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More often than not, Boothill wakes up before you.
It's part of the nature of being a cyborg, you think. He needs far less sleep than you, after all; he can go upwards of a week without it, though he does need to "meditate" to defrag his systems on occasion. (He complains about this to you with some frequency, actually. He hates sitting completely idle when he could be shooting IPC rats or saving people or talking with you. No matter how often you remind him that it's not idle if it's serving a purpose, he fusses and whines and gripes anyway. He promised you that he wouldn't neglect his health, though, so he grits his teeth and bears it.)
When he's home with you, he indulges himself in sleeping with you every single night, immersing himself in the beat of your heart and the motion of your breaths. He does it every morning, too – lounging with you long after he's woken up, savoring your warmth as you sleep in his hold. You never need to set morning alarms when he's home; he prods you out of sleep with gentle touches and soft words, pressing sweet little kisses to your skin until you start to rouse. He spoils you, truthfully; it's not at all uncommon for him to wake you with breakfast in hand.
It's almost a shame, in some regards. He's so unbearably cute when he's asleep – all soft and mellow in a way that ought to be impossible considering the hardness of his body. You cherish every bit of sugar that he gives you, but sometimes, you want to spoil him.
But, every once in a while, you get lucky – and you wake up first.
You're tangled up in him when you stir from your sleep, cradled gently against his chest from where you're strewn on top of him. The weight of his arms is blissfully grounding – an unbreakable shelter from the world around you. Your skin is pasted to his metal, but the feeling is utterly unique to him, so you wouldn't trade it for the universe. With your face hidden in the crook of his neck, you're surrounded by the scent of him – gunpowder and metal polish and oil and a hint of wood smoke, making a home in your lungs, curling around you like a blanket.
So close to him, you can hear the quiet sounds of his inner workings – the soft hiss of his artificial lungs; the nearly silent shift of metal plating as his chest heaves with every breath; the steady beat of his heart in a flawless rhythm; the warm purr from the engine buried beneath layers of heat sinks; the subtle whirr of his fans at their lowest setting.
Slowly, your eyes flutter open, and you blink the lingering shreds of sleep away. The earliest light of dawn trickles into the room, gleaming against his metal; you can hear the beginning notes of the chorus of birds outside of the opened windows, the cool morning breeze ghosting on your skin. You look up at the love of your life, and you're immediately stunned into stillness by the look on his face. His expression is soft with sleep, free from the piercing edges of grief or anger or remorse. There's an innocence to him like this, like the youth has been returned to him – like the sun has kissed his cheek in apology for all that he's been burdened with.
(It's moments like these that make you wish you could capture time in a bottle, so that every time he makes some dry comment about how he's a dead man walking, you could open it up and let him taste the memory. You wish he could feel the sunlight in your chest and know, without a shred of doubt, that it's shining for him. You wish he could settle among your neurons and sense every spark that spells his name – a thousand a minute, buzzing with more affection than you know how to handle. You wish he could taste the warmth that builds on your tongue whenever you see him smile. You wish he could hear what your heart is singing – you're alive, you're here, I see you, I hear you, I love you, I love you, I love you.)
Slowly, carefully, you reach up and cup his cheek in your palm, his too-smooth skin impossibly soft against yours. He sighs, subtly tilting his face into your hand; his body craves you, even in rest. You smile, your chest alight with warmth, and gently thumb his cheek. The tiniest quirk rises at the corner of his lip, practically radiating satisfaction.
"You're so beautiful," you breathe, your voice so quiet that it barely reaches your own ears. "I should tell you that more. You're the most beautiful person I've ever known, inside and out."
He doesn't respond, of course, but you can so perfectly picture the way he would – bashfulness and sputtering, maybe a quiet "Aw, shucks," something along those lines. Then, he'd turn it around on you; he'd give you that delightfully lovestruck look and hum, "But not as beautiful as you, honey." Now, though, he's deaf to the world, entirely helpless to your flattery.
"I love you, y'know," you murmur, soft and sweet. "So much that it hurts, sometimes. But I'll never stop."
For a long moment, you simply sit and watch him, enraptured by the sight – by the way his lashes flutter subtly in his sleep; by the way the glow of dawn highlights the strong curve of his nose; by the way his hair splays across the pillows like spilled ink.
You never would've guessed that even his skin is artificial if he hadn't told you. Every detail is there, he remarked, from the moles beneath his eye to the smattering of freckles on his cheeks, from the wrinkle between his brows to the subtle dimples when he smiles, from the minuscule hairs implanted around his lips to the recreation of the scar on his jaw (earned from a fall off a particularly rowdy horse, he once told you). The artist was painstaking in mimicking his face, and it shows.
The only thing that gives it away is the texture. It's only when you're this close that you can tell that he doesn't have pores. It gives his skin this unnatural sheen, so subtle that it took you ages to even recognize.
He's griped about it to you before. "Makes me look like one a' those creepy lil' dolls," he once grumbled – funnily enough, on a morning much like this one. "Doc said the models with fake pores or whatever have… How'd she say it? 'More rudimentary sensory systems.' Figured it wasn't worth the hassle."
(You heard the truth loud and clear. He adores when you touch his face, bucking up into your touch like a preening cat. He wouldn't sacrifice that feeling for the world.)
You think it's a charming look. Granted, you think everything about him is charming.
Satisfied with your admiration for the moment, you dip down and press a featherlight kiss just beneath his ear. Then, you trail further down, slowly following the line of his jaw, pressing your lips adoringly to every inch of skin that you pass. You can feel him beginning to stir by the midway point to his mouth, his breathing shifting and his body stirring; this close, you can hear the nearly silent noise of his advanced processors booting up – a sound that's comically similar to a computer starting up.
He only moves when you go to press a final kiss to the corner of his mouth – and it's to shift his head just far enough that you meet his lips in earnest. He purrs in delight as you laugh, your breath ghosting across his skin. You've come to learn that he loves, loves, loves lazy morning kisses – yes, even before you've brushed your teeth. You think it's a little gross, but you can't help but indulge him because of how thoroughly he enjoys them – as evident by the steadily rising hum of his power core as he rises to wakefulness, sighing into your lips as though he could die happy right here.
His eyes only flutter open when you pull away, your whole body buzzing with affection. He stares at you for a long moment with an unmistakable awe, drinking in the sight of you as though he could never get enough.
"Am I in heaven?" he murmurs, his voice thick and raspy with sleep.
You laugh, truly caught off guard. "If you call me an angel, I swear–"
His lip quirks, his eyes sparkling. "Sorry, you're right, darlin'. You're closer to divine."
You roll your eyes, but your grin gives you away. "You're so full of shit."
"Nuh uh," he rasps, his smile widening.
You already know he's going to lean up for another kiss before his body even shifts. You meet him halfway, lazy and languid, relishing in the softness of his lips and the weight of his arms around you.
He somehow looks twice as mellow when you part. He eyes you for a moment, adoration painted on his face. "Mm… How's my pretty angel feelin' about breakfast?"
"Oh, so I got demoted, huh?" you drawl, your voice dripping with amusement.
He laughs quietly, the sound rolling through his chest like distant thunder. "Gotta drag ya closer to my level, sweetheart. A devil like me ain't got a shot at stealin' your soul otherwise."
Your expression softens, and you smile a little foolishly at him. "Funny," you murmur, pressing a tender kiss to the hollow of his throat, right on the junction of metal and false flesh. "You've had it for ages. Don't tell me you lost it already?"
His lips curl just a little higher, and the warmth in his eyes curls around your heart like a blanket. "Never. 'S a treasure like no other." His hand drifts to comb through your hair, his fingers gentle against your scalp. "N' how're ya treatin' mine?"
For a moment, you're struck with the sheer weight of affection that swells within you – potent and radiant, unstoppable in its power. You beam at him, unable to contain it any longer, and that sparkle in his eyes grows ever brighter. Carefully, you grasp his wrist, pulling his hand so it rests at the center of your chest.
"I don't know," you say innocently, your grin widening. "You tell me. I keep it nice and safe in here. Can you feel it?"
Oh, how you adore when he smiles like this. It's almost childish in its purity, giddy and soft in a way that reminds you of an infinite array of the universe's delights – sweet apples and rich caramel, warm sunlight and crisp wind, boyish grins and breathless laughter. You'll never get enough of it, you think – never get enough of him.
He hums innocently, and you know exactly what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth. "Oh, I dunno, honey. Might need to get a lil' closer."
You huff fondly, rolling your eyes as you begin to shift. He laughs softly as you both readjust, his hands guiding you to roll onto your back; carefully, ever-conscious of his weight, he eases on top of you, resting his head against your chest. It takes him a moment to settle, but when he does, the look of bliss is unmistakable. He groans, low and pleased, then shifts to bury his face into you without an ounce of shame. You can feel the tickle of air as he breathes you in, his arms coiling around your waist; the heat of his breath washes over you as he exhales, carrying with it any lingering tension.
"That good, huh?" you drawl, amusement bleeding into your voice. Despite your teasing, you still reach up to comb through his hair, scratching at his scalp indulgently.
"Lord, yes," he groans, his voice comically muffled. "Ya smell so forkin' good it could kill me."
Heat flares up in your face, followed immediately by an almost overpowering giddiness. He's so refreshingly blunt about what he loves about you – and if he's to be believed, he loves pretty much everything about you. And watching him like this, feeling him melt into you like a cat in a sunbeam, it's honestly hard not to believe him. He's practically radiating contentedness.
Very briefly, you wish your phone was in reach to snap a photo – but you know it wouldn't truly capture what makes this moment feel so striking. It's the weight of his body anchoring to yours, carefully positioned to avoid your discomfort; it's the subtle chill of his metal soaking up your warmth, radiating it back into you; it's the pleased purr of his engine within his chassis, its mellow speed betraying just how relaxed he truly is; it's the soothing heat filtering out of the exhaust vents in his back, ghosting along your hands; it's the way his breathing thoughtlessly matches yours, even though his default is far slower.
He loves you. You know that, without a shadow of a doubt – but there's something exceptional about feeling it so deeply, radiating from every atom of his body. He loves you, and he…
He's…
Snoring.
He's fucking snoring.
If you weren't paying such thorough attention, you would've missed it completely, but there's a very subtle rattle to every breath he takes. You've never heard him make a sound like this before; the most he's ever done is mutter in his sleep, often when he's having nightmares. Usually, he's entirely silent, but this noise is unmistakable.
Boothill – your beautiful, fearsome Boothill – is burrowed into your chest and fucking snoring.
Immediately, you're staring longingly at your phone where it rests on the nightstand, just out of reach. Words can't even begin to describe your disappointment; you need to record this, but you know the instant you shift, it'll jostle him out of this doze he's fallen into, and then the moment will be lost anyway.
Well… You'll settle for engraving this into your brain for the rest of your days. So you lay there, soaking it all in – the warmth and the weight and the humor and the joy, etching it into your memory.
So very quietly, you whisper, "I love you, honeybee."
You aren't expecting him to stir, but he does, if only to melt further into you. Muffled and soft, he murmurs, "…Love you too."
You bask in it all for a moment…
…And he starts snoring again.
Your face aches from grinning, and you have to fight to hold back your laughter.
Well, a late start to the day couldn't hurt, surely?
(There's no feeling in the world quite like falling asleep with a smile on your face.)