A touch so cold
Boothill x f!reader
Summary: The infamous galaxy ranger's favorite pastime was to mess with the IPC as much as he could — particularly when Oswaldo was involved. In his latest rodeo, Boothill ended up kidnapping a woman imprisoned by IPC. The aftermath had him wishing if only he had any warmth left to spare for her. Word count: 2.7k words
As a wanted man, Boothill spent his days entirely mundane. Sunlight pierced through the gaps between the curtains, light spilling all over the bed that was entirely too small for a man of his stature. Alas, Boothill’s eyes twitched open, the light all too potent for sleep to lull him back. He groaned, his metal attachments warm from the casual heat of the sun. The man stretched out lightly, it was a habit he had kept even after his body underwent the transformation. Boothill felt it then, "today would be a fudging good day" — he could tell by the ease and fluidity of his limbs. It felt like he was whole and not a machine.
Despite how much he thrived in chaos, Boothill had non-negotiables in the morning. He’d wipe himself with a damp towel, ensuring that water did not seep into certain parts of his automation. A cup of coffee was also compulsory. As of late, he had been attempting to recreate Himeko’s infamous coffee. The coffee he had made so far tasted modest — far from the potent taste it ought to be. Shirtless, his fingers wrapped around the jar sitting on top of the nightstand. Boothill unwinded the jar, revealing oil lubricant for the cyborg part of him. He took a few dollops of the oil, smearing it thin into the cold metal he now called skin. The man who had been known for his spontaneous nature was surprisingly delicate in applying the oil. In particular, he massaged swirls on the areas around his joint meticulously. Boothill rinsed the cup of coffee, placing it next to the rack of piled up dishes before getting dressed.
The cowboy slipped his jacket and hat on as he strutted out of his temporary house. For a renowned criminal as himself, Boothill went on with his days without disguise. He ran errands for the elderly, helping a few of them carry loads that could easily tower over their figure.
Afterwards, children would clamor over him in admiration. The children would roped Boothill into one of their little games. Role-playing as cowboys had been a recent crowd pleaser. “Well sugars, I’m a cowboy, I don’t need to pretend like you little shirts.” He had told them once, or maybe thrice now. Kids around this part of the town seemed to practice selective retention of information.
When dusk started to gloss over the sky, it was a curtain call for the kids to scramble back home and bid their games farewell. “Tomorrow, I’ll make you my underling!” One of the kids exclaimed, his mother dragging him back home by his ear while profusely bowing down to Boothill apologetically.
“Holy baby! Give it yer best shot.” Boothill yelled back, waving his hand back and forth to the kid. You thought he’d have a couple of seconds for a breather, but as the kids walked home with their parents, a couple of the older uncles came over. They asked whether Boothill would be free to join their little fishing club. “Would love to folks but duties call for tonight.”
“Good luck on that! We’d be fishing by the lake all week long around this time, come over when you’re free.”
“Betcha!” The cowboy strutted away, his feet carrying a light rhythm. See, like how he had predicted, it had been a fabulous day. There was just one thing missing though. Boothill called it dessert — a dessert to wrap up the whole day apparently. If those uncles knew they had been wishing Boothill good luck in blowing up IPC’s building, would they have retracted their words of blessings? Highly likely. No take-backs on luck though.
An apple a day was rumored to improve health in the long run. Being a cyborg, Boothill didn’t quite need an apple. Instead, he substituted the apple in the best way that he knew how to. With a sprinkle of chaos, and a few frag grenades. Frankly speaking, grenades were the same size as an apple. They both fit in his palm just right. Glee and jolts of adrenaline rushed in his vein, ebbing and flowing. Imagining Oswaldo’s fuming face energized Boothill to take his charade a step further.
In the middle of his man-made chaos, Boothill evaded a few guards, advancing into the branch headquarter of IPC with ease. He saw her then. A woman yanked by the hair, the guards were pulling at you with little remorse. At some point, your feet had attempted to claw onto the cold ceramics to stop the momentum at which they were dragging you on. That would have hurt a lot — Boothill had always grown his hair, he’d know. In the past, his adoptive daughter had tangled his hair up with a bunch of glue. He remembered the pain of untangling the mess.
“Make sure she stays alive, Sir Oswaldo’s order.” One of the shorter guards chided the burly-looking guard who had been dragging you by the hair. The guard shrugged, his grip on the your hair loosen. You fell back helplessly to the ground, your knees rattled against the ceramic floor. Boothill was in no way a saint, but he couldn’t just stand still when women and children were harmed.
A thought crossed his fantastic mind. Boothill was your daily IPC-Especially-Oswaldo’s-Section wrecker. What was another crime compared to the stack he had been accumulating so far? The galaxy ranger didn’t need to think far. If Oswaldo was ever involved, Boothill made it his goal to ensure the guy would suffer. Thus, the cowboy’s plan to kidnap the unknown woman began to spring into action.
“Watch out babies!” Boothill’s flamboyant entrance caught the attention of the whole guards in the area. The guards scrambled to get a hold of their weapons that were mounted on their back. A distinguished round shaped item rolled out of boothill’s side to them, “You might go ka-boom.” The IPC guards abandoned all thoughts of fighting back and scuttled away in a hurry as the ‘grenade’ rolled slowly in circles. Boothill turned to the woman while the IPC guards sprinted away from impending fear.
“Find cover!” The IPC guards yelled on top of one another, rendering most of their voices incoherent. A sense of dread and unease clouded their minds. Red lights flickered uncontrollably from the grenade which exacerbated the panic.
“Now’s our chance, young lady.” Boothill extended his hand at you who had been abandoned. He noted that your eyes were rimmed red, likely from tears. And that there were circular bruises around your ankle.
“Who are you?” You questioned, her hand fumbling around the thin fabric of dress — prisoner’s wear, from Boothill’s observation.
“A certain cowboy to save the day.” Boothill replied, he gave you his signature grin with a small thumbs up on the side. “Now if you’d let me.” Boothill pulled you into his arm and then over his shoulder, carrying you with the grace of a sack of potatoes.
The ‘grenade’ continuously beeped and the guards were praying for themselves, sending prayers to their loved ones. Their eyes were shut tight, anticipating a blast that could rupture the whole building down. Yet it never came. A gust of smoke quickly filled the space instead, one of the guards dared himself to look.
“It’s a smokescreen! The galaxy ranger had us all fooled!”
Boothill could hear them from afar, it was worth the trouble to procure different kinds of ‘grenade’ to confuse his enemies. However, the one thing about IPC was that they multiply like those swarms on Herta’s space station. Despite having detonated a few areas, fooled lots of guards, and fought some more of them, there were still a bunch ready for him.
His robotic arms wrapped tighter on the sack of potatoes (totally living being) that he had slumped down his shoulder. “Hang on tight young lady, it’ll be a wild ride.”
The pair had to work out quite a bit of a sweat to find their sweet escape from the IPC lair. Boothill had a firm grip on you who were by his shoulder. The chaos of your escape was muffled by nausea and your urge to puke. You tried to hold it down, pushing the urge away until you deemed it was safe to whine, complain, and to rest. On the other hand, Boothill found you to be the most docile passenger princess. You may not have remembered but she had acted as Boothill’s rear view, allowing him to gain another vantage point before enemies strike.
“Ha! Finally out of the fudgin’ shirtholes!” The cowboy had left one huge explosion to keep the IPC guards entertained. For the remaining persistent guards, Boothill ran in circles to shake off the ones that had followed them out. It didn’t take long at all before he made his grand escape. Yet another miss for Oswaldo’s squadron.
With the moon peaking over the cloud, and a small breeze brushing against his cheeks, it surely was the perfect time of peace. Boothill thought of going back home to unwind. He’d wipe the grim and dirt away from his body. Perhaps even screw his arm tight as well. It all sounded like music to his ear, except something felt amiss.
There was an uncomfortable gnawing at his mind, he attempted to knock his head with his left hand. It was then that he felt a certain weight pressing on top of his shoulder. Right, he had kidnapped this woman out of spite for IPC. How could he have forgotten when you were right on his shoulder all this whole time? Silly him.
“Yer okay back there?” Boothill nudged your side with his index finger, hoping you had not died out of an accident. If you did, the IPC would have yet another field day, blaming all the issues onto him.
“The comfiest I had been.” You weakly drawled, the words you had said were betrayed by your delivery. Boothill was sure that you’d make one terrible actress.
Fortunately, the walk to Boothill’s temporary residence was quick. He kicked the door to his entrance. The door swung open fiercely due to his sheer strength. Boothill settled you on the couch opposite of where his bed was. The kidnapping was simple, except Boothill didn’t know what to do afterwards.
“I’m sorry, they were all after you because of me.” You had your face casted down, brows knitted tight, and your lips were paler than he'd like.
Boothill shuffled over the cabinets and found a couple bottles of water he had yet to touch. The cowboy tossed it over to you without looking back. The bottle of water landed perfectly on your lap. Your mind shuffled between being impressed by his aim or being confused by the random kindness he had shown you. For every act of gratuity, there had to be a price to pay. As you currently were, you had nothing to give him after all the trouble you had brought upon.
“That’s adorbs really, but they were after me sweetheart.” Not many people had bounties higher than Boothill, he’d be aware of you if you were of universal-level threat. It’d be a different story if you were a secret member of the stellaron hunter that he wasn’t aware of.
“Unless yer bounty exceeds a billion.” He quickly added, not wanting to embarrass himself.
“Your bounty is over a billion?” Your eyes were wide open. Sure, you weren't exactly an innocent soul either but this man before you was a full-fledged criminal? “He couldn’t even curse properly!” The voice in your head thought out loud. You just found it to be all too unbelievable.
“One and only, Boothill at your service.” Boothill mimicked the sophisticated bows that he had seen Argenti do dozens of times whenever he was with the ladies. His limbs weren’t as fluid as Argenti’s but it seemed that you were entertained. He would have missed it if he had blinked. Thank the aeons he didn’t. It was faint but the corners of your lips had risen slightly.
“My name’s ...”
“And what crime landed you on IPC’s five star prison resort young lady? Surely not, the crime of beauty, that’d be lit as fudge.” Boothill sat on the other edge of the couch keeping a fair share of distance on the tiny two-seater couch. He was trying not to overwhelm poor you. A majority of his acquaintances had told him that he seemed too intimidating or too much. The cyborg body didn’t help either, it only further accentuated his daunting presence.
You chuckled, the voice coming out rather dry and hoarse. As if your throat had been dried up for a few days now. Strangely, Boothill found it to be all the more endearing.
“The IPC hired me to persuade citizens to sign off their lands to them for reconstruction purposes. I disobeyed them and leaked vital information to the citizens instead. It caused quite the rage and also came with a hefty price.” You trailed your fingers at the bruise on your skin, particularly the ones on the ankle of her feet. It was caused by a chain that was secured all too tightly. In their words, it was to remind you of your own position if you continued to rebel.
“You’ve got more balls than the IPC themselves!” He wasn’t one to hand out empty praises. For one, he knew that standing up to IPC was equivalent to being hunted down like you are less than a livestock. The woman in front of him knew of the consequences and did it for the good that it’d bring.
“You think so?”
“I knew so. Fudge, you did fantastic.” Your shoulder quaked, and your eyes started to moistened over the cowboy’s strange speech. On the other hand, Boothill was unsure whether to lend his shoulder for you to cry on or dump a package of tissue on you instead. It had been years since he had to do any form of comforting, decades even, if he had to count properly.
However, it seemed that his worries were unfounded when you sweetly asked for him to hold you. You had no ulterior motives, you just needed something to ground you down — you were scared of being alone, having to go through the shit IPC demanded of you, being jailed and deprived of nutrients for days.
It wasn’t a cry to be intimate. It was a survivor’s way of bonding, of understanding and relearning what safe was supposed to mean. Boothill obliged, he opened his arms and waited for you to sink into the embrace. Only when you had clung and hugged his body, did he finally wrapped his arm around you.
Boothill wasn’t one for hugs. No, his current body composition had not been able to accommodate for such feelings anymore. He thought it was pointless, his body was made to fight, to avenge his home planet. Most of all, it was due to the lack of warmth. If he could not give or take in warmth, how could his hug be of any comfort?
Of all times, he wished his engine would go on overtime now. If his engine combusted, would the burn of his machinations served as an engulfing embrace? He wished the iron plates on his body would warm up just enough to shed warmth over the long winter you had been trapped in. But it couldn’t, and that too was okay. Boothill’s hands may have been cold, but it was those exact hands that had reached out to you. Even if he was devoid of warmth, even if he was tethering between being human or a machine. It was the cold that had eased your hurt. It was the cold that stayed amidst the waging war of emotions inside your heart. And it was the cold that reminded you that you'd be okay. That you're still alive.
“I’ve got you.” Maybe tomorrow when Boothill had been awoken by yet another blinding ray of the sunlight, he’d be slightly warm enough to your touch. Until then, this would be enough.
A/n: Thank you so much for reading, I hope you guys enjoy it! Reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated ♡
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