cw: injury, blood (non-graphic)
you tell yourself itâs just one of those nights.
the kind where sleep refuses to come, no matter how long you lie still in the dark. the kind that has nothingâabsolutely nothingâto do with the fact that arthur morgan rode out hours ago and didnât come back when he said he would.
you almost convince yourself of it, too.
almost.
he returns without announcement. just the soft rhythm of hooves against dirt, followed by the heavier thud of boots hitting the ground. his horse snorts, unsettled, and arthur pats her neck before turning towards his tent as if everything is exactly as it should be.
it isnât.
you see it the moment he steps into the firelight. the way he favors one sideânot enough for anyone else to catch, but you know him too well to miss it. when he looks up and his eyes meet yours, he sighs, already bracing himself.
âiâm fine,â he says, defensive before youâve even had the chance to speak.
of course he does.
you donât argue. you just set your mug aside and stand. he watches you approach with that familiar lookâhalf irritated, half resignedâlike he knows what youâre about to do and doesnât have the energy to fight it.
you stop in front of him, close enough now to see the dark smear of blood staining his shirt, dried stiff along the fabric. his jaw is tight. his shoulders sit just a little too high.
âitâs nothinâ,â he mutters, quieter now, like saying it softly might make it true.
you bite the inside of your lip, swallowing down all the things you want to say. the sharp words. the worried ones. the kind that would make him leave faster than you could stop him.
sometimesâridiculous as it soundsâhe really reminds you of a fawn. arthur morgan. outlaw. gunslinger. a man with too much blood on his hands. and still, thereâs something skittish about him when it comes to the people heâs let close.
youâve learned how careful you have to be. so instead of pushing, you keep it simple.
âsit.â
he huffs softly through his nose. âbossy,â he muttersâbut listens. he carefully lowers himself onto a crate near the fire. the movement pulls a sharp breath from his chest before he can hide it. you pretend not to notice.
you grab the suppliesâwater, a clean rag, the salveâand kneel in front of him. for a moment, neither of you speak. you take advantage of the closeness and allow yourself to look at him.
the firelight softens him in a way daylight never does. it traces the exhaustion he wears like second skin. his eyes look darker like this. heavier.
âi canââ he starts.
âno,â you say gently, cutting him off before he can finish. âhold still.â
his mouth closes. he doesnât argue. doesnât pull away.
thatâs how you know itâs bad.
you unbutton his shirt slowly, refusing to rush. the fabric pulls away to reveal a shallow but angry gash along his ribsânothing fatal, but messy. painful.
you suck in a deep breath.
arthur notices.
âtold you,â he murmurs. âainât serious.â
you glance up at him, unimpressed. âyou bleed like anybody else, arthur.â
something flickers across his face before he looks away.
you start cleaning the wound. the rag comes away pink, then darker red. his muscles tense beneath your hands, but he doesnât make a sound.
when youâre done, your fingers linger longer than necessary, pressing gently.
arthur exhales, the sound shaky, like he hadnât realized he was holding it.
ââŚhell,â he mutters.
âthat hurt?â you ask softly.
he shrugs. âreckon it should.â
you open the salve and apply it carefully. he flinches despite himself.
âsorry,â you murmur.
âdonât,â he says immediately.
your thumb smoothes slow circles along the edge of the cut. his breath catchesâjust once. he freezes, like heâs waiting for you to say something.
you donât.
you just keep going, just as gentle
without meaning to, his posture shifts. his shoulders loosen. he leans into you like gravityâs finally won. your other hand comes up instinctively to brace his side, supporting him.
to your surprise, he doesnât pull away. instead, his hand closes around your wrist. big, calloused, warm. he doesnât stop you. he just holds on.
your chest tightens.
god. youâre already in too deep.
because something about thisâabout seeing this unbreakable, hardened man finally allow himself to be cared forâdoes something to you. something you donât let yourself name.
âthis ainâtâŚâ he starts, then trails off.
you glance up. âainât what?â
he swallows, eyes fixed somewhere past you, jaw clenched like the words are caught in his throat.
ââŚnothinâ,â he finishes quietly.
but his grip tightens, just a little.
you donât comment. let the silence settle, then reach for the bandage and hold it up, silently asking.
he hesitates. looks at you. then at his hand wrapped around your wrist. his fingers curl once moreâsubtle, almost unconsciousâbefore he lets go.
you smile at him and begin bandaging him, thorough and unhurried. when you finish, you donât move right away.
neither does he.
the fire crackles low. arthurâs still leaning forward, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath. he looks tiredâworn thin in a way he never lets anyone see.
for a moment, you think heâll pull away.
he doesnât.
âreckon iâd be worse off if you werenât here,â he says finally, voice low, like the truth feels unfamiliar in his mouth.
you look up at him, caught off guard. âthat so?â
he nods once. doesnât meet your eyes. âyeah.â
the silence that follows settles heavier than before, fragile enough to feel like it might break if either of you moves too fast.
his knee shifts, brushing against your side. barely there, but intentional.
âthanks,â he murmurs, softer now.
you swallow. âanytime.â
he exhales, long and tired, and lets his hand rest against your arm. not quite holding you. just enough to test how much heâs allowed to take.
you donât move.
you never do.
and this time, he lets you stay.