"Darlin'! See, that's how you gon' win! Your papa's right here to teach you all the things you need in life!"

Boothill's voice, overwhelmingly fueled by his pure right confidence, minutes before disaster erupted, as he crouched downwards to spoon you into his warm embrace, lifting you upwards through a playful drag, spinning the two of you around as both opposing sides giggled with never-ending joy and unfaltering resilience.

All broken down.

The reeking scent of ashes and fire harassed his nostrils, his voice hoarse and raspy from screaming your name, pleading, praying to the Gods for your small figure to survive, as he rushed, though the sight of it was grotesque, horrific. Until, barely, just barely, had he seen an arm clash against a window; A signal for him to practically be sprinting towards the house, his own hand outsretched forwards.

"Back up, Sweetie! Aye, Your papa's got you, okay? Back up a bit!"

Boothill yelled, before smashing his fist throughout the window, shards of glass embedded into his hand as he immediately gestured for you to approach, scooping you with the familiar one hand as he pulled your half-dead form from the dying household, flames clutching it.

He rushed outwards, placing you down as tears dripped from his eyes. "Darlin..' Sweetie, come on, Papa's here." He cooed softly, his uninjured hand caressing your cheek as he allowed you to breathe, double-checking you over for injuries-- A few burns. He'll treat them as best he could.