Work Text:
There are... visions he gets, when the mindless thrum of pain is too unbearable to stay conscious.
Of endless fields of yellow, an impossibly blue sky over them, embracing them lovingly. Of somewhat familiar faces, laughing and smiling and speaking gibberish. Of cool breezes blowing his ridiculously long hair for all the world to see.
Of his little girl.
She didn't have his face; she didn't need to. She wasn't of his blood, but she was his whole world. A tiny human being that just learned to walk. She didn't talk yet, but she would say, smiling that adorable little smile of hers, “Dada.”
And Boothill would melt into a puddle, and pick her up, and spin her around, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
Laugh... When was that? How many millenia had passed since his now non-existent lungs knew laughing?
She was his whole world.
He doesn't remember her name.
Then, there's... other visions.
Of a sky torn open with a scarlet death. Of metallic whirring, and people screaming, and endless fields of yellow scorched down to nothing by a hellish fire.
Of his little girl, dead. Not even a grimace of surprise on her face, because she didn't know what surprise was, yet. She was smiling.
She didn't even get to scream.
And then... nothing. An explosion of pain that could never compare to the pain of losing his little girl, and darkness.
And waking up.
In pain.
And falling asleep.
In pain.
And weeping, tears steaming into gas on the sweltering metal.
Trying to remember his little girl's name.
He sometimes dreams of her voice, calling out.
“Dada, make me a pigtail.”
But that can't be true.
She was barely two when she was murdered.