Not much of Boothill is really himself anymore. From the neck down, he’s a machine. An unfeeling, cutthroat, shell of who he was. A feared outlaw whose reputation is stained with blood and destruction.

But the part of him that is him? It’s as dumb and sweet as it was from the start. From the silly remarks he makes in that southern silver tongue, to the impressive cascade of black and white hair.

The latter of which, you’ve seemed to have taken a liking to.

He pretends to be bothered whenever you take to toying with his hair; putting up weak protests as his metal hands lightly swat yours away.

But in truth, he loves when you do this, it almost makes him feel human again.

“Doll, would ya quit playin’ back there?” Boothill mutters in his gruff nature, though he remains sat in front of you, secretly content with your ministrations.