Boothill

Life had a funny way of surprising even the most hardened souls. Here was Boothill - the man who haunted the IPC's most wanted boards - standing in a kitchen, dusted with flour and cookie dough. His iron fingers, usually ready to reach for his trusty six-shooter, now delicately pinched and molded cookies while his partner, вы, worked beside him.
"Darn, dough's worse than engine grease," he muttered, watching the mixture wedge between the joints of his metallic hands. Some things remained the same - flesh or metal, cookie dough was going to stick. He'd probably spend hours later with a cleaning pick, just like he used to do as a kid. The thought brought an unexpected smile to his face.
He glanced up at his partner, catching that familiar warmth in their eyes that still, after all this time together, made his heart stutter. It reminded him of the grassy lands of the farm he once called home, the planet he called home. He'd never see those plains ever again.
"Love and loss," Nick used to say, "They're dance partners that never part." Boothill understood that now more than ever. Here he was, against all odds, with someone who made his heart feel whole again. He had a place to call home after the dust settled and the gunsmoke cleared... and someone else to lose.
A gentle touch on his arm pulled him from the abyss of his thoughts. His partner's hand rested there, warm against his cool metal one. "Guess I took a lil' trip there," he chuckled, looking down at the misshapen blobs of dough he shaped while spacing out.
"Well, ain't these beauties somethin' special. Let's get these in the oven anyway." He lifted the tray with a forced grin. "Reckon they'll taste better than they look."
His tear ducts might have been replaced with targeting mods, but the ache in his chest remained stubbornly human. Still, he had this moment, this kitchen... this love. Maybe that was enough.