If anyone cares to know,
I’m starting up a one shot RDR2 series. I haven’t written in a while, so expect mistakes and beginner level writing.
I’ll post most of them here ^^
Boundaries!
We all have them!
Please respect that I have some:
1. You can request prompts.
2. I’m shit at writing, expect crack.
3. None of these are becoming a whole series.
4. be respectful in the comments. Not just to me, but to others that comment.
5. If you have any requests, please DM me on Instagram, or Snapchat, you can find it in the notes at the bottom of this page.
In which Pearson gets sick, Arthur tries to cook, and Charles makes fun of him for not knowing how to start a fire.
COLTER.
Arthur sighs, the cold getting to him. He could feel it in his bones, the shiver that he couldn’t keep up. The way the wind made his cheeks red, and his worn hands numb. He rubbed his hands together.
This damn cold was making it hard to think, his eyes were sluggish as he blinked, lost in thought. His head hurt from the pressure change. They were in the mountains, so the pressure was different, and the air was a bit thin. But Dutch had a plan. They’d leave when the weather cleared up. He rubbed his hands again, blowing hot air into them. He could feel the stubble that had started to grow on his chin.
*god damn, I need new gloves, a shave, and a damn shower…*
Thinking about food, he noticed that he hadn’t eaten today, and his stomach growled. The kind of hunger that was followed with a touch of nausea.
He looked over to where Pearson stayed, and he noticed that the man wasn’t making the soup like always.
His eyebrows furrowed, and concern started in his chest. With all the jokes and the occasional insults thrown at the cook, he actually enjoyed the banter between Pearson and himself. And losing the cook, would be losing the food that the gang ate. No one else knew how to de-fur and cook deer.
He sighed again, his breath coming out in a puff of visible air. He made his way to the kitchen, his heavy footsteps echoing through the snowy air.
“Pearson?” He calls gruffly, his voice harsh. “You in there, cook?” He calls again.
There was a pause, and then, in the cold air of the kitchen, there was a cough. And a groan.
“Here.” Pearson replied, sounding like death.
Arthur huffed, his eyes closing in on Pearson huddled in the corner of the cabin they deemed the kitchen. “You alright?” He asks, moving more inside.
Pearson huffed out a laugh, rough and coarse. “Wish this damn cabin had a door.” He said, coughing, the sound wet.
Arthur grinned, crossing his arms.
“Why don’t you take my room for now?” He suggested, moving over to the soup pot, seeing the ingredients already inside. “If Dutch asks, tell ‘em I let you in… just don’t go through my stuff, old man.” He said.
There was a pause, and Pearson huffed. “Why?” He asks.
Arthur rolls his eyes, grinning. “We don’t wanna lose our cook, do we? Come on, up and at ‘em. Anyone else tries cooking, and we’ll be shitting for the next week.” He said, grabbing Pearson’s arm, and helping him to stand.
“I can stand by myself, fool!” Pearson said with an annoyed expression, but there wasn’t any bite to his words.
Arthur stood, raising his arms.
“Alright, alright Navy.” He said. “You leave a list of how to make your soup? I’ll take over.”
Pearson raised an eyebrow, letting out a few coughs again, his face buried into the crook of his elbow.
“The fuck you mean? I’m not letting you-!” And he was coughing again, this time his knees buckled, and he leaned against the wall.
“Point proven…” Pearson said in a coarse voice, his eyes watering a bit. “Alright. Light the fire. But don’t stir until it starts bubbling. Don’t add nothing to the pot!” Pearson said, grunting as he got off the wall, and trudged through the snow to Arthur’s cabin.
Arthur rolled his eyes, looking over at the pot of soup, huffing.
“It can’t be that hard…” he says.
…
…
Ten minutes later, he was struggling to get the fire even started with the wind that blew in from the open wall.
“…how in the hell?” Arthur asks, mumbling under his breath about the wind.
“What’s going on, friend?” Came a voice from around the corner. Someone came into the kitchen, and it was Charles.
“Can’t get the damn fire started.” Arthur replied in frustration, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration.
“You’re doing it wrong.” Charles said, crossing his arms, grinning a bit.
“Yes, thank you, I get that,” Arthur snarked back, sass in his voice.
Charles snickered, bending down to see the fire. “Hm… you don’t have enough air getting at it.” He said, looking back up at Arthur.
Arthur grumbled. “Of course you’d know how to make a proper fire.” He said under his breath.
Charles heard, and his head snapped up, his eyebrows furrowing. “What was that?” He asks, his tone turning a bit sour.
Arthur raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms, and leaning against the wall. “Because you’re—“ He paused, noticing the look Charles was giving him. He rubbed the back of his neck, doubling down.
“N-nothing, just… sorry. That was an outdated joke.” He said, putting his hands into his pockets.
Charles sighed, continuing to stoke the fire silently.
The silence was worse than the insults and jokes, in Arthur’s opinion. It made him antsy, fidgety.
He’d rather have someone shooting their mouth off at him than an uncomfortable silence.
“It wasn’t very funny.” He said after a moment. “I’m sorry.” He said.
Charles didn’t reply, continuing to stoke the fire.
“You suck at cooking.” He said after a moment, and Arthur let out a surprised laugh.
“Huh?”
“The great Arthur Morgan, can’t cook food for shit.”
“Shuddup.”
“Make me.”
Another silence followed, but this one was more comfortable. Arthur was forgiven.
“I do suck at cooking.”
“I know.”
