boothill, jolting up and staring at her with her single wide, blue eye.
Her eye color had been striking from the start. When they’d first met, it had captivated her the moment she’d looked up at her, almost hypnotic. Argenti had knelt down, extending a hand to her like one would a stray animal, and told her that her eyes were like a stunning summer sky. That eye had glazed over, the storm of emotion in it parting way for a stunned calm. It was as if she had never been told such a thing before.
Even her Boothill had jokingly called this one “Bluehill” because something about her eye was so... eye-catching. That is, before she’d taken to only referring to her with a series of expletives or simply as that thing.
Argenti had only chalked it up to the jealousy that she’s made no secret of. As the nights go on, this new Boothill has made her way up the bed, losing any fear that she’d be kicked out and turning an inch into a mile. Every morning now, Argenti wakes up to this new one pressed against her, arms wrapped so tightly it’s like she’s trying to hold her in place, afraid she’s going to be gone.
Her Boothill is furious, and more than a few spats have arisen over it. In a particularly unkind moment, Argenti told her that sharing a bed is not inherently romantic, and in this case she may as well be jealous of a mirror.
It’s clear that this Boothill needs comfort. Denying her this before she’s ready could be disastrous.
Even if Argenti admits that it is unsettling to wake up to that watchful blue eye, clearly weary from staring at her in her sleep. Or the strange smell she swears she can detect from the new one sometimes. It’s familiar, one Argenti knows, but she never smells it strongly enough to put a name to. It flits by her nose, sour and oily and thick, but only for a moment before it’s gone, replaced by the burn of gasoline, oil, soldered metal, and other ambience of her ship. Olfactory hallucinations have never plagued her before, but she’s wondering if that might just be it. She has no other explanation, after all.
She’s resolved to not ask her Boothill about this, lest she hand her more fuel for her vendetta against her doppelganger. Even if something about this scent makes her sick enough to worry.
Furthermore, as time goes on, it’s almost like the new one can’t get close enough to Argenti. Even when pressed up against her, she’s constantly snuggling into her, nuzzling her face against her body and making Argenti brace herself to not be shoved off the bed, or pushed down into the sheets.
“It’s almost like you want to crawl inside my skin,” Argenti jokes one day, a fond grin on her face as she stares at Boothill, fingers threading in her dark hair.
“That can be arranged.” Boothill’s voice rings through the room, lifting her head up to meet Argenti’s eye. “Would you like that?”
Argenti freezes. Boothill stares, that brilliant cerulean eye unblinking and wide, as Argenti realizes that she is not joking, and she is waiting for an answer.
Her mouth goes dry, as she’s suddenly far more aware of Boothill’s weight on top of her, pinning her to the bed, trapping Argenti underneath her. Boothill stares, her entire body still like a predator waiting to strike. That eye bores into her still, blue like a cloudless sky, but no longer does Argenti think of a sunny summer day. She thinks of the sky over a desert, vast and endless, searing heat down mercilessly on all below it, filled with vultures swarming.
Vultures. Why are vultures coming to mind?
Boothill still wants an answer. Argenti even thinks she seems closer, like she’s leaned in, and there’s that strange smell again, no doubt filling her nose this time. What could it be? Boothill’s fingers no longer rest idly on Argenti’s ribs, but are now digging in, kneading at the muscle and bone, almost spelling out well? in morse code. She wants an answer.
“It – It’s a figure of speech, my dear cowgirl,” Argenti says.
Boothill’s face falls. “Oh.” She turns her face back down, burying it in Argenti’s side again, and takes a deep breath, like she’s inhaling Argenti’s scent. Argenti could swear she feels her heart start beating again. Boothill is disappointed. Why is she disappointed?
Argenti wonders if something like this is what caused her Boothill to mistrust her, if she’d gotten spooked by something like this that she didn’t know about. But why wouldn’t she have said as much? Argenti asked if she had any real complaints, anything tangible about the new Boothill’s behavior or actions, and nothing had ever come of it. Their arguments have been filled with only vague complaints about how she’s weird and demanding. Argenti’s long since given up hope that any conversation around her could be rational, at this point. She shakes her head, knowing this incident will quickly join what’s now a list of things she can’t discuss.
But it doesn’t leave her mind, as much as she’d love to push it aside and forget. That strange smell, her excitement over the phrase, the fact vultures came to mind. Why vultures? She’s gathering the bed sheets as she thinks about it, mulling over what could’ve brought that image up. If she’d thought of her behavior as predatory, why a vulture? They’re not hunters, they’re scavengers. Opportunistic. Circling their prey, waiting for their chance to strike –
Argenti drops her hands into the sheets as she realizes. That smell that occasionally wafts from the new one, that’s been haunting her mind even if she’s never been sure enough that she smells it? What would bring the image of vultures to her mind?
It’s rot. The smell of decaying, rotten flesh.
It’s then she notices, down by her thumb, a strand of deep, abyssal blue hair.