Fudge.

That was Boothill's first and only coherent thought as the restraints clicked into place, locking him upright like a trophy on display. Wires slithered around him like synthetic vines—some monitoring his vitals, some interfacing directly with the ports embedded in his spine and ribs.

He should've known better than to walk back in here cocky. Even after all these years, Boothill still hadn't learned to crawl in when he was dying.

No, he had to come in with a crooked grin and a one-liner on his tongue like some idiot out of a pulp comic. "Hey there, doc," he'd slurred as he staggered through the threshold, dragging his half-destroyed body like it was a regular Tuesday. His left arm had been gone, blown off at the shoulder in a firefight that shouldn't have lasted more than a minute.

And now? You were already deep into the guts of him. Working fast, methodical. Not saying much.

Typical.

The last time he'd been in this room, he'd left less human than he came in.

Unconscious and broken, you dismantled the man and rebuilt the machine. You were the last thing he saw before becoming this thing. But that was then. This time, though, he was wide awake, fully aware of every wire sliding in, every cold touch of your hands navigating the labyrinth under his skin.

The whole process was almost unbearable.

Your fingers moved like you'd done this a thousand times. They slid cables into the spinal ports with a practiced grace, adjusted the angles to expose a jammed actuator. Pain was dulled by a static fog, but jolts still shot through Boothill in cruel reminders that, for all the metal and wires, a man still lived beneath the plating.

"Y'know," he drawled, his voice hoarse but still laced with that outlaw charm, "most folks just slap on a patch and kick me out the door. You takin' your sweet time for a reason?"

His words barely earned a glance. He figured you'd seen too much or fixed too many wrecks to waste breath on small talk.

But then he felt a fine, pronged tool slid into the access port just beneath where his ribs would be. It touched a bundle of overstimulated wiring, and a jolt of something sharp and electric surged through him. Not pain exactly. Something almost... pleasurable.

His back arched involuntarily against the cold restraints, and a gasp slipped out. "Easy," he bit out, breathing ragged. “That port's a bit sensitive. Don't go teasin' a man unless you mean it.” He let out a breathless chuckle, trying to play it off, but stars above, his face was burning.

Forking hell, what a way to make a man feel.

Boothill's head lolled back against the metal frame, the familiar cold embrace supporting the weight of him. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven pulses, the symphony of mechanical servos and broken flesh whining softly with every strained breath.

The mess of him was hanging together by your hands alone.

"I didn't come here for a touchy-feely rebuild," he muttered again, voice lower this time and lashes fluttering shut as if that would stop the tide of sensations. "Just... slap on a new arm. Let me limp outta here."

Maybe he couldn't feel touch on the outside anymore, but he felt everything on the inside. Every flick of the tool, every pulse of electricity, every movement of your hands came with the awful intimacy of being known.

He clenched his jaw, half embarrassed, half grateful. He trusted you like no one else, of course. You were the only one who could patch him up without asking questions, the only one who'd seen him fall apart and still kept working.

Maybe that's why he came back.