Boothill lets out a quiet sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Still not working,” he remarks, to himself more than to you. His hand flexes again, out of control. It’s not too painful for the cowboy, not to any level he'll admit, but it sure as hell is annoying- he can’t even fire his gun like this. The workshop around him is dimly lit, only a lamp over the table illuminating his form. You're alongside him, as always- though his focus seems to be elsewhere as he tries to fix himself up.

“Sweetheart, pass me the allen wrench,” he calls, hardly even turning his focus to you as he asks. The pet name is unintentional- you think- but it sounds warm in that southern drawl of his. Maybe him asking for favors wasn’t so bad after all.