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“Lookit that,” Boothill says with a low whistle.
His voice is a reverent whisper in the warm summer night. The knee-high grass sways in a sweet, soft wind that caresses the gently sloping plains stretching far as the eye can see. The sky is a dark velvet blanket over the land, studded with proudly shining stars. And it starts with one - one star breaks away from its place and shoots over the horizon, leaving a bright, gleaming trail behind it. Then another. And another. One by one, the stars fly above the plains, streaking through the air and waving farewell with their light.
Delighted laughter rings clear all around him from his family and friends, but none so sweet as the babe swaddled in his arms. Boothill looks down at the little girl wrapped in his favorite poncho, her laughter bright and lovely like the clearest brook babbling in brilliant sunbeams. Her round cheeks are flushed with joy as she waves her little arms towards the sky.
“D’ya like it, darlin’?” Boothill murmurs to her. She giggles in reply, turning big, bright eyes on him and reaching up with chubby hands. He leans down, smile on his face, and she pats his cheek lightly. As gentle as he can, Boothill sits in the grass, pressing the soft blades down with a bare hand. The grass tickles his palm as he reaches out and plucks a little red wildflower from its stem.
“There you are,” Boothill says, tucking the little red wildflower behind his little girl’s ear. She giggles again, high and sweet, just like a songbird, and he can’t help but grin. She is a warm weight against his chest, fit there in the crook of his arms, perfect as can be. “Pretty as a picture.”
The wind rustles through the grass like a quiet lullaby, playful and gentle all at once. It carries the sweet smell of plants and flowers and earth, dancing around Boothill and his daughter and his dads and siblings, flowing up and up towards the sky, towards the racing stars fading into the distance.
They sit outside, basking in each others’ company, and watch the shooting stars until they disappear with the break of dawn.
And the smile of the little girl in Boothill’s arms is bright as sunshine.
-—-
“Papa! Papa, wake up!”
The afternoon sun is warm on Boothill’s skin, and the wooden rocking chair Gray built all those years ago is as comfortable as always. He groans, feeling a weight on his knee before he’s fully awake, and blearily uncrosses his arms to let his daughter climb into his lap. Boothill is still blinking sleep from his eyes as she grips and tugs at his clothes until she’s perched on his thigh. He wraps her in an embrace and she settles against his chest, pressing her head to his heart and peering up at him with those bright, curious eyes.
“Sorry, darlin’,” Boothill says, stifling a yawn and leaning down to speak into her sun-bleached hair. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, and she giggles. “Musta fallen asleep.”
Gray laughs from the porch swing beside him. The sound is rich and deep and familiar - weathered with age but comforting like nothing else. If Gray’s laughing, all’s right with the world. That’s what Nick always said. “Sure did. A tad young for ‘dad naps,’ ain’tcha?”
“He jus’ takes after you, is all,” Nick says, shifting his old, worn guitar to one hand and patting Gray’s knee with the other. He winks at Boothill, his expression equal parts kind and playful, just like he looked when they snuck sweets in their saddlebags to share after a long ride across the plains. Just like he looked when Gray scolded them both for eating dessert before dinner.
The little girl in Boothill's lap laughs and tugs on his shirt again. “Didja hear all our singin’?”
Boothill laughs, too, and adjusts her in his arms. She’s starting to get big, but she’ll always fit right there, no matter what. “I heard you, all the way up ‘till the end. Jus’ like a songbird,” Boothill says, leaning back to grin at the way her cheeks flush pink from the compliment.
“Good!” She’s about to say something else when hoofbeats catches her attention. Boothill follows her gaze to see one of his siblings canter by on her paint stallion, hollering a greeting before she speeds up and disappears down the path in a blur of brown and white.
Naturally, his daughter is immediately taken by the sight. She turns back around, eyes bright and gleaming, and Boothill knows what she’s going to ask. “Can we ride today, Papa?”
“‘Course we can, sugar,” Boothill says, standing up and taking his daughter with him. Her arms wind around his neck as he balances her on his hip.
“Sugar?” she asks, fiddling with his black and white hair. She twists the strands gently between her fingers. “Me?”
“Sure,” Boohill says easily. “You’re sweet as.” He takes the three steps down from the porch and hears Nick set his guitar down and get up. Gray follows suit a moment later and they link arms as they follow Boothill towards the paddock.
“Or somethin’ else?” The gravel on the well-worn path from the house crunches under his boots and Boothill walks slowly, enjoying the quiet of the afternoon and matching pace with Gray and Nick. There’s no rush. “How ‘bout sunshine? Honey? Sweetheart? Flower? Songbird? Stardust?”
Gray whistles, low and slow, then laughs from behind them. “You stockpilin’ nicknames, son? How many you gonna give her?”
“Dunno,” Boothill says, glancing back at his dads. Gray is shaking his head, but it’s fond. Nick just grins back at him. “I’ll keep goin’ ‘till one sticks I suppose. I thought about it a lot, y’know. Always wanted to try ‘em all out.”
When they approach the wooden fence, the girl in his arms looks back and forth, searching for her little chestnut colored colt. The colt whinnies and trots up to the fence as soon as they get close, and Boothill carefully puts his daughter on the ground. Instead of running up to her colt as soon as she’s steady, though, she turns back around and tugs on his chaps. “Papa?”
“Yeah, darlin’?”
“What’s stardust?”
Boothill blinks in surprise. “Huh? Well, it’s -”
That’s right. What is it? It ain’t in the fields or the rivers. It ain’t found where his horse will take him.
What is it, Boothill?
No, he knows what it is. It’s gotta be -
“Well, when you were real small, we saw the stars shootin’ ‘cross the sky,” Boothill says. Yeah, that’s right. That’s what it is. Gotta be. “They left behind these dusty lookin’ trails of light.”
“I don’t ‘member that,” the girl says. Her cute brow is furrowed like she’s deep in thought.
“‘Course not. You were a babe. Real, real small. Now hold tight and turn ‘round for me, darlin’.” Boothill waits until her back is to him, then he tackles the bird’s nest her hair is starting to turn into. He’s gentle as can be as he runs his fingers through the thick strands over and over until he can part her hair into three sections. He braids her hair with quick, practiced motions, then ties the end with a red ribbon he fishes out of his pocket. “There.”
“Then can we see ‘em next time? Together?” Her eyes and voice are full of hope when she turns to look up at him, as if Boothill could ever say no to that face.
Boothill smiles, smoothing his hand over her hair and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Cross my heart.” Even to him, his voice is soft and fond. He hopes she hears it and knows just how much she means to him.
“But there ain’t any stars shootin’ right now,” Gray says, stepping forward and slapping Boothill’s back. Boothill groans; Gray’s strength hasn’t changed with age, and he just smiles and starts walking towards the paddock, calling back over his shoulder. “Today we’re ridin’, ain’t we? Let’s go get saddled up!”
The little girl laughs and bolts off to catch up to Gray. Boothill just watches, content, and Nick steps up to his side. Nick laughs, too, and it’s just as soothing a sound as the songs he sings to lull the children to sleep. “Time sure flies, don’t it?”
“Sure does,” Boothill says, watching his daughter run around. Her little braid trails behind her, bouncing in the wind with every step. She’s like a little filly prancing across the plains, proud and strong and brave.
And it does. Time does fly. But does it fly this fast? Last Boothill remembered, she was just a babe, just barely learning how to walk, still holding on to both his hands and taking one shaky step after another. They practiced standing together in the soft grass in the early morning light, listening to the birds singing and the sheep bleating in the distance as they grazed. He spread his thickest winter blankets over the ground to cushion her falls, holding his arms out and calling for her. Boothill, for all his hunting smarts and strength and skill with a gun, damn near cried when she finally walked to him on her own, falling against his chest as he caught her, giggling as he lifted her high in the sky, framing her with the morning sun and singing her praises.
Ain’t that right? Gotta be. And if it is -
“You alright?” Nick squeezes Boothill’s shoulder, thumb rubbing a soothing circle. It’s a strong, comforting, familiar gesture.
“Yeah,” Boothill says after a minute. “‘M fine.” There’s nothing to be worried about. He’s perfectly content with this - this quiet moment of peace surrounded by his loved ones. Doesn’t matter if he can’t remember the details perfectly; his little girl is happy and healthy and running free, so he must not have done too bad a job.
Boothill watches Gray help his daughter saddle her little colt. He watches Nick walk over and help her up and hand her the reins. He waves and shouts encouragingly as she gets used to the stirrups. He wants to run to her, but for some reason, he doesn’t move.
He wants to be there to hold her hand, to catch her if she falls, to teach her that everything will be alright and that she’s strong enough to get back up again. He wants to saddle up his trusty dappled mare and let her run any way she likes, wind whipping through her dark mane as she races the birds, just to show his little girl that there’s nothing to be afraid of. The horses and the plains and the wind will treat you right so long as you do the same. And one day, he wants to ride with her side by side, fast as their horses want to go, far as they please, until the sky and grass stretches on and on and there’s nothing else but the sun on their faces and their laughter in the air.
“What a sweet dream,” says a soft voice in the wind instead. There is sadness and sympathy in her tone. “I am sorry.”
There’s no need to be. Boothill is satisfied here.
Here, with the wind blowing through his hair, the smell of wildflowers in the air, the warm afternoon sun shining on his skin. Here, with the soft grass under his boots, the sound of laughter floating around him, the sound of hoofbeats against the plains, the sound of his family talking in the distance.
Here, with the warmth of his daughter’s hand in his, her small fingers curled around his own.
“Papa,” she says from where she suddenly appeared, cupping a hand to her mouth and standing on tip-toe, asking to share a secret. Boothill grins and kneels next to his little girl. She immediately leans into his shoulder, warm and solid against him. Anything for her.
“What is it, darlin’?” he asks, patting her head and pulling her close to press a kiss to her forehead before letting go. When Boothill looks at her, she’s the only thing in the world. Everything else is tinted in a pale blue, but he barely notices. She laughs, the sound high and sweet, as lovely a thing as he’s ever heard, and blessed he’d be to hear it every day.
“Papa,” the little girl says, cupping her hands around her mouth and leaning in real close. Her warm breath tickles his ear and she smiles; bright, beaming, just like sunshine. “Wake up.”
-—-
The plains and the paddock and the sky fade to dreamy blues. Boothill’s vision blurs; his eyes unable to focus on his daughter’s face before she fades, too, disappearing like dandelion seeds in the wind, leaving only a lingering warmth in his hand and the impression of sunlight fading away.
When he stands up, his familiar, worn chaps and flannel shirt disappear, too, the soft browns turning to harsh, cold metal. The warmth of the sun and gentle breeze on his skin fades until he feels nothing at all. The sound of the plains disappears, replaced by the eerie echoes of the Dreamscape and the thrumming of machinery.
Instead of his daughter’s hand in his, all Boothill feels is the bullet loaded into the firearm in his hand. (Not feels. Senses. He doesn’t feel anything there. Not any more.) He won’t be holding anything precious with a weapon.
“Her smile was lovely,” the Memokeeper says.
Black Swan floats in the air in front of him, legs crossed and looking as relaxed as usual. Her smile is sincere, though, and her tone heavy with understanding. Sad on his behalf.
The air in the Dreamscape is stagnant and stifling. It’s cold and artificial. Not that Boothill would be able to feel the crisp, first breeze of the day wrap him in a gentle embrace any more. Not that he’d be able to run his fingers over soft blades of grass heavy with morning dew. Not that his hands are made for anything more than violence, now - not that there’s anyone left to hold with them.
“You don’t gotta tell me,” Boothill says quietly. He takes a deep breath. The stale air rattles around sickeningly in his metal insides. His voice is synthetic again, no longer crisp and clear. No longer is it the voice that echoed Nick in song across the plains. No longer is it a voice for lullabies and I-love-you-s. “I know it.”
-—-
There is no sun or fresh breeze in the Dreamscape.
There are no fields or rivers or pastures. No trees heavy with fruit, no endless expanse of sky, no scent of rain or warmth of the sun. There’s no birdsong or hoofbeats or peals of pure, innocent laughter, no children running carefree and delighted across the wide open plains, chasing their puppy dogs and tumbling happily in the grass.
But when Boothill looks up and sees the Galaxy Rangers descending on Penacony like a meteor shower in the wake of his bullet, he thinks he smells the sweet wind carrying the scent of wildflowers and earth and animals.
For a split second, he dreams that the Rangers are stars and the cacophony of the Golden Hour is the laughter of his dads and daughter. Bright and warm under the dark sky, just like that night so long ago - one of the last times he ever heard it.
For a split second, Boothill laughs, too.