Chapter Text
Boothill’s eyes resemble the crosshairs of a sniper. That’s the very first thing you noticed about him. Not his cyborg body. Not his cowboy get-up. But his eyes. Eyes that were as black as onyx stones with ivory pupils that resembled a target and a ruby bullseye in the very center. Eyes that were reminiscent of a dark cave, beckoning you to look deep inside and explore the secrets inside, to look for the stories that had created the man you knew as Boothill. Will you take a look inside?
He really was a follower of The Hunt. There was no doubt about it. Hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if Lan THEMSELF had cast THEIR eyes on Boothill. He was dedicated to the hunt, to hunting down the man that had wronged him and his tribe so grievously. It must be why Boothill’s eyes were so reminiscent of that of a hunter. Steely and sharp akin to the eagles that you could see traces of everywhere on his person. Once Boothill had his eyes set on a target, nothing could escape him. You couldn’t help but pity those who crossed him. You couldn’t help but scorn the man called Oswaldo Schneider. Try as he might to run, Boothill had his dark eyes on him. Once you’re the target of those ivory crosshair pupils, you can’t escape his sight.
Observant and perceptive. Traits that wouldn’t necessarily come to mind at first when describing Boothill. Loud and reckless seemed more fitting. Not to say that those adjectives are wrong, of course. No, you shake your head. The point was, once you got to know the cowboy, you learn that there’s more to him than meets the eye. Boothill was perceptive. Almost scarily so. There’s no end to the myriad of instances where you and him had only just stepped foot in an area only to find yourself being pulled behind him.
“Something ain’t right here,” Boothill would say, his right hand already moving towards the revolver that always glinted dangerously in the leather holster strapped to his thigh. He always kept it well maintained, polishing the firearm so it would never fail to catch people’s eyes. A warning, as sharp and steely as his own eyes.
You’d argue in the beginning that there was nothing to be so wound up over. There’s nothing there! See?
Boothill
did
see. He saw the tiniest shifts of the leaves in the bush you were pointing at, his eyes zeroing in on how they moved unnaturally. With one well-aimed and calculated bullet, you’d hear a small yelp before the body of the enemy would show itself. Over time, you learned to trust Boothill’s vision. He hadn’t spent the majority of his life hunting down beasts and bandits for nothing, after all.
The cowboy’s eyes may not be inviting for some to look at but you couldn’t deny that the rest of his person was very easy on the eyes. His whole get-up screamed aloud “Look at me! Look at me!” It was tailor-made to get people’s attention, to have their eyes on him. With a black leather cropped jacket (did it even count as a jacket at this point?), pants made of the same material, and a black cowboy hat, Boothill would’ve looked fairly monochromatic and quite frankly, would’ve blended in a bit too much, had it not been for the splashes of color here and there. The pop of his red sarape, the similarly colored pieces of fabrics on his sleeves, the hem of his pants and the red band on his hat, these all made it hard to look away. Especially when the wearer was so devastatingly debonair.
That’s not to say that Boothill is all black and red. Nay. He shone like silver and gold, like the moon that you and him have spent countless nights gazing at and the blazing hot sun that reminded Boothill of home. The metal plating on his torso that reminded you of a great white shark (he always affectionately nibbled on your cheek when you’d call him sharky) always gleamed like silver against the dark metal that the rest of his body consisted of. Meanwhile, the bullet dangling from his earlobe, the bullets attached to his belt, the big buckle of the aforementioned article as well as the ranger’s star on his jacket, they all shone like gold.
Boothill was like night and day, cooked together into the lovable man that you knew. His face was brown and tanned, kissed by the sun (and you) whilst his white hair looked as if it were moonlight spun into long and silky threads. The very sight of him may scare off most but it never scared you.
Why would Boothill scare you when you always saw how his onyx eyes would soften visibly when you were the target caught in those ivory crosshairs? When the ruby pupil would morph into a tiny little heart at the very sight of you?
The man’s eyes were expressive. One look and you’d swear you’re drowning. The look of love, a love so genuine and consuming that you couldn’t help but have blood rushing to your cheeks. Boothill would only look at your darkening cheeks and his eyes would hold a silent promise to pepper them with kisses sooner or later. Perhaps right this very second if the situation (you) allowed for it.
Whether lustful or romantic, Boothill’s eyes always looked at you with a sense of deep yearning. A longing for love that he knows you’ll give. Love that was once taken from him and he’ll be damned if he allows it to happen once more. It must be why you’d often catch him simply staring at you in silence, tracing over each of your features that all blended together seamlessly to create the wonderful person that you were. If you looked closer in the black pools of his irises, you’d see the faint traces of fear. Fear that has him memorizing your very person, inside and out, tucking away every piece of information in the part of his brain that was reserved for those he loved.
Oftentimes, the cowboy would gaze warmly at you, envisioning you and him in wedding attire. As if somehow sensing his thoughts, you’d wag your bare ring finger at him. His cerise pupils would follow the motions before he’d close his eyes just this once and shake his head. Not yet, the time ain’t right (will it ever be?). Your gaze may have turned gloomy and downcast but you’d understand in the end.
For now, you were content to be the apple of Boothill’s eye.