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The Sleeping Sentinel (A Brush of Petals)
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The first time happened in the quiet lull of the Astral Express lounge. Boothill was out cold, his metallic boots propped up on a velvet ottoman, his breathing a rhythmic, mechanical hum. Argenti, ever the admirer of "sturdy grace," found himself mesmerized by the way the starlight caught the jagged edges of the cyborg’s jaw.
With a whisper of a prayer to Idrila, Argenti leaned down. It wasn't a bold move—just a ghost of a touch, his lips pressing against the cold, scarred skin of Boothill’s forehead. It felt like kissing a statue, yet it hummed with the heat of a living spark. Boothill didn't even twitch; he just snorted in his sleep, dreaming of lead and revenge.
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The Heat of Battle (A Victory Seal)
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The second time was amidst the smoke of a disintegrated Antimatter Legion troop. Boothill was busy reloading, swearing a blue streak about "forkin’ monsters" and "shirt-brained Abundance creeps." His back was turned, his focus entirely on the horizon.
Argenti, energized by the "beautiful dance of combat," swept past him to chase a straggler. As he bypassed the cowboy, he pressed a quick, fervent kiss to the back of Boothill’s leather-clad shoulder. It was over in a millisecond—a flash of red hair and the scent of roses. Boothill simply adjusted his poncho, grumbling about a "weird draft," never realizing he’d been blessed by a Knight.
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The Tavern Tumble (A Drunken Grace)
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The third occurred in a dusty bar on a backwater planet. Boothill had downed three too many high-voltage lubricants (the kind that actually make a cyborg’s head spin). He was leaning heavily against the bar, ranting to a glass of oil about his hatred for the IPC.
Argenti sat beside him, acting as a pillar of support. When Boothill’s head lolloped onto Argenti’s armored chest, the Knight took the opportunity. He tilted Boothill’s chin up—just an inch—and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. Boothill’s eyes remained shut, his only response a mumbled, "Darn roses... smellin' up the joint..."
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The Calibration Nap (A Mechanical Mercy)
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The fourth time was more intimate. Boothill was undergoing a self-repair cycle, his sensory processors dimmed to conserve power. He was slumped in a chair, chest panel slightly ajar, wires exposed. To anyone else, it was a grisly sight; to Argenti, it was the ultimate display of vulnerability and "inner truth."
Argenti knelt by the chair, watching the soft blue glow of Boothill’s core. He didn't want to disturb the delicate repairs, so he settled for a soft kiss on the knuckles of Boothill’s heavy, prosthetic hand. The metal was warm from the internal Forge. Boothill’s sensors registered a "minor thermal spike," but his consciousness remained deep in the static of sleep.
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The Library Linger (A Scholarly Secret)
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The fifth time happened in the Great Library of the Intelligentsia Guild. Boothill was hunched over a map, his hat pulled low, snoring softly into a pile of parchment. He had stayed up for forty-eight hours tracking a target and had finally hit his limit.
Argenti approached with a silk blanket. As he draped it over the cowboy’s shoulders, he lingered. He leaned down, his long hair cascading over Boothill’s face like a curtain, and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the scarred cheekbone just beneath the eye. He pulled away, smiling at the "sublime peace" of the moment. He turned to leave, convinced his secret was safe for the fifth time in a row.
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The Confrontation (The Bounty Hunter’s Trap)
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Argenti was halfway across the room when the click of a hammer being cocked echoed through the silence.
"You done yet, Red?"
Argenti froze. He turned slowly to see Boothill sitting bolt upright, his hat pushed back, eyes narrowed and sharper than a serrated blade. He wasn't sleepy. He wasn't drunk. He looked entirely too sober.
"My friend," Argenti began, his face flushing a shade of crimson that rivaled his armor. "I was merely—"
"You been treatin' me like a forkin' porcelain doll for months," Boothill growled, standing up and closing the distance in three long, metallic strides. He poked a finger into Argenti's chest plate. "You think I don't feel the heat sensors goin' off? You think I'm blind to all that moping?"
Argenti opened his mouth to deliver a poetic defense of Beauty, but he never got the chance. Boothill reached up, grabbed the Knight by the collar of his breastplate, and yanked him down.
It wasn't a soft, rose-scented kiss. It was a collision—teeth, grit, and the faint taste of gun oil. Boothill kissed him back with the ferocity of a man who was tired of waiting for the other person to stop being "subtle." When they finally broke apart, Boothill let out a sharp, satisfied huff.
"Next time you want to kiss the Ranger," Boothill smirked, his eyes sparking with mischief, "do it while I'm lookin' at ya. It’s way more fun that way."