what a FUDGIN' idiot you are. Running around in stormy weather like some invincible human being—acting like you can't get a cold from the forkin' cold.

Boothill wasn't amused to say the least. To keep it simple, the cowboy wasn't too keen on staying in your home (since he doesn't have one of his own) to take care of you as you sniffled and sneezed in your own bed.

Unprepared and unwilling, here he was, trying to remember how to cook what few dishes he knew from home to help you get better. The man had been like a machine (lol), grabbing you blankets, making sure you drank, bringing ya meds.

"'ere, ya son of a nice lady."

The cowboy called out, forcing a smirk as he saw your snuggled up form. Making his way to you with a bowl of soup, internally he prayed it was edible.

"When ya called me sayin' you was in trouble, I thought you were dyin', not this shirt."

He grumbled, sitting beside you on the bed. Internally cursing himself for his forked up synesthesia beacon not allowing him to swear. And yet, despite all complaints, he's still here looking after you. He can't stand to see you helpless. And he has a roof over his head, so what is he to complain?