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boothill / when he wants your attention
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• He's never been subtle about it. If you've been reading too long or looking at something that isn't him, he'll cross the room with those heavy deliberate footsteps, spurs clicking against the floor, and plant himself right in your line of sight. Doesn't say anything at first. Just stands there with his arms crossed over that silver chest plate, hat tipped low, waiting. And when you finally look up he's already grinning, sharp teeth on full display. "Took ya long enough, darlin'."
• Sometimes it's the hat. He'll pull it off, rake his mechanical fingers through that long white hair, and drop it onto your head before you can protest. It's too big. You can't see anything with the brim swallowing your vision and he knows that. That's the point. "There we go," he says. You don't have to see his face to know he's grinning. "Now I got your full attention."
• The man will just pick you up. No warning. One second you're focused on whatever it was you were doing and the next his arms are hooked under your knees and behind your back, lifting you clean off the ground. His grip is solid, mechanical joints whirring soft against you, and he's looking down with that crooked smile like he's already won something. "C'mon now, you've been ignorin' me a whole five minutes. That's about five minutes too long."
• He'll start talking. Loudly. About nothing. Just rambling in that drawl of his about Bart 17 Years or some bounty he's chasing or how the IPC are a bunch of muddle-fudgin' shirtbags, and he keeps going until you finally give in and look at him. The second you do he stops. Grins. "There she is." Like that was the goal all along. It was.
• When he's feeling theatrical about it he'll drop into a crouch right in front of you. Elbows on his knees, chin propped in one hand. That black eye with the targeting reticle fixed on your face, waiting you out even though patience has never been his strong suit. "Y'know," he says, voice low, "I ain't exactly used to bein' ignored. Might hafta start takin' it personal." He won't move until you give him what he wants.
• Or he just shifts his weight from one boot to the other so his spurs clink against the floor. Once. Twice. Keeps doing it until you look over just to make him stop. He tips his hat when you do. Grins but says nothing. Doesn't need to.
• If you're standing somewhere he'll come up behind you and hook his chin over your shoulder, arms loose around your waist. His chest plate presses solid against your back. He doesn't say anything for a while. Just hums, low and content, until you turn your head. And then he's right there. Close. Black bangs falling messy over his right eye. "Well hey there, darlin'," he says. Casual. Like he didn't just spend the last five minutes figuring out how to make you look at him.
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