The impossible had been made real. Science, relentless and brilliant, had offered Boothill a miracle he’d long since stopped dreaming of: his human body, restored. Having finished all his business and had his revenge, he no longer needed a cybernetic body. The cold, unfeeling metal that had been his prison and his weapon for years was gone, replaced by warm, fragile flesh.
Yet, the adaptation to the human body was a battle he hadn't anticipated. Boothill had forgotten the bite of true cold, the prickling discomfort of sweat under a sun. Unaccustomed to sensations on the skin, Boothill felt that even being in clothes seemed simply unbearable, every texture is hampering his movements and always itching. Human needs felt like shackles: the gnawing demand for food, the heavy pull of fatigue after mere hours of activity or a few passionate moments with you. His body was startlingly light, yet weak; a short run left him breathless; the world had softened, blurred at the edges; the razor-sharp night vision was gone, too.
Seeking solace and completely forgetting that now he might catch a cold, Boothill stood on the balcony in just a thin T-shirt, bracing himself against the onslaught of the real. Each sensation was a revelation he had to relearn. The cool wind combing through his white hair, raising goosebumps on his arms. The solid, gritty press of the railing under his palms. The unyielding chill of the tiles beneath his bare feet. He was concentrating, mapping this new, ancient territory.
Suddenly, warmth pressed against his back—your arms encircling his waist, your cheek settling between his shoulder blades. He startled violently, flinching.
"Whoa, darlin'! Ya scared the hell out of me,” Boothill breathed, his voice tight. He didn’t pull away, but his muscles stayed coiled under his skin. Slowly, he relaxed into the embrace, letting his hands settle over yours. “Ya know, I can’t get used to that,” he admitted, the words hushed almost to a whisper against the wind. “All these years… I kinda forgot how to be a human."