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Boothill worries. He can't help it, now can he? He grew up on a dadgum farm! He had to watch the sheep, look after the horses and keep an eye on the hooligans – younger and older – that he was (un)fortunate enough to call his siblings. It's only natural that after a lifetime of taking care of others, those habits would linger.
His friends – okay, everyone he knew – liked to call him a mother hen. His siblings said he was just like Graey, fussing and making sure someone doesn't end up banging their head against an electrical pole or get their leg chewed off by one of the rez dogs.
And alright, yeah. Boothill was also a fucking hypocrite. He'd be drinking enough whiskey to put any sane person into a coma but he'd also monitor everybody else's alcohol intake like a hawk. Sure, he'll be driving very a bit recklessly and you'll be in the passenger seat, muttering prayers to whatever deity you think may listen, but! He'll also practically yell in your ear if you go just a teeny tiny bit over the speed limit.
"Dammit, are ya tryna get us all killed?!" Boothill barks in your ear.
"With the way you're yelling in my ear, I have never been more tempted to," you answer with a glare.
"Woah there, firecracker. No need t'blow up on me," he chuckles, all gruff and warm and so fucking endearingly stupid that you really do contemplate driving into the truck in front just to put yourself out of this misery.
"I promise you, I can and will punch you if you don't shut the fuck up and let me drive," you grit through your teeth.
"Tch." Boothill sucks his teeth. "Some driver ya are. Any good host and driver worth their salt can keep up a conversation and drive with their damn eyes closed."
Your friends in the backseat only sigh. Every interaction between you and Boothill was agonizing to watch. He had a knack for getting on your nerves and you had a knack for making his mother-hen tendencies flare up.
It was a deadly combo, combined with the fact that the two of you had such obvious crushes on one another but were too emotionally constipated to properly show it.
On second thought, maybe a car crash that kills everyone isn't such a bad idea after all, your friends silently agree.
Anywho, the point is that Boothill, for all his flaws and infuriatingly cute habits and mannerisms, cared a lot. And it pissed you off to no end as it left you all too vulnerable to the whims of this godawful crush. Far too many nights were spent with you groaning into your pillow and morosely scrolling through his Insta, staring at the small dimples that appeared with every smile and the way certain locks of his hair would curl and frame his pretty face.
As it happens, Boothill wasn't faring much better either. He liked you. A lot. And he had already spent weeks beating himself up over it, feeling like a loser because who the hell falls in love with one of their best friends? That too someone who he clearly believed to be way out of his league. Yeah... nope. He can't do this. He cares too much about you and has gotten to the point where he debates subtly engraving your initials to the underside of his beloved hat.
Hopeless. Dumb dumb idiot dumb.
Salvation comes in the form of a party. Much to your disappointment delight, Boothill couldn't come for once. Everyone was thoroughly surprised since he was usually the first to say he'll go. But as it happens, he's come down with a cold and doesn't want to make it any better by recklessly drinking the night away. That's what he says though you hypothesize it's because his sister and her wife will be visiting the following day and he doesn't want word to get back to his parents that he's been partying too hard and sit through another 3 hour lecture.
But hey, you're no expert on the cowboy. You just happen to know a bit of this and that about a friend. That's all.
The party was good though. Decent. It would've been nicer if Boothill was there to make a fool out of himself, you surmise, but it wasn't the worse and hey! The drinks were good and didn't cost an arm and a liver for once. Shame, you'd been hoping to get even with Boothill for often covering your tab.
"how many drinks have ya had?? somethin tells me that im about 2b spammed with shitty selfies of ya"
Speak of the devil and he doth appear. In your phone, at least.
You squint at the screen, sipping on your… Eh, who cares about how many drinks you've had?
Well, Boothill apparently did.
"whats it to u???" You type back.
"Jus checkin in on ya. lord knows youre enough to send anyone into an early grave"
"right well im find"
"finne*"
"finland*"
"finn*"
"its alright. take yer time, darlin"
You glare at your screen before switching it off. Jerk. You're perfectly fine. It's not your fault that autocorrect decided now was the perfect time to commit suicide, nor was it your fault that the letters on your phone apparently had twins and appeared double. Whatever. The night was still young and they were playing one of your favourite songs now. You're not gonna let some irritating cowboy put a dent in your partying.
Though hours later, you were kinda wishing he was around. The party had ended some time ago and you'd declined your friends' offer to get you home. You lived nearby, there was no need, you'd told them. As drunk as you were, you should be fine, you had said.
Famous last words. Your feet hurt from all the dancing and you've nearly tripped over your own two feet twice now. Thrice, as you trip and bump into a solid wall. You groan, rubbing at your eyes and trying to push yourself upright. Huh.. weird. On second thought, this wall wasn't really that solid. Hard yes, but oddly squishy.
"Darlin', as flattered as I am that ya love my body, I'd rather y'don't squeeze my pecs like that."
You scramble off of him, as if you've been burned.
"The fuck're you doing here?" You glare blearily.
"Rappa texted me," Boothill replies, holding up his phone.
Traitor.
"You shouldn't listen to everything she says, y'know," You mumble. Your body felt oddly warm now. Whether that was from the alcohol or Boothill placing an arm around you to keep you upright, you're not sure. You hope it's the former. "She was drinking a fuckton."
"Yeh an' you and I both know that that gal has superhuman metabolism and never gets moppy," Boothill answers dryly.
"What I wouldn't give for that skill…"
"You an' me both, sugar. You an' me both."
You're about to answer back, something snarky about letting Boothill know that you can walk perfectly fine on your own and don't need his arm around your body, no matter how perfectly it slotted around you or how much you enjoyed leaning against him just a bit. But, he coughs just then. The crunchy kind, where you can hear him rack up all that phlegm and spit it out on the sidewalk.
"What? I told y'all I was sick," Boothill shrugs in response to your disgusted face.
Oh. So he was telling the truth after all.
"Didn't have to come and play babysitter with me if you're sick," You mutter.
I don't want your health to worsen on my account.
"Someone's gotta be responsible 'round here. Gotta make sure y'don't choke when ya end up hurlin' yer guts out in 5 minutes time."
You're more important than some dumb cold.
"No seriously. What if I end up throwing up on you and you get sicker and die and then I'll have your blood on my hands?"
You feel something press against your forehead. Soft and refreshingly cool due to the metal rings that pierced the tender flesh. You close your eyes and tell yourself that it's only the rain. It's only the rain kissing your skin and guiding you back home.
"If that happens, I'll be sure to haunt yer sorry ass 'til y'go insane and join me," Boothill murmurs.
"Promise?"
"Swear it."