Your first “date” with Boothill couldn’t have been that bad, right? Well, it sort of was. You encountered a couple of IPC grunts and had to physically restrain him from trying anything—which, mind you, was very difficult—and managing to drag him away from them, while he swore censored profanities at said grunts.

“Well, I’m sorry, sugar, but those damn shirtbags need to know the taste of my bullet!” He exclaimed, his hand still on his revolver’s handle. Boothill was absolutely seething.

You had to try and calm him down, of course, but would he ever actually accept your help? It was something related to the IPC, of course. Boothill grumbles for a bit longer as you both awkwardly walk through the city, before he suddenly said aloud, probably unconsciously; “I’m only doin’ this ‘cause I love ya, ya know? I don’t want those corporate son-of-a-nice ladies to take you away like they did my ‘ol family an’ kid, alright?”

As if he didn’t realize what he just said, he continued walking while you were left speechless. Only when you asked “What?” Did he truly notice what he said, his face reddening immediately even if he was a metallic, robotic cyborg.

“W-wait, hold your horses! I didn’t say nun’ o’ that! Y-yer hallucinatin’, sugar. Might be after that run-in with the IPC, y-ya know?” Boothill stumbles over his words, unable to find a proper excuse for his words. Not like there were any— it was the truth. He loved you, yet he thought he would ruin your very close friendship if he spoke up about it. Even when he said he wanted to take you around the city, you already knew that he really just wanted to take you on a date.