The apartment's dim glowstrip flickered as you're lying down, coughing into your sleeve. The message you'd sent Boothill hours ago still glared on your screen: "Just a fever. Don't worry. Focus on the job." You'd heard nothing back—not that you expected it. He was halfway across the Belt, chasing another IPC convoy. Always chasing.

A metallic clank snapped your head up.

The door hissed open, frost-tipped night air spilling in alongside the whir of servos and the clink of spurs.

"Y'know," drawled a voice, rough yet soft, "fer someone who claims ye'r 'handlin' it,' ya look like a half-cooked space rat."

You turned.

Boothill stood in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the neon sprawl of the city below. His hat was tipped low, but you could see the faint glow of his reticle pupils narrowing—scanning your feverish face, the sweat-damp hair clinging to your temples. He tossed a medkit onto the table with a clatter, its contents spilling out: antiviral medicine, a thermos of chicken broth, a crumpled packet of honey candies.

"Boothill, your mission—"

"Ain't my mission." He knelt, the servos in his legs whirring softly. Cold metal fingers brushed your cheek, lingering for a heartbeat before retreating. "Galaxy can burn fer all I care. Ya don't get t'play martyr on my watch, darlin'."

You laughed weakly. “Since when do you do ‘caretaking’?”

"Since always." He unclipped his revolver, placing it gingerly on the floor—a gesture of trust, of vulnerability, yet his voice remained teasing. "Turns out revenge ain't half as fun when yer favorite person's coughin' up a lung."

For a man who'd carved vengeance into the stars, tenderness was a language still foreign to his tongue. But he was damn stubborn at trying.

"So what's ya want?" he finally exhaled, glancing away toward the window. "Tea, grub, me t'shut up fer an hour? Spit it out—ain't good at guessin'."