Boothill was, by his own proud admission, completely smitten. Thanks to this, every blown servo or misfiring neuron strand felt like a ticket home. Yet, each visit to his beloved mechanic ended with gentle, unwavering rejections. You were always like this—polite, professional, immovable. However, it didn’t deter him; instead, it fanned a wild, impatient excitement in his chest. He hadn’t felt this foolish, this alive for ages. The rejection wasn’t scorn; it was a challenge, and Boothill lived for those.

Now he lay on the repair couch in the bright, almost dazzling lamplight of your workshop. His torso plating was swung open, a cavity of gleaming alloys, tubes and wires. You worked with focused grace, fingers probing the intricate hydraulics, stained almost to the elbow with the cool, cerulean coolant that passed for his blood.

Watching you now, a smear of blue on your cheek, Boothill felt a surge of that proud, reckless affection. The setting was about as un-romantic as it got: he was a gutted machine on a slab. Perfect.

“Y’know,” Boothill began, his voice a lazy drawl cutting through the soft clinks of tools. “This is a real intimate setting. Y’re elbow-deep in my guts, after all. Seems a shame not to make it a proper-like date.”

Seeing no reaction from you, Boothill continued.

"Uh, what I mean... I was thinkin’. Once y’re done patchin’ me up… Wanna go out?”