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What a funny predicament you were in.
You didn't know whether to consider your latest mission a success or a failure. The man you had been hired to kill turned out to be aware of your client's request, and was playing along for the entirety of the mission. And when the time came for you to ambush him, dozens more of his own lackeys had jumped out at you. The target ended up slipping away, unharmed. The only thing you managed to retrieve from him was a folder containing very important documents.
Tomorrow, you would have to face your client, and you would inevitably have to disappoint him—despite having advertised yourself as "100% success guaranteed." You could already imagine the fury on his old, wrinkled face, and you would be lucky if all he did was ask for a refund.
Though, perhaps if you pushed enough, you could lower it to a partial refund, considering you still managed to get something out of this absolute disaster of a mission.
But, for now, while the night was still young, you and your partner were safe in this lonely diner. You had found it across from a gas station in the middle of nowhere, its LEDs blinking solemnly against the dark night sky. And before you could even ask to stop here, your stomach was already putting in its request.
There was nobody besides you, your partner, both tucked into a small booth in the corner, and the only remaining worker. The folder sat beside you against the wall, its leather covering pristine and spotless unlike you.
You were covered in blood, bruises, and scratches. There was a gnarly cut right above your left eyebrow that had been bleeding profusely until you managed to find a public restroom to clean yourself off. Your lower lip was also busted open from when they punched you in the face and you couldn't dodge fast enough. The rest of your body—Admitting this was humiliating in itself—was aching all over.
"Ow—Shit—!" You hissed quietly as pain bloomed across your ribcage.
"You okay?" Boothill, your partner, immediately asked.
You drew in a deep breath, holding your stomach as you hunched over the table. "I'm okay. Just—ughhhh..."
It was times like this that got you thinking about getting bionic upgrades like Boothill did. Sitting across from you, the cowboy looked just about dandy. You knew he took a couple hits because you had witnessed it happen, but none of them had left even the smallest dent on that metal body of his. It was like the two of you weren't even on the same mission that just happened not even two hours ago.
Fortunately, that sharp pain quickly subsided, and you took the chance to bite into your massive double-some-kind-of-unknown-protein-cheeseburger. Boothill watched you from the other side of the table, unblinking.
You let out a groan of happiness as the taste of the savory, tangy sauce, and the texture of the crisp greens and toasted buns spread all over your tastebuds. This was the most perfect, most satisfying meal you have had in days, but there was still one thing missing.
"Fuck, I could really use a drink."
Boothill glanced between his bottle of beer sitting on the table and you, and snatched it away before you were able to reach it.
"Pleaseeeeeee—"
"Ah ah, get yer own," Boothill said plainly, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a sip.
You pouted, before leaning forward to whisper aggressively. "Did you not see the stinky eye the worker gave me earlier? She looks like she's about to kill me! I'm not risking my life ordering anything else."
"Right, right, and you're a what, remind me again?" Boothill smirked, waving the bottle around and making the liquids inside slosh against the side. It looked so small compared to his hand.
"Oh, shut up," You rolled your eyes and picked up a fry. "It's my first year being bounty hunter. You've got years of experience already."
And the aching pains in your body right now were the reminder of that. You only happened to fall into this line of work after being introduced to some shady business deals by your former roommate. Being young and desperate for money to put a roof over your own head, of course you had taken that deal. One mission after another, you were in too deep to get out now.
Sometimes you wondered what you would have become had you not started doing this.
Bah. Whatever. You thought, and popped the french fry into your mouth. The thin, julienned piece of potato crunched between your molars, and you sighed at the salty seasonings coating it. Unable to help yourself, you closed your eyes. This is heaven.
When you opened your eyes once more, Boothill had set his beer back down on the table surface. Your body moved faster than your mind could come up with a concrete plan.
The bottle was in your hand before Boothill could even react.
"You muddlefudger—"
"Too slow!" You yelped before tipping your head back and taking a big gulp. The fizziness dissipated on your tongue, and the fruity, slightly bitter sweetness of it felt refreshing going down your throat.
Boothill's click of his tongue and warm chuckle cut through the quietness of the diner. "Whatever. It ain't like I was gonna finish it."
You remembered he had explained it to you a couple bounties ago. The doctor who gave him this body had taken out most of his human parts, organs and all. If you could recall correctly, he only had his brain—modified, his heart—also modified, lungs—again, modified, and a reduced stomach that connected to a complex waste-processing system.
In return for stealing his drink, you decided to ignore Boothill taking one of your fries.
"You know," You said, staring longingly at your half-finished burger. "I would really, really like to try a sundae."
"A Sunday?"
"A sundae," You corrected the cowboy, jerking your head toward the huge, dimly lit menus that hung over the bar counter. "I heard it's just a bunch of sugary stuff thrown together in a glass."
Boothill turned his body toward where you were gesturing at and squinted. The illustration of a sundae that this diner had was no better than a blurry, zoomed-in picture that was maybe taken from a cookbook. If you even needed a cookbook to make sundaes.
"Ain't ya a lil' too old for those?" He asked with a grin.
You threw your hands into the air dramatically. "Too old, too young, who cares, bro. It's food. And it's food that you probably can't find anywhere else. The universe is vast, Boothill, who knows if this is the only planet with someting like—Mhpm!"
You were cut short by Boothill reaching over with a napkin—Where did he even get that?—and wiping a clean line across your greased lips, catching you off guard. You could've sworn you had napkin particles fly into your mouth and mix into whatever you were chewing.
"Dude!"
"Finish your dadgum food!" Boothill scolded you, but his tone made it obvious that he was joking. "Jeez, you gonna make me sit 'ere listenin' to ya yap till I run outta battery or somethin'?"
"You just wanna get rid of me!"
You walked out of that diner in a better mood than when you came in.
Being in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but empty land and sand and cacti for miles on end meant that the breeze was divine. Your hair blew softly in the wind, and you stood there with your face tilted upward and the very important folder clutched tightly against your chest, enjoying it all while Boothill got the motorbike engine fired up.
You only opened your eyes back up when you felt the cowboy drop something on your head.
His eye lingered on your face for a moment before he walked away. And as Boothill did so, with that gentle sway of his hips, you reached up to feel exactly what he had put on you. Hard plastic, smooth to the touch. It was a helmet, which hugged your head snugly.
You were going to ask where he had gotten it—because you had ridden here with Boothill with your head bare earlier. But you quickly decided that you were far too full and sleepy to bother, and Boothill was staring at you, waiting for you to hop on the bike.
You probably would have fallen asleep right there, sitting behind and leaning against Boothill's board back, had it not been for the pain stinging in your sides again.
"What percentage are you on?" You asked, purposefully louder to compensate for the wind ripping against your ears.
"Twenty!" Boothill hollered back.
The rest of the trip was mostly quiet, and so was the walk through the motel lobby and down the hallway to your rooms—room.
You wished you could have had a room to yourself. But unfortunately, both you and Boothill were running low on credits, and the motel you were staying at had a discount for single rooms. Those with one bed, of course. For the fellas who were single and lonely.
You were that, mostly. Single, yes. Lonely, well, not quite.
Sure, you didn't have a lot of friends, having lost contact with most of them since taking on this job because you were hopping between planets too often to stay in touch with them. You didn't have any family members to ponder about either, and you liked to keep it that way. And you didn't consider yourself close to your clients, even if they hit you up fairly frequently.
The only person you really had now was Boothill, and meeting him had been purely by chance. You couldn't even remember how the two of you met, honestly. Maybe Boothill did, maybe the memory of your first ever encounter was tucked away in his brain chip. You would have to ask him someday.
All you knew was that after a couple missions, you and Boothill just got comfortable traveling together. You considered him your partner-in-crime, though you were sure he probably just saw you as some random youngster that started tagging along with him that he felt too bad to turn away.
"Going in for a shower," You declared, to which the cowboy only replied with a simple, "Mhm."
When you got out of your very hot, very painful shower, you found Boothill fast asleep on the right side of the bed, the one closer to the wall outlet. As usual, he slept on his stomach so that the huge cable that was connected to his lower back port didn't get in the way. He was shirtless, and you were sure he didn't have on any pants either.
You've gotten used to that by now. It wasn't like Boothill had anything to flash you with anyway. But you still sometimes giggled at the memory of the first time you'd seen him without any clothes—You had screamed out of instinct, and Boothill gave you the nastiest glare anyone ever had.
The blanket covered only up to his hips, you moved it as carefully as you could as you crawled underneath. You winced and stilled when your ribs ached again, before—with clenched jaws—you mentally brushed away the pain and laid down on your back.
Still, no good. Now your back was hurting too, and you weren't sure if it was because of the mission or the rock-hard mattress.
You screwed your eyes shut and tried to keep your groans down. Boothill was an extremely light sleeper, and you really did not want to wake him up while he was supposed to be resting, even when you were finding it impossible to get yourself into a comfortable position.
And it definitely didn't help that this motel had no air conditioning and this room felt like a furnace.
"Fuck my fucking life, dude..." You muttered under your breath.
"Hey."
You sighed in frustration. It seemed like your efforts were futile after all. "Shit. What? You're supposed to be sleeping."
"For the last forkin' time, it ain't sleepin'," Boothill cracked open his eye. "And I'm takin' ya to check those injuries out first thing tomorrow."
"No," You said, just as another wave of pain came crashing over you. "Urgh, please, anything but the doctor."
"What? Should I take ya to a wizard? Have 'em wave their muddlefudgin' wand around and—poof—ya get better?"
"Yes."
Boothill's exasperation could almost be visualized now. You could almost see whatever curse words he was going to throw at you come out in white cloudy fonts against the total darkness of the room, slowly pulling you to dreamland like lullabies do. You eyelids grew heavier at the thought of it.
Only for them to snap open again when you felt Boothill's hand over your stomach.
"Eeeeeeeeek—!"
"Oh, shut the fudge up," Boothill said, as if his freezing metal hand wasn't about to give you cold burns. "It ain't even that bad, just treat it like a darn ice pack."
He was right, it wasn't all that bad. You were just being dramatic because it happened to tickle a little. It actually felt rather nice once you got used to the sensation.
"There ya go..." He muttered, his voice going deeper all of a sudden. You kept forgetting the effects it had on you, and you also kept forgetting to tell him not to talk to you using that tone anymore. It made you feel tingly on the inside.
You gulped, your hand coming to rest over Boothill's. "Thanks."
"Save it. It ain't like I'm curin' ya," He replied, and that was the last thing he said.
It would be a while before you were able to fall asleep. The pain came and go, but each wave was more bearable than the last. Eventually, it had almost faded away entirely, leaving behind only a dull soreness in your side everytime you breathed in. You kept staring at the ceiling, and when you weren't, you would turn your head to look at Boothill.
He kept saying that he didn't sleep, that he didn't need sleep, but he sure looked like he was completely zonked out right now. The only thing you could hear was the muffled whirring of the machinery inside him.
Boothill looked... pretty in his sleep.
It was a thought that you had everytime you saw him like this. It tempted you greatly, but you had never actually reached out to feel his face. Sometimes you thought about how Boothill's human side had been completely frozen in time ever since he went through the cyborgification.
That would mean he had it done at a rather young age. You wondered if he was around your age, or maybe slightly older, or even younger, when it happened. You decided that was a question for a different time. Preferably when you weren't being lulled to sleep despite your best efforts to stay awake.
Fighting sleep was like fighting a losing battle, especially when there was exhaustion and a food coma at play. Your blinks grew heavier and slower, until you finally allowed yourself to close your eyes and relax your body when suddenly, you thought of Boothill again.
Goddammit.
This had been your nightly routine for some time now, and you were sure that sharing a bed with him did not help.
Being around him made you feel things you haven't felt since you were a younger. It was like when you would turn shy in front of a kid you thought were cute. It was like when you were in school and would hyperfixate on that brief moment when your fingers brushed against the hand of the kid that sat behind you in class when you turned around to pass them a paper. Or when you would go from being a chatty extrovert to a nervous, babbling mess in front of the college classmate who was definitely your type.
Now that you were a little older, you would have expected this kind of feeling to have gone away.
Was it what you were thinking? With Boothill? You didn't really know. It wasn't like you have ever confessed to having a crush on someone—Hell, you've never even admitted it to yourself.
Oh, whatever.
I'll figure it out tomorrow.