krill039

GHOUL 22 | any pronouns | fanartist

[krill039]

Hello The Walking Dead fandom this is my first Tumblr post please let me in pleasee

[ellies-miller]

saw this on tiktok and i'm actually sick to my stomach

[ellies-miller]

lady love — part forty-eight

Part Forty-Eight: In Caves of the Earth — Arthur's gone again, and you go into the belly of the cave to find Jack.

Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader | Genre: fluff, h/c, angst | Word Count: 8k | Warnings: morning sickness, canon-typical violence | Read on AO3 | Fic Masterlist

A/N: i like how this chapter turned out, and i'm rarin' to go with more angst for poor lady and arthur. i hope you love it!

You were restless that night, subdued and withdrawn throughout the evening as you thought of Cornwall, railroad bonds, and dynamite; eventually, this most recent bit of trouble became just another thread in the tapestry of everything else that hung over you, and you lay awake in bed for hours, spinning your wheels and getting nowhere. The Pinkertons, the Murfrees, the O’Driscolls, Guarma, the awful weeks in Lakay, the people you’d lost, your fight with Dutch, Arthur’s illness, the baby - you worried over all of them like a dog with a bone, gnawing and fussing like you’d get something out of it, anxious and listless when you didn’t.

Eventually, when your body was too exhausted to keep up with your mind’s unceasing litany of worries and sorrows any longer, you fell asleep; your dreams were rife with unease and sadness, and when you woke again some time after midnight, your face was wet with tears. You dreamed you’d told Arthur about the baby and he’d been angry, and though it wasn’t clear what he was angry about, it didn’t matter. It had felt real, and you covered your face with your hands, feeling your throat ache with unshed tears as you tired to get yourself to settle. 

You didn’t go back to sleep after that, dragging yourself out of bed at dawn with the weight of the world on your shoulders. You were sick, too, emotional turmoil and the constant pain in your arm making morning sickness harder to fight down; holding a cup of coffee and pressing your hand to the side of it, trying to make yourself focus on any other sensation, you felt your stomach roll when Dutch pushed back the flap of his tent and walked straight over to you.

“Where’s Arthur?” he asked, perhaps trying to be civil but only ending up sounding terse.

“I don’t follow him around all the time, Dutch,” you said flatly. “Why don’t you try looking for him?”

He waved a hand. “I don’t have time to hunt him down. When you see him, as we both know you will, tell him he needs to meet with Micah sooner rather than later.”

Taking a deep breath, you tried to will down the rockiness of your stomach. “For what?”

He didn’t even bother to answer that, giving you a paternalistic smile that you found off-putting and irritating. “You’re looking pale, my dear. Perhaps you should get some rest.”

Barely managing not to roll your eyes, you gave a doubtful hum. “Perhaps.” Rest was a bit hard to come by when he kept digging all of you ever deeper into trouble, but he knew that as well as you did and evidently didn’t care.

As he went back to whatever it was that he did all day, you thought for the first time how fitting it was that he should have the tent closest to the mouth of the Murfree cave hideout. He was every bit as strange and frightening and unknown these days as whatever awful mysteries the cave held, catacombs of darkness and secrets and violence in him with the outward appearance of safety and shelter. Part of you wished you could go back to loving and trusting Dutch like you used to, but you knew better than to wish for something so naive. Dutch had shown his true colors too many times for you to ever trust him again, and there was no telling what he’d roped Arthur into doing with Micah this time.

You did find Arthur a little later - or, rather, he found you, off the path to the river as you leaned heavily on the trunk of a maple tree and choked up what little breakfast you’d managed.

“Alright, darlin’?” he asked, kind and concerned.

You shrank away from him. “Go away, Arthur.” You were miserable enough without having it on display, and you didn’t know what explanation you could give if he asked for one.

“Now, you ain’t gotta be embarrassed,” he said patiently. “I’d like to help, if I can. Can I get ya some water or somethin’?”

“No, I’m fine,” you said guardedly. “I’m just going to wash up at the river.”

“Can I come with you?”

You sighed. “I guess.” His nervous sheepdogging was making you nervous, and you didn’t trust yourself not to blurt out everything that was upsetting you if he should ask.

At the river, you knelt by the water’s edge and rinsed the acrid tase from your mouth, cupping the cold water to your face to try and shock some vitality back into yourself. You were exhausted from the night of broken sleep and awful dreams, yet somehow still shaky and wired; your head pounded, and you didn’t have the energy to think of something to do or medicine to take that might help.

“You’re awful pale, sugar,” Arthur said, hunkering down at your side. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” you said quietly. It was the same thing Dutch had said to you, but their tones and intentions were so different that they might as well have been speaking different languages. 

“Dutch wants you to go meet Micah,” you said, letting your fingers trail through the eddying water. “He says sooner rather than later.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose like he did when he was warding off a headache. 

“Yeah, I spoke to him a few minutes ago,” he said. “Bill already left, so I guess I shouldn’t keep him waitin’ too long.”

“This is the dynamite, right?”

He nodded. “Can’t imagine what Dutch needs a wagonload of dynamite for, but I reckon I’ll find out soon enough.”

“Maybe he’s going to blow up Agent Milton,” you said dryly.

He huffed a surprised laugh, which turned into a real laugh, and the more he thought about it the funnier it was. You couldn’t help but smile, so grateful despite everything else that Arthur was home with you.

“I’m glad you’re back, Arthur,” you said after his laughter had finally tapered off. “I missed you while you were gone.”

He gave you a tender smile and touched your cheek. “I missed you too, darlin’.”

Giving you a hand up, he held to your hand for a moment and tucked a wayward lock of hair behind your ear.

“You sure are pretty, girl.”

You gave a wry hum of agreement. 

“Pale and sickly and running on a hour’s worth of sleep,” you mused. “Nothing makes a woman shine quite like that.”

He frowned. “You didn’t sleep last night? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

You shrugged, wishing you hadn’t said anything. “You needed to sleep.”

“So did you,” he protested gently. “No wonder you ain't feelin’ well. Come on with me and we’ll lie down a spell.”

“Is that a proposition, Mr. Morgan?” you teased, half hoping to distract him from worrying over you.

His smile was crooked. “No ma’am. I want you well-rested and rosy before I try and have my way with you.”

“You might have a while to wait, then,” you said dismally.

“Well, you know what they say.” He scooped you up and cradled you to his chest, ignoring your half-hearted protest. “Patience is a virtue, and I ain’t nothin’ but virtuous.”

Smiling a little, thinking him more virtuous than he probably thought himself to be, you let him carry you back up the hill and tuck you into bed like you were a little child. Brushing your hair back from your face, he made sure you were settled before he left.

“Don’t reckon I’ll be gone too long,” he said. “We’re just goin’ down to Van Horn.”

“Don’t let Bill drive,” you said, already feeling sleep tug at you. “Last thing you need is to get blown up because he crashed the wagon.”

He breathed a laugh. “That would put a damper on my day, I agree.” He kissed your cheek. “Get some sleep, sugar. I love you.”

“Love you too,” you said drowsily. “Be safe.”

-

You didn’t know how long you slept, but it was sometime in the afternoon when you woke, and you knew before you’d even opened your eyes that Arthur was already back. His voice carried from Dutch’s tent, angry and forceful, and Dutch’s returning voice was sharp and dismissive. You couldn’t make out what either of them said, but you didn’t have long to wait before Arthur was storming out of Dutch’s tent and pacing restlessly by the campfire.

“Arthur,” you called, sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked up and met your eyes, and the flash of relief that colored his expression tilted your heart. You hoped you could be a comfort to him, no matter what had happened, and you were pleased when he came to sit beside you on the bed.

“I didn’t think about you bein’ asleep when I started hollerin’ at Dutch,” he said apologetically. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shrugged. “I’m sleeping at odd hours, so I can’t be too picky. And if Dutch needs hollering at, I guess I won’t try to stop you.”

He ran a hand over his face. “Yeah, well. Ain’t nobody tryin’ to stop Dutch except me, and I ain’t so sure I’m up to it.”

“What happened?” you asked. “Did you get the dynamite?”

“Sure. That part wasn’t so bad. It was kinda fun, actually, bein’ out with Bill like the old days.”

“But?”

He sighed. “But Dutch wants the dynamite to blow up Bacchus Bridge,” he said. “It’s right near Fort Wallace, and he thinks it’ll take the heat off of us over here and keep the army occupied.”

You frowned. “Is the army looking for us?” You wouldn’t be surprised if Dutch had managed to make the gang a target of the army, of all things, but you hadn’t heard of it until now.

“Well, they’re down in Blackwater,” he said, resigned. “Micah says he and Dutch are goin’ down there to get the money we left, and they want the army out of there before they do.”

“Blackwater?” you repeated, incredulous. Even after everything, you couldn’t believe what a stupid plan that was. You stood, agitated, angry. “All of this is about the money in Blackwater? You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “Wish I was. I reckon Micah wants it more than Dutch does, and Dutch should have the sense to leave it there - but Micah’s the one runnin’ the show right now, I think. The two of them together... they’re gonna get us into somethin’ we can’t get out of.”

“Haven’t they already?” you said, more bitterly than you’d intended.

He didn’t say anything to that, just caught at your hand and tugged you close to him.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset, darlin’,” he said. “Maybe I shouldn’ta told you.”

You sighed. “No, I want to know. If Dutch and Micah are running this train off the tracks, I want to at least see it coming.”

“Well, they are plannin’ to do just that with one of Cornwall’s trains,” he said dryly. “They’re gettin’ in some practice before they do it to us, I guess.”

You tilted his hat back to see his face better. “So, when do we jump off? Before or after it crashes into the ravine?”

“We could jump off now,” he said, only half-teasing. Sobering, he rolled the shoulder that would always give him trouble. “Let’s go huntin’. You want to?”

“Sure,” you said, a little bemused at the change in topic, but maybe he needed a break from camp and Dutch and everything else. “Where are we going?”

He scuffed a hand over his beard. “We could go out to O’Creagh’s Run,” he said. “It’s a lake in the Grizzles.”

“The Grizzlies which are... on the other side of the country from us?” you asked hesitantly. You hadn’t figured on that long of a hunting trip.

“East Grizzlies,” he clarified. “They ain’t but a few hours’ ride from here.”

“Oh. Big Valley’s over by the West Grizzlies, then?”

“Yep. Just south of ‘em.” He pulled you to stand between his knees, running his thumb over your knuckles. “You know I’m tryin’ to get you back over there, don’t you? I’m figurin’ on that bein’ where we go after all this, unless you got somewhere else in mind.”

“We could always go back to Lemoyne,” you joked.

His expression crinkled in distaste. “You don’t want to go back there, do you?”

“No,” you said with a laugh. “I’d rather live anywhere else, actually. And you’re right - Big Valley is my first choice.”

“I thought so.” He stood and gave your hand a comforting squeeze. “We can always scout out Ambarino, though, while we’re over this way. I think you’ll like it up there. It ain’t like any country you’ve seen before.”

You patted his chest. “Take me to it then, cowboy.”

“Yes ma’am.” He gave you a quick kiss. “We’ll probably camp out tonight, since we’re gettin’ a late start on the day. Pack somethin’ good and warm, since it gets pretty cold out there at night.”

Doing as he said, you had to sift through most of the clothes from the trunk to get at the warmer wear - it hadn’t been used for months now, not since Colter, and you took a minute to reorganize the contents of the trunk while you were elbow deep in it. Under Arthur’s sheepskin cloak, which you pulled out to pack, you found the sachets of cloves and cedarwood you’d made ages ago to keep moths away; their warm, spicy aroma was a welcome one, and you made a mental note to make new ones as soon as you could get your hands on the supplies.

“Mrs. Morgan.”

You looked up from the clothes spread around you to see Reverend Swanson, a Bible in his hand and a somewhat sheepish look on his face. He’d been a changed man since the bank, clean of the whiskey and opium for the longest stretch since you’d known him; he’d done much to keep the gang afloat in Lakay, and his quiet diligence around camp these past few weeks made you think of priests you’d known in your youth. You hadn’t ever said so, worried you’d offend him - no one could be less of a papist than a Congregationalist minister, and a comparison to a Catholic priest might be as good as an insult to him - but you admired his efforts and found him a kind and understanding companion in the gloomy haze that seemed to loom over all of you.

“Reverend,” you said amiably. “What are you reading today?”

He looked down at the Bible in his hands as though he’d forgotten it was there.

“Oh, uh... the book of Job.”

“Cheerful,” you said wryly. “What’s our guiding verse this afternoon?”

“You know, it’s interesting,” he said, pulling a chair from the campfire under your tent. You didn’t mind the company, and went back to your sorting and folding as he traced his finger down the worn page to find the verse he wanted to tell you about.

“I was reading in chapter three, which says, ‘They were driven forth from among men to dwell in the cliffs of the valleys, in caves of the earth, and in the rocks.’ It suppose it’s fitting for our camp, wouldn’t you say?”

Glancing behind him to the mouth of the Murfree’s cave, you thought again of how its dark nature seemed appropriate for Dutch’s brooding and scheming. He’d certainly done his share to make sure the gang was driven forth from among men to dwell here, and for the first time, you realized that Beaver Hollow hadn’t been chosen for its lush woods or the nearby river; it had been chosen because it was a place no one else would go, and that was the only kind of place left for a gang led by Dutch van der Linde. 

Trying not to get dragged back down into the dark spiral that had kept you up all night, you focused your attention on packing for your hunting trip with Arthur.

“Well, we won’t be in the cliffs and caves forever,” you said to Swanson, trying to reassure yourself as much as him. “Besides, it’s not so bad here.”

“Indeed,” he agreed soberly. “Much better than Lakay.”

Something caught his attention behind you, and you didn’t need to look to know it was Arthur; that deep, chesty cough was telling enough, and it reminded you to pack a few tinctures and liniments in your saddlebags. You’d try to forage while you were in Ambarino, too, and hopefully find some more herbs for your medicine box.

“Are you alright, Mr. Morgan?” Swanson asked solicitously.

Arthur waved him off as he stepped under your tent, careful of the clothes you had laid out.

“Just fine, Reverend,” he said. “Only a cough.”

“No doubt Mrs. Morgan has been treating you with her medicines,” Swanson said kindly. “You have a fine woman in her, Mr. Morgan.”

That endeared him to Arthur more than anything he’d ever said, and you were bashful and pleased at Arthur’s broad smile.

“That I do, Reverend.” He nodded to the Bible in Swanson’s lap. “You two gettin’ yourselves any divine revelation?”

“Well, sir, these are challenging times,” Swanson intoned in his melancholy voice. “We must seek counsel where we can. I think if we - ”

“Arthur!” 

All three of you turned at the sound of Dutch’s voice and saw him walking with purpose to interrupt your conversation.

“Reverend,” he continued in that same barking tone, not even bothering to look at Swanson. “Would you excuse us for a minute?”

It wasn’t a request, and all of you knew it; Swanson stood and left like a kicked puppy soundly put in his place, and Arthur touched a hand to his shoulder in apology. You met Arthur's eyes, and though you both thought it was rude of Dutch to have done it, you weren’t sure it was worth arguing with him about.

Dutch marched right into your tent and took the chair Swanson had been sitting in, leaving a boot print on one of Arthur’s shirts you’d had neatly folded, unaware or perhaps just unconcerned with his discourteous behavior. 

“New York,” he said in that old grand tone of his. “We are gonna go to - ”

Abruptly, he cut himself off, seeming to notice that he’d as good as barged into your bedroom while you were clearly in the middle of something. The reasonable response would have been to apologize and excuse himself, but Dutch wasn’t that kind of man.

“My dear,” he said to you, his tone silky and expecting to be obeyed, “would you mind giving us a moment?”

“Now, Dutch,” Arthur said sternly. “You ran Swanson off, but you ain’t gonna do that to her. It’s her house. You just waltzed right on in.”

You said nothing, content to let Arthur do the talking on this matter and not in the least inclined to “give him a moment” in your own tent.

Dutch huffed, displeased with being contradicted, but whatever he had on his mind was more pressing than squabbling with Arthur at the moment.

“Well, no matter,” he said, as if graciously allowing you to stay. He turned back to Arthur. “Like I said, we’re going to New York. They’ve been chasing us south and east and west - we’re gonna get a boat, we’re gonna get on a river, and we’re gonna go north.”

“New York, huh?” Arthur’s tone wasn’t impressed, and a glance up at his expression told you just what he thought of this latest plan.

“Then Tahiti, the Fiji Islands, or this place called New Guinea,” Dutch continued, animated and confident. “Dancing girls, freedom, the whole lot.”

Arthur gave a doubtful hum. “We didn’t do so well on a tropical island, if you care to recall.”

He didn’t, and he ignored the comment as he plowed ahead.

“But first,” he said firmly, “we have to make a whole lot of smoke. A whole lot of commotion. And then we disappear.”

“We need more commotion?” Arthur pressed. “Seems to me like we’ve got enough as it is.”

“One score,” Dutch insisted. “One score, and one whole hell of a lot of noise.”

Arthur shook his head. “We ain’t so good at doin’ scores any more, Dutch.”

Dutch said nothing for a moment, watching Arthur’s face with a veneer of concern that hid an underbelly of indignation. 

“Are you feeling alright, Arthur?” he finally asked.

You almost said something then, disgusted by the implication that questioning his half-cocked scheme was the product of illness or weakness and not reasonable, well-founded doubt. Arthur beat you to it, though, and his expression was hard when he met Dutch’s eyes.

“Sure,” he said, so low it was almost a growl. “I’m fine. But I ain’t - ”

“Pardon me for interrupting.”

It was Charles breaking into the conversation now, much more polite than Dutch had been, and both Arthur and Dutch stood to meet him. Looking over your shoulder, you saw a whole posse crossing camp towards your tent; Karen and Javier, who’d been on watch, had their rifles held at the ready as they followed Charles and another man, an Indian.

“I’ve brought a friend, Arthur,” Charles said, bringing the young man to meet him. For the first time, you were self-conscious of the half-finished packing spread out around you, especially when Arthur had to be careful not to step on any of it as he went to meet Charles’ friend. Hastily trying to tidy it up, you glanced up at Arthur with an embarrassed look.

“Sorry,” you said quietly. “I didn’t - ”

“Aw, it’s alright, darlin’,” he said gently. He gave you a hand up, and you stepped towards the back of the tent. “Don’t worry about it.”

Turning his attention to your guest, he shook his hand and introduced him to Dutch.

“This is Eagle Flies,” he said. “His father’s a great chief. Charles and I, we’ve been helpin’ ‘em out where we can.”

You got your first look at this young man Arthur had helped in the Heartlands, seeing him serious and noble of brow as he took Dutch’s measure. He’d saved Arthur’s life at Cornwall’s oil refinery, and though he didn’t know you, you owed him a debt you could never repay.

“Your men pretended to be mercenaries,” he said evenly. “They did me a great favor.”

After a moment’s consideration, Dutch waved Karen and Javier off and shook hands with Eagle Flies.

“How are you, son?”

Eagle Flies shook his head. “Not well, sir.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” Dutch said, putting on that air of magnanimous concern that drew people in like moths to the flame.

“How’s your father?” Arthur asked.

He scowled. “Father has confused wisdom with weakness. His people, my people - we’ve suffered too much, been lied to too much. Now they’ve taken our horses.”

“Who?” Dutch demanded.

“The infantry division posted at Fort Wallace,” Charles said.

That intrigued Dutch. “Why?”

“Colonel Favors is a liar and a murder,” Eagle Flies said, his voice holding an undercurrent of all the rage of fiery young men. “His people won’t stop until we’re all dead. Without horses, we cannot hunt. Without hunting, we will starve. This is another act of war.”

Dutch considered him. “I see that.” His tone, his body language, his expression - all of it communicated a deep concern for the plight of Eagle Flies’ people, but you weren’t drawn in by the act any more. Dutch didn’t bother with things that wouldn’t serve his purposes, and somehow, he’d figured out a way that the Indians could be useful to him even in their suffering.

“You men have helped me before,” Eagle Flies said, withdrawing a stack of bills from his satchel. “And I have money.”

Dutch shook his head, playing up the generous and benevolent leader. “Put your money away, son.”

He looked to Charles as if anyone’s opinions could alter his own. “What do you think, Charles?”

Charles addressed Eagle Flies. “You know I told your father I will not fight over some horses.”

“But I made no such promise,” Dutch said smoothly. “Come along, son.”

Enlivened by this offer of help from a man that seemed so powerful and greathearted, Eagle Flies followed loyally at Dutch’s side as they went to the horses. A sinking feeling assailed you at the sight of another young man so completely snared into Dutch’s sphere of influence, and you waited to see what Arthur and Charles would do.

“We have to go with them,” Charles said firmly. “To try and stop things from getting out of hand.”

Arthur sighed, as weary and troubled as you’d ever seen him. He knew from personal experience how badly Eagle Flies needed and wanted Dutch’s help and approval, even after knowing him for all of two minutes, and you knew he wouldn’t stand by when something could be done to keep Eagle Flies out of deeper trouble than he was already in.

“I guess,” he said tiredly. “We can get them more horses, though. We don’t hafta get in a fight with the army about it.”

“I know,” Charles agreed. “I understand Eagle Flies is angry, but I don’t see how this will help anything.”

“Especially not with Dutch whippin’ him into a frenzy,” Arthur said grimly. “We got enough folks comin’ after us without addin’ the army to the list.”

By the hitching post, Dutch was already in full swing, as passionate as a street-corner missionary as he goaded Eagle Flies into a greater zeal for the van der Linde gospel.

“You’re going to let these bastards walk all over you?” he insisted. “No, you’re not! This is all that’s wrong with this world.”

Arthur scowled. “Come on, Charles. Let’s get goin’.”

You caught at his hand as he turned to leave, and he looked back at you like he’d forgotten you were even there. You didn’t blame him, necessarily - Dutch had a way of taking over everything around him, and Arthur was rightfully concerned for Eagle Flies and focused on helping him. But even the knowledge that it was something he should do, a good reason for him to leave and try to help, didn’t ease the hurt you felt at being so completely forgotten yet again. 

“I guess we’re not going hunting,” you said, your attempt at a light tone only managing to sound weak and unhappy.

“Oh, I - ” He grimaced, apologetic and dismayed. “I guess not. But you saw how Dutch is playin’ him - I can’t leave the kid with him like that.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I understand.”

His reluctance and guilt played clearly across his face. “I really am sorry, darlin’. We’ll go tomorrow, alright?”

“Sure,” you said with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. Something else would come up to take Arthur away from you again tomorrow, and the next day, and the rest of your life as long as Dutch was a part of it, and there was nothing you could do but wait for him to come home. The thought settled over you like the lid of a coffin - final, dark, and lonely.

You watched him leave for another one of Dutch’s fool’s errands, the second one today - that had to be a new record, and it would probably be broken as soon as Dutch could manage it. Though you wanted to shove all the clothes haphazardly back into the trunk, you made yourself sit and fold them neatly and organize them before you put them away. The shirt with Dutch’s boot print on it needed to be washed, and you did so with diligence and care; perfection demanded more of your focus and kept you from bursting into tears or raving like a madwoman, and you held to it like it was a lifeline. Your tent had never been cleaner or neater than it was now, every surface scrubbed and tucked and straightened until it was as good as a picture in a Wheeler Rawson catalogue.

When that was done, you attacked supper preparations with the same vigor and fastidiousness, chopping the carrots in painstakingly even slices, kneading the bread dough to perfection, keeping the fire at a remarkably even burn. The medicine box was next, and as darkness fell over camp, herbs were ground into a fine powder, infusions were strained, salves were mixed until they were completely smooth. Your arm hurt, and with that same meticulous attention, you unwound the bandage to take a look at it and study it with all the clinical detachment of a doctor.

Everything ground to a halt at the ghastly sight of the wound, perfectionism and emotional neutrality going out the window as you looked over the angry teeth of the stitches showing among sickly blue and purple bruises. Though you’d treated plenty of wounds like it before, this one had some strange and powerful effect on you now, and you were uncharacteristically squeamish as you sat on the edge of your bed and tried to steady your breathing.

Suddenly, all the things you’d been forcing yourself to ignore seemed crystalized here in this one ugly bullet wound. You could have been killed that night with the Pinkertons. You could have lost your baby. You could have gotten Arthur back only to lose him the very next day. You were lonely and afraid and hurting, left behind again in favor of the futile effort to keep Dutch from going off the rails. The more you thought of it, the longer you let yourself dwell on everything that had gone wrong and could still go wrong the further Dutch dragged all of you into darkness, the shallower your breathing got and the rockier your stomach became.

You wanted Arthur. That was really all it was. He’d been back for less than a week, and he’d been with you for only half that. Some of it you could understand - of course he had to get John back and scout out a better spot for camp. But neither of those would have been necessary if it hadn’t been for Dutch’s stupid plan, whatever it was these days. And all of the rest that had taken Arthur from you was Dutch’s chaos, most of it impossible to understand and as risky as anything Arthur had ever been asked to do. 

What had Dutch said the plan was now? New York? You wished he and Micah would go to Blackwater for the money and leave the rest of you in peace, but instead he was out kicking the hornet’s nest of the Pinkertons, the army, probably the O’Driscolls if he could find any of them to rile. And Arthur was along for the ride, just like he always was, and you were waiting for him to come home, just like you always were.

You were close to tears then, teetering on the edge of composure with your hand hovering over the grisly mark of your wound, and might have given over to it if you hadn’t heard Abigail’s panicked voice.

“Jack! Jack Marston! You come here this minute!”

Hastily wrapping your arm again and pulling the sleeve of your shirt back up, you found her all but running around camp, pale and frantic as she looked for her son. Abigail wasn’t one to panic, and if she was this upset, she’d been looking a while and still hadn’t found him. Icy dread flooded you as you thought of where he could possibly be, remembering his kidnapping from Clemens Point, thinking of the strong current of the river, the dark woods, the wolves and Murfrees and God only knew what else that posed a threat to such a little thing like Jack.

“I can’t find him!” she cried, her face a mask of dread and anxiety in the firelight as she gripped your arms tightly. It hurt your wound, badly, but you didn’t protest or try to pry her off; your focus was completely on her and the horror she felt that was quickly becoming your own.

“I’ve looked all over camp,” she said desperately. “He knows better than to wander off, but I can’t find him anywhere. You gotta help me find him, lady, please!”

“I will,” you assured her. “Everyone will help. Let me get everyone rounded up. We’ll find him. I promise.”

Gathering what calm you could muster, you called for everyone to join you and Abigail in the center of camp and instructed everyone on where to look. You sent some to the river, some to the path out of camp, and some to the woods, every lantern in camp lit and handed out to aid in your search. 

“What about the cave?” Tilly asked.

“No, he wouldn’t be in there,” Abigail insisted. “He knows never to go in there, and he’d be too scared to go in anyway. He’s - he’s lost in the woods or somethin’, or got pulled downstream, or - ” Her voice broke, and she touched a shaking hand to her clammy brow. “God, please let him be alright.”

“Okay, Abby, okay,” you soothed, turning her over to Susan’s capable hands. “We’ll all go look. He’s gonna be just fine.”

Everyone separated to scour the area surrounding camp, the clamor of voices calling for him ringing through the woods and echoing off the mountainside. Despite Abigail’s insistence, you knew somebody should search the cave; asking Sadie to go with you, you grabbed the last two lanterns and took the undesirable job yourself.

Micah stood near the cave entrance, leaning on the post of Dutch’s tent and toying lazily with his knife. You realized he hadn’t joined the rest of you to look for Jack, and it wasn’t any great shock; if it didn’t serve him, he wouldn’t do it, and nothing could be lower on his list of priorities than giving of his own time and energy to search for a lost little boy.

“Have you seen Jack?” you demanded.

“Now, princess,” he crooned. “Am I little Jacky’s keeper?”

You could have screamed. “Did you see him go into the cave, Micah?”

He tossed his knife and watched it spin blade over handle before he caught it again. You didn’t have time for this, and even if had seen Jack, he’d probably keep it to himself just to spite the rest of you. 

Brushing past him, Sadie right at your side, you entered the mouth of the cave that you’d promised Arthur you’d never go into. But you’d also promised to take care of those as needed you, and if Jack was in there, you were going to find him come hell or high water.

Even with the darkness outside, you had to wait for your eyes to adjust to the deep inky blackness of the cave. The lanterns you and Sadie held did little to illuminate it, catching on rocks that cast strange shadows, swallowed by the high ceilings; the further you went, the more oppressive the darkness became, seeming to press close even though you heard from drips of water and the groan of moving air how big and cavernous the cave system was. 

“Jack!” you called. Your voice rebounded through the cave, eerie and hollow. You heard nothing in response, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t injured or too scared to answer; you felt an awful, creeping chill yourself as you ventured further in, holding tightly to the handle of your lantern.

“Spooky in here, ain’t it?” Sadie said in a low voice, as if something might jump out at you from some dark corner. “You really think he mighta come in here?”

“We have to look,” you said, unsure yourself. You came to two large rock formations reaching from the stone floor to the high ceiling, splitting the cave in half. “You go left, and I’ll go right.”

She nodded. “Alright, then. Holler if you run into anything. You got a gun?”

“No. Do you think I’ll need one?”

“Hell if I know what’s in here, peach.” She handed one of her pistols to you, and you put it in the waistband of your jeans. “Stay sharp.”

Separating and going deeper into the belly of the cave, you held your lantern before you and tried to make anything out in the gloom. You heard Sadie call for Jack, the high cave walls giving her familiar voice a ghostly sound; you called for him too, winding through spires of rock and shallow pools of water. The damp, mineral smell of rotting wood and blood and cold, stagnant water filled your senses, and the temperature had dropped significantly; shivering and seeing your breath swirl in front of you, you wondered how far back the cave went. It seemed to stretch for an infinity, strange shapes looming in the darkness, hidden in the shadows until they seemed to jump out at you.

“Jack! Can you hear me?” Your voice was shaky as you started to feel swallowed by the echoing darkness. Surely he wasn’t in here. How could he not have been frightened enough to turn back? But maybe he’d tried and lost his way, and the thought of him hiding in some cold little hollow in this awful cavern spurred you onwards. 

You came around one of the scattered boulders and nearly jumped out of your skin, finding yourself eye to eye with a leering, ghoulish corpse strung up like a marionette. Uttering a cry and skittering back against the wall, you pressed yourself to the cold rock and put a hand to your chest as you heart tried to hammer out of it.

“Peach!” Sadie called. “You alright?”

“Yes,” you said weakly, trying to make your voice carry. “It’s... it’s just a body.”

“A body?” 

“One of the Murfrees,” you said. To your surprise, you felt hot tears on your face and brushed them away. “Or... somebody they killed, I guess.” The corpse was suspended on some kind of wooden rack, like what Pearson used to hang a deer before he butchered it. Your stomach rolled, and you made yourself tear your horrified gaze from the awful sight before you lost your nerve completely.

Panting, eyes blurred with tears you couldn’t stop, you thought of what other grisly horrors awaited you, what ones you’d already passed that had been hidden by the darkness.

“Jack!” you called again, desperate now. “Jack, if you can hear me, say something!”

You strained to listen over the moaning of the air currents and dripping water and your own shallow breath. Nothing, nothing, but then - 

“Help!”

His little voice was weak and far away, but you’d heard it, and a rush of relief and panic in equal measure came on so strongly it made you dizzy.

“Sadie!” you yelled. “Sadie, I heard him!”

Stumbling quickly through the maze of rock, skidding down steep grades, heedless of the human remains that grew in number the deeper you went into the belly of the cave, you called frantically for him.

“Jack! Jack, I’m coming! Don’t move! Yell as loud as you can!”

He did as you said, his thin, frightened voice tearing at you, and you followed it until you came to a little niche between two rocky pillars. You almost missed him in the shadows, but you finally saw him pressed against the rock with his arms around his knees, tears streaming down his face.

“Oh my god, Jack!” Setting the lantern on the ground, you knelt beside him and gathered him in your arms. “Sadie, I found him!”

“I’m comin’!” she yelled back. “I see your lantern. I gotta get around this shit over here. There’s a fence or somethin’.”

Jack clung to you, trembling violently and cold to the touch, crying pitifully. Everything else faded as you focused entirely on him; tears stacked in your throat, feeling his fear like a physical wound, and you rocked him and held him close. 

“Lady,” he sobbed, his fingers scraping your neck and shoulders as he tried to get closer to you and hold you tighter. “I g-got l-lost!”

“I know, baby,” you soothed, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’re alright, Jack. I gotcha. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

Sadie found you and heaved a sigh of relief when she saw Jack in your arms.

“Damn good call comin’ in here, peach,” she said with feeling. She gave you a hand up, steadying you as you held Jack and taking your lantern from the ground. “Come on, let’s get him to his mama.”

“B-but I didn’t f-find Cain!” Jack cried.

“Cain?” you asked, bewildered. “The dog?”

“Micah s-said he was l-lost in here,” he said around hiccuping little sobs. “I had to f-find him.”

You met Sadie’s eyes, and the icy, killing rage you felt was mirrored in her gaze.

“Micah said that?” you asked carefully, running a hand over Jack’s back.

He nodded miserably, rubbing his face against your shoulder and clinging to your neck. 

“I w-wanted to find him,” he said pitifully. “I was scared to g-go in the cave, but he w-was lost. I got lost too. It was so d-dark.”

You swallowed, managing with a strong effort to focus on this heartbroken, frightened little boy rather than your desire to put lead in the man who’d done this to him.

“Okay, sweetheart,” you soothed, pressing a kiss to his clammy brow. “It’s alright. We’ll - uh, we’ll find Cain later. He’ll be okay.”

In truth, you hadn’t seen the mutt since Lakay, and you figured he’d wandered off or met an unfortunate end in the swamp. Jack had loved Cain, and it broke your heart that he’d been brave enough to go somewhere so frightening to try and find him.

“Come on,” Sadie said, her usual gruffness a little gentler for Jack’s sake. “Let’s get outta here.”

Carefully, minding the slopes and looming spires and bones crunching underfoot, Sadie led you back out of the cave as you held and comforted Jack. It was a powerful thing, to be so needed and loved by someone so little and innocent and fragile; you didn’t know if you’d be a good mother, but you wanted to be, and you’d try just as hard to protect your little one as you were trying to protect Jack now.

Your heart was in your throat as you came out of the cave and saw Abigail come running at Sadie’s call, completely undone as she took Jack from you and held him in a crushing hug. 

“Thank you, thank you,” she sobbed, looking up at you and Sadie with anguish and relief clear as day on her pale face. “Thank you for findin’ him.”

You nodded, mute. You realized you were trembling badly, the calm you’d forced yourself to project for Jack’s sake quickly unravelling now that you knew he was safe. Fear, rage, sorrow, a depth of loneliness and need you couldn’t really account for - all of them built so rapidly you felt like they were eating you alive.

You flinched when Sadie put a hand on your arm.

“You alright, peach?” she asked, leading you over your your tent. “You’re shakin’ somethin’ awful.”

“Where’s, um...” Your head felt foggy. “Where’s Arthur?”

She frowned. “He went with Dutch, remember?”

“He should be here,” you said. “He...” You shook your head and tried to clear it, thinking of that gruesome body you’d seen in the lantern light, thinking of the dark cavernous gloom of the cave, thinking of going to kill Micah with your bare hands. You swiped the tears from your face and found your palms raw and bloody from where they’d scraped against the cold rock in the cave. 

“I need him,” you said, your voice thin and shaky. “But he’s never here when I need him.”

She winced. “He’s comin’ home soon, peach.”

“Maybe,” you said blankly. “If Dutch doesn’t get him killed. And as soon as he’s back, he’ll leave again. He always does.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, trying to steer you towards your bed.  “I need to - ”

“You don’t need to do anything,” you said, shrugging off her hands, suddenly enraged by the fact that Arthur wasn’t here. “Unless you’re beating Micah to a pulp for tricking Jack like he did. As a matter of fact - ” You whipped your head around, looking for him so you could do it yourself.

“Where is that low-down son of a bitch?” you snapped. You couldn’t see him slinking around anywhere like the lying snake he was, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t find him if you tried. 

“He left,” Sadie said. “I saw him saddle his hoss and light outta here as soon as we came out of the cave.”

“He left?” you demanded. Your frustration had no outlet, and you curled your hands into fists and snarled like an animal. “That fuckin’ low-life! I’ll kill him next time I see him, Sadie. I swear to God.”

“Suits me,” she said grimly. “He’s a sick bastard for doin’ somethin’ like that to a little boy.”

“He’s always been a sick bastard,” you spat, pacing and feeling some awful, consuming rage come over you until you were lightheaded with it. “And nobody’s here to keep him from being the sorriest excuse for a human being ever to walk the fuckin’ earth. Charles, John, Arthur - they’re all gone doing whatever the hell Dutch tells them to do or ropes them into. Every time you need somebody around here, they’re following orders from Dutch. Or they’re in prison, or they’re on some godforsaken island, or they’re just fuckin’ dead. And it’s all because of Dutch.”

Sadie said nothing, letting you rant and pace. You wanted to break something. You wanted to tear your hair out. You wanted to strangle Micah or Dutch or Arthur or whoever just so that somebody knew how angry you were.

“I can’t live like this any more, Sadie,” you insisted, furious tears streaking your face. “I can’t spend my whole life wondering if he’ll come home, wondering if he’s shot to death or hanged or butchered by some freak because he won’t say no to Dutch. And I can’t have his baby while he’s out looking to get killed. I won’t do it.”

She didn’t say anything. She wasn’t even looking at you.

“Sadie, are you even listening to me?” you demanded.

A grimace crossed her face as she nodded behind you. “Sure am, peach. And your man’s listenin’ too.”

Your heart dropped to your boots. Turning to see Arthur, you saw him pale and wide-eyed in the firelight.

“You’re...” He swallowed. “You’re havin’ a baby?”

[krill039]

WHO HERE LIKES HAYLEY WILLIAMS?!?!?!!

[shrkshkk]

hello... my first post in.. 8 years?

[krill039]

Firee

[rotten-biter]

mmh he’s so rockstar bf ✮⋆˙

[soapsmoviesfootballfan]

[ellies-miller]

lady love — part thirty-six

Part Thirty-Six: Home Again, Home Again — You and Arthur leave the Heartlands and come back to the swamp.

Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader | Genre: fluff, h/c, angst | Word Count: 4k | Warnings: none | Read on AO3 | Fic Masterlist

A/N: These chapters are taking me a lot longer to write recently, but I hope when I'm out for summer at the end of this week I'll have a lot more time to write for Arthur and Lady! Thank you for your patience - I love you!

The sun hovered over the horizon in the cool haze of evening, and Horseshoe Overlook was golden in the sunlight that filtered through the pines and oaks and cottonwoods. You spent a long while in the woods around camp foraging for herbs, thinking to stock up on plants you’d been running low on in Lemoyne: ginseng, yarrow, thyme, violet snowdrop. By the fire, you used one of the enamel mugs as a makeshift mortar and cooking pot: grinding the herbs with a little water and letting them simmer, you made tonics and bitters with your limited tools and bottles. Hosea’s medicine box at Shady Belle had extensive supplies and you’d bring home some herbs to work with there, but you were proud of what you accomplished with only your little fire as the sun lowered behind the mountains. 

Supper was a quiet, almost lonely affair - you couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten all by yourself, and you couldn’t decide if you liked the solitude or not. Arthur had shot and dressed a rabbit for you before he left, and you cooked it up with plenty of herbs and greens. With your plate on one knee and a cup of coffee within reach, you read avidly of the book Mary-Beth had loaned you: The Castle Above the Moor, a tale of romance and betrayal among the English nobility. Though not as enjoyable as it might have been if you weren’t so weighed down with grief, it provided a good escape from everything, and you read by the light of the fire as night fell.

You didn’t know if you should stay up and wait for Arthur, unsure how long this job was supposed to take, but eventually you curled up in your bedroll and watched the low flames of the banked fire glow in the darkness. The chatter of foxes and the trilling song of nightingales and crickets filled the woods around you, peaceful and familiar; the sounds were so different here than at Shady Belle, and you were lulled to sleep by a sense of safety and comfort you weren’t sure you’d ever have so deep in the swamp.

“Lady.”

Starling awake, you shrunk back from the huge, shadowed figure in the tent doorway for a moment before you realized who it was. With a sigh of relief, you gripped his arm to reassure yourself that it wasn’t some no-good outlaw sneaking into your tent, at least not one you needed to be frightened of.

“Oh, Arthur,” you said, jittery from your sudden awakening but still drowsy. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” His voice was gruff, a touch harried, and when you tried to bring him close to you, he pulled back. “Listen - we gotta light outta here.”

You were more awake at that, propping yourself on your elbow. “Why? What happened?”

He started packing things up, which only made you more agitated. When he’d left, he’d seemed as calm and confident as he’d been leaving for countless other robberies, and the teasing good humor he’d left you with had assured you there wasn’t anything to worry about. To have him come back in so tense and nervous a state had you looking over his shoulder to see if some lawman was going to emerge from the treeline.

“Arthur, what happened?” you asked again, sitting up straight. “Did you get the papers?”

He tossed you your clothes, and you obediently put them on despite not yet knowing why you needed to.

“Yeah, but they caught me,” he said. “Had me dead to rights. I was lucky to get out.”

Your blood ran cold, your fingers frozen on the buttons of your shirt. “What do you mean, they caught you?” 

“I mean they caught me,” he said, impatient now. “Ain’t you listenin’?”

You were trying, but between your own anxiety, his hurried explanation, and his constant, nervous movement, your sleep-slowed brain could hardly keep up.

“Arthur.” You grabbed his arm again. “I’m trying to make sense of it, honey. But you have to slow down.”

He took a breath, trying to wrestle himself into some semblance of calm, and you appreciated the effort even as you felt his tension.

“They caught me,” he said, deliberately slow and plain. “I had the papers in my hand, and when I left through the office window, they were waitin’ for me. I don’t know how they got tipped off, but they did. Eagle Flies set fire to one of their oil rigs and bought us enough time to shoot our way out, and we had a hell of a time gettin’ clear of ‘em.”

“Oh, Arthur,” you breathed. You wished he wasn’t cast in shadow so you could see him better. “Were you hurt?”

He shook his head. “No, but I don’t want us hangin’ around here after all that. I don’t think any of ‘em followed me, leastaways not any I didn’t shoot, but they’re sure gonna be out lookin’ for me.”

You drew a steadying breath, taking in all of that information. Near capture, near death, lawmen once again whipped up into a frenzy - everything you'd worried about had happened, but at least Arthur was safe. It was just about the bare minimum in your book to call a job a success, but you’d rather have the bare minimum than nothing at all.

“Okay,” you said after a moment. “We’ll get packed and we’ll go. Thank you for explaining everything to me.”

He grimaced. “I don’t mean to be short with ya, honey. I just - ”

“I understand,” you said, a touch weary. “I’m not upset. I was just confused.”

“I hate to rush you out in the middle of the night like this.”

“I know.” You finished pulling on your clothes. “But we both knew it could go sideways, and if you say it’s safer to leave, I don’t mind going.”

Like a well-oiled machine, you and Arthur hardly needed to speak to know how best to work together to get your camp packed and the horses ready to travel. Arthur kicked dirt over the embers of the fire as you made sure the saddlebags were secure, and with a last backward glance at your little haven away from Shady Belle, you were on the road towards Lemoyne. 

You hadn’t gone very far when a surprised study of the sky to the north showed a billowing cloud of black smoke. Though you couldn’t see the fire from this distance, you knew it must be from the oil rig they’d destroyed.

“Arthur, that’s...” A spidering of discomfort ran over your shoulders as your voice trailed off. The smoke was eerie against the natural indigo of the sky, broadcasting for miles the trouble Arthur and Eagle Flies had stirred up at the refinery. All of a sudden, you realized how big of a mess it had ended up being; for a moment, it felt like the entire country knew what the van der Linde gang was up to and exactly where to find you, and you half expected Pinkertons to be riding towards you under the ominous black cloud.

“Did he have to set fire to it?” you asked, apprehension coming out as irritation in your voice.

He didn’t answer right away, watching you in the faint moonlight. You knew he’d read your posture and tone of voice, and he slowed Bucephalus to ride alongside you.

“The kid saved my life,” he said after a long moment. “I can’t really complain about how he chose to do it.”

“I’m not complaining,” you said, strained, trying to keep a mild tone and not really succeeding. “But it seems like there could have been less... conspicuous ways to do it.”

“Maybe,” he said patiently. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been plannin’ something like that even if I hadn’t needed help gettin’ outta there.”

You swallowed. “So we’re involved in the Indians’ war against Cornwall now.” It wasn’t that you weren’t sympathetic, but you were already fighting on so many fronts that throwing yourselves in the middle of someone else’s conflict seemed foolish beyond measure.

Arthur rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle. 

“We’re makin’ money however we can,” he said evenly. “And I don’t mind helpin’ the Indians while we do it.”

“You’ll mind if it gets you killed,” you said sharply. Then, a little surprised and embarrassed by your outburst, you turned your head from him. “At least I’ll mind.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then - 

“Lady.”

You didn’t turn towards him. “What?”

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, you did as he said. There was nothing but understanding in his expression, and it made you feel worse.

“I’m just worried,” you said quietly, trying to explain. “I know I said I trust you, and I do. And maybe I haven’t been with the gang long enough to know what’s a good idea and what’s not, but you keep doing these jobs that seem very risky to me.” You pinked a little. “But I’m not brave like you.”

He shook his head. “You’re plenty brave, darlin’. And you’re right - it didn’t always used to be like this. Dutch has got it in his mind that we oughta do bigger and bigger jobs instead of the ones we used to do, ones we could get away clean from. I’m as worried about it as you are.”

“But you...” You hesitated. This was just another iteration of the same argument you’d been having for a while now, and you didn’t want to bring it up again, but it loomed as clearly as the dark smoke of the oil refinery.

“But I what?” he said gently. “I keep doin’ these jobs anyway?”

You nodded, meek.

He sighed. “Yeah. I know. I just...” He looked out towards the smoke, watching it black out the moon. “I keep thinkin’ things’ll turn around. And I ain’t ready to give up on Dutch just yet, I guess.”

The sorrow and guilt and deep, fervent loyalty in his voice tugged at you. If you found it hard to disagree with Dutch sometimes, Arthur must have felt like he was being torn in two.

“Oh, Arthur,” you said quietly. “I don’t want to give up on him either.” Despite the fracturing of trust between you and Dutch after Arthur’s run-in with Colm and all that had followed after, you didn’t intend to pull yourself or Arthur away from Dutch as long as it was safe and wise to stick by him. Maybe even past that, because you were family, even if there had been some hard travelling recently.

You reached out and took his hand. 

“But I want us to be safe,” you said. “All these jobs, all this running - if you think it’ll get us out of here, if you think this is the best way to take care of the people we love and build a life for us, then I’ll do whatever you say we should do. And if you decide it’s not what’s best any more....”

You gave his hand a squeeze, wise enough to know it would be hard for him to leave Dutch if he ever had to, confident enough in him to know he would do it. “I trust you to make that call and do what needs to be done.”

His jaw worked. “I hope it won’t come to that.”

“Me too.” You let your hand fall. “I’m not trying to make you mad, Arthur.”

“I know. I ain't mad.” He tipped his hat back, letting you see more of his face. “I appreciate you bein’ straight with me. It’s good to know you’re not just followin’ me blind, that you’re thinkin’ through this thing too.”

You’d been through too much these past few weeks to follow anyone blindly, even someone you loved and trusted as much as Arthur. But until he made a decision that you thought truly went against what you knew you both wanted, you’d rest in what he chose to do.

“Reckon we’d better get on home,” he said, his tone resigned and tired. He clicked his tongue to get Bucephalus moving down the road again, and you followed, feeling almost as though that smoky black sky was coming with you too.

-

Back in Lemoyne, the first hot rays of sunshine filtered through the deep overgrowth of moss on the towering trees, bearing down on you in its intensity. Some nervous something started to draw your every muscle into a knot the closer you came to camp, and you didn’t know quite what it was until you came down the path to Shady Belle’s front gate. It was the first time you’d seen the house since Kieran when you weren’t drugged out of your mind or very sick, and of a sudden, your breath grew shallow and your heartbeat more rapid. You remembered very clearly the bodies, the gunshots, the screaming; pulling Ennis to a halt just before you came through the gate, you felt him shift beneath you as he read your tension.

Arthur had hitched Bucephalus before he noticed you hadn’t followed him in, and he jogged back to you when he realized.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking up at your drawn expression.

“Nothing,” you lied. You cleared your throat, feeling it tight and thick. “I, uh... just need a minute.”

He looked you over and tried to think of a way to help, even though he didn’t know what needed fixing. 

“Do you need me to help you down?” he asked. It was rather sweet, his mix of confusion and earnest kindness, and you softened a little.

“No. I’m okay. You go ahead.”

“Honey...”

“I’m alright, Arthur.” He couldn’t fix it anyway, and there was no use dragging both of you down into the panic and nausea barely held at bay. “Go talk to Dutch. I’ll be in after a while.”

With obvious reluctance, he did as you said, and you stayed atop Ennis in the hot, wet air smelling strongly of stagnant green water and dense, choking growth. If you went back in there, into that tangle of death and grief and hungry ivy, you feared you might never come back out. Your hands shook, and you balled them into little fists and tried to make yourself take long, slow breaths.

Eventually, you found the nerve to get Ennis to the hitching post; from there, you made yourself walk towards the campfire. No one else seemed to want to give a wide berth to the place Kieran’s body had sprawled, but just going near it made a chill race down your spine. You stood there for a moment, transfixed, remembering the horror of it in every inch of your body.

“Lady.”

You tore your gaze from the ground to see Charles at the campfire. He beckoned you over with a nod of his head, and you came hesitantly over to the circle of logs and crates that stood around the fire, not wishing to impose your mood on him if you could help it.

“I didn’t expect you two back until tonight,” he said. He was shaping a piece of flint into an arrowhead, and judging by the dusting of flint on his thigh, he’d made several already. “Did something happen?”

“Arthur got the papers that prove the land belongs to the Indians,” you said. “But they knew he was there, and he and Eagle Flies had to shoot their way out. He wanted to be gone before they came looking for him.”

“Good call.” He pressed the point of his deer-bone tool into the edge of the flint, chipping off small pieces of it to give it a serrated edge. “No doubt Cornwall’s got Pinkertons and his own men searching all over the Heartlands for him.”

“They set fire to one of the oil rigs,” you said, watching his face for his reaction. 

A mild surprise colored his features. “Arthur did?”

“Eagle Flies did,” you said. “To create a distraction so Arthur could escape. I saw the smoke when we were coming back.”

He ran his thumb over the surface of the arrowhead. “Good for him.”

You didn’t say anything to that, still not sure the job was a good idea at all, much less that destroying part of the factory was a wise decision. Charles looked up at you.

“You don’t think so?” he asked. His voice was calm and resonant, holding no judgement; you’d always admired how Charles seemed to face everything with a kindness born of honesty, open minded but stalwart in his sense of right and wrong. There was never any question as to whether Charles would be straight with you about something, and he respected those who were straight with him and with themselves. 

You sat on the upturned apple crate next to him, feeling a little like a wilting flower.

“It’s not that I feel bad for Cornwall,” you explained. “And of course I'm grateful Eagle Flies helped Arthur escape. I’d be glad to see that entire refinery go up in flames, especially when they’re trying to displace the Indians for their own greed.”

He ran the edge of his knife over an arrow shaft, smoothing it out. “But?”

You sighed, brushing back a strand of hair that was already damp with sweat. 

“I don’t know. It seems like a war we can’t win, going up against Cornwall.  I’m glad Eagle Flies and his father have something that might help them keep their land, but I’m not sure it was a good idea to get more involved with Cornwall than we are already.”

Thinking for a moment before he spoke, another thing you admired about him, he heated a small block of some dark material in the fire until part of it melted like a candle.

“What are you doing now?” you asked curiously. You wondered if Charles had struck up a conversation to get your mind off of Kieran; it was working, at least a little, and it would certainly be in his character to notice something like that and try to help.

“This is pine resin, beeswax, and charcoal,” he said, showing you the melted part that had pooled in a little well of the block. “It’s the glue that holds the arrowhead to the shaft.”

He coated the top of the shaft and the bottom of the arrowhead in the glue, held them together for a few seconds until it dried, and fished a long, thin string from his pile of supplies. When he put the string in his mouth, you winced.

“What does chewing it do?” You weren’t sure you wanted to know the answer, but you were fascinated with the process despite yourself.

He took it out of his mouth and gave you an amused look.

“I’m not chewing it. I’m just wetting it so it’ll bind better.”

“Couldn’t you use water?”

“Yeah, but I don’t have any with me. It’s only elk sinew.”

You made a face. “Elk sinew?”

“Yep. Works like a charm.”

Wrapping the arrowhead and the top of the shaft in the sinew, he secured everything together and gave it another coat of the glue. He held it out to you.

“Why, Charles, you’re too kind,” you said dryly. Studying the craftsmanship of the arrow, including the fletching of the grey and white feathers at the end, you saw what a delicate and deadly piece of work it was.

“I agree with you about Cornwall,” he said, finally offering his opinion on the matter. “It’s a complicated thing. I’d like to help Eagle Flies myself, and I’m glad Arthur did - but we have a lot to think about right now, and it’ll only get more complicated the longer it goes on.”

You handed the arrow back to him. “You don’t think we’re getting out of this Bronte thing clean, do you?”

“No, I don’t.” He looked over his shoulder towards the house, to the doors on the balcony that led into Dutch’s room. “I hope Arthur can talk some sense into Dutch about it, but it feels like we’re being pulled deeper and deeper into something we can’t get out of.”

You toyed with a line of mending in your shirt. “Arthur thinks we ought to split up for a while. Get back together when things cool off.”

He considered that. “It’s not a bad idea. I don’t think Dutch will go for it, though.”

“No,” you said gloomily. “Me either.”

You sat with him for a while longer, watching him make a few more arrows, trying your hand at chiselling an arrowhead yourself. You’d made a halfway decent serrated edge when the front doors of the house slammed open, and you startled so badly that you cut the pad of your thumb on the arrowhead.

Sucking in a sharp breath, you pressed the offended finger to your mouth and tried to staunch the thin rivulet of blood. Arthur came storming out through the doors, and you watched in mingled apprehension and morbid curiosity as he stalked aimlessly, muttering to himself.

“Arthur,” Charles called. “Come be angry over here with us.”

Frowning, he nonetheless did as Charles said.

“Well what’n the hell are you angry about?” he asked. “Since we’re all bein’ angry together.”

Charles finished peeling a strip of bark from a branch and gestured to you with his knife. “You made her cut herself on an arrowhead.”

“I did what?”

You pulled your hand away from your mouth and hid it with your other hand. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Let me see this nothin’,” he said, his affect softer than it had been. Holding your hand out to him, you let him look over the nick that really wasn’t that bad.

“You just startled me coming out of the house,” you said. “That’s all.”

He kissed it better. “Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Calmer now, he sat next to Charles and looked over the arrows for a moment. Charles glanced up from his work to give you a hint of a smile, and you knew that his trick of calling Arthur’s attention to your little hurt had been to distract him from being so angry. 

“You’re pretty good at this kind of thing,” you said pointedly, handing him back the arrowhead you’d been working on.

He chuckled. “Somebody around here’s got to be.” Handing the arrowhead to Arthur, he told him that you’d made it all by yourself.

Arthur held it between his fingers and studied it. “Well I’ll be durned. That’s pretty good work, darlin’.”

“Thank you,” you said, feeling your mood lighten at his praise. Hoping it wouldn’t make him upset, you ventured a question that might make your mood plunge right back down again. 

“Can I ask what happened with Dutch?”

He sighed. “Nothin’ good. He wants me to go out with him later and meet some fisherman - says this fella can bring us in on the river around back of Bronte’s house.”

“He won’t give up on this Bronte thing, will he?” Charles asked soberly.

“You can bet on that,” Arthur said, running a hand over his face. “Suppose we’ll have to kill Bronte. I don’t rightly mind, what with him takin’ Jack and tryin’ to get us killed with that trolley job, but it’ll bring the law on us real quick if we ain’t careful.”

“We’ve already got the law on us,” Charles observed.

“Yeah, but this...” Arthur shook his head. “Dutch swears it ain’t about revenge, but I ain’t so sure. And killin’ the kingpin of Saint Denis for revenge seems pretty damn stupid to me.”

“Doesn’t Dutch always say revenge is a fool’s game?” you asked quietly.

Arthur scuffed a hand over his jaw, his expression resigned and weary. “Yep. He does.”

-

He came home late from his errand to speak to the fisherman with Dutch, coming into your room and looking as if he’d fallen headfirst off the boat. Even in the light of the lantern, you could see that his clothes were damp all the way to his chest, and his boots sloshed with even the smallest movement. Unsure how to take the expression on his face, you found him an amusing, slightly pitiful sight; smothering a laugh, you were glad when he gave you a grudging smile in return.

“Alright, little miss, get them giggles out,” he scolded lightly. He tossed his hat on the table. “You wouldn’t be laughin’ if you were in my shoes.”

“I certainly wouldn’t,” you agreed sympathetically. Standing from the bed and setting aside your book, you helped him undress from his wet clothes and tossed everything in a pile of laundry you were planning to get to first thing the next morning. His boots were full of water, and you took them onto the balcony to empty them over the railing.

“I thought you were going to find a boat,” you said. “Decided to go for a swim instead?”

“Decided nothin’,” he said firmly. “We had to find that fella’s fishin’ partner and his boat, and while we did, he made me the crawdad traps and wade around in the water up to here.” 

He put a hand to his chest, indicating the high level of the water. You saw the line of it still damp on his shirt as he unbuttoned it.

“Aren’t there alligators in the water?” you asked hesitantly.

“Sure. Saw plenty of ‘em. Ain’t none of ‘em gave me the creeps like this one I’m gonna tell you about, though.”

You winced. “I don’t want a scary story, Arthur.”

He pulled off his shirt, carrying on the conversation as though he wasn’t putting on a bit of a show for you.

“Well, maybe I oughtn’t tell ya, then.”

You looked him over, partly to check for wounds and partly to enjoy the pleasure of it. “But you weren’t hurt?”

“No. Scared me half to death, but I wasn’t hurt.”

“If you weren’t hurt, well... I guess you can tell me.”

“You sure?”

“I suppose.” You handed him a soft cotton nightshirt. “Tell it to me like you’d tell Jack to keep him from getting scared.”

A faint smile flickered across his face. “Well, we couldn’t find that fella anywhere, and we split up lookin’ for him. I found him treed, boat missin’, hollerin’ all kinda crazy stuff about some monster gator he saw. I got the boat and we all were goin’ back to the house when we saw the damn thing, and I tell ya - I ain’t never seen a bigger, meaner gator in all my life. That thing was a damn dinosaur.”

You shivered at the thought of any beast larger and more dangerous than the ones you’d come across.  

“And then what happened?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Nothin’. He just swam on by.”

You knew that wasn’t the whole truth, but you’d asked him to spare you the more frightening details, and you didn’t press.

“You should have shot it,” you said mildly. “You could have had a new pair of alligator boots.”

He chuckled, and you moved closer to the warm, comforting sound of it.

“Maybe I will, one day,” he said. “Though I reckon I won’t wanna be swimmin’ around his territory any time soon.”

Pressing close to him, you framed his face with your hands.

“I’m glad you weren’t supper for a monster alligator,” you said. “I would have been very upset.”

He laughed. “Reckon I woulda been upset too.” Rubbing the collar of your nightgown between his fingers, he seemed to linger in the comfort of your closeness, and you were pleased when he leaned down to kiss you.

“Come to bed,” you said softly, knowing he was tired. “I’ll read to you.”

You felt his smile. “What silly romance are we readin’ tonight, girl?”

“It is a little silly,” you admitted with a soft laugh. “Lady Eleanor is in love with Duke Hepworth, but the duke’s cousin, Sir Mullberry, is playing a dastardly trick to have him sent away so he can take the duke’s lands and marry Lady Eleanor himself.”

“I’ll be,” he drawled. “Mulberry did all that? I gotta hear what happens now.”

In bed together, the lantern light flickering comfortingly over the walls, you and Arthur enjoyed each other’s closeness as you read of Sir Mulberry’s fiendish exploits and Lady Eleanor’s undying love for the duke. When you heard Arthur’s gentle snoring over the sound of your voice, you smiled to yourself and set the book aside, dousing the lantern and snuggling close.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he mumbled, waking a little as you pulled the quilt over both of you. 

“That’s okay,” you said softly. “I know you’re tired, sweetheart.”

He pulled you close with his arm around your middle.

“That Lady Eleanor’s a brave gal,” he said, his voice low and drowsy. “You reckon you’d pine for me if I got sent away on some pirate ship?”

“Don’t get any ideas,” you said wryly. “Dutch probably thinks something like that would be a great business opportunity.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. “I won’t mention it to him if you won’t.”

You brushed a hand through his soft hair. “Goodnight, Arthur. I love you.”

He tucked you close to him. “Love you, sweet pea.”

[krill039]

So sweet 😔😔❤️

[itspapillonnoir]

RED DEAD REDEMPTION II ∞

[cyyroe]

всем приве друзья

[ellies-miller]

lady love — part thirty-four

Part Thirty-Three: Better, Not Worse — You and Arthur deal with the fallout of your fight. In this clumsy dance of hurt and sorrow, you try to make things better, not worse.

Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader | Genre: fluff, h/c, angst | Word Count: 6k | Warnings: canon-typical violence | Read on AO3 | Fic Masterlist

A/N: In all honesty I got stuck on this chapter, since I've been sick and I'm in crunch time at work wrapping up the school year, and I wanted this to be good so it had to simmer for a while. I hope it actually does end up being good!! Enjoy!!

You were lost in the swamp, and you were alone.

Frogs and cicadas sent up their trilling, throaty racket, dozens of them hidden in every bunch of bullrush and cordgrass at your feet. Rattlesnakes and coppermouths slithered over the wet ground, hissing and chittering when you stepped too close; alligators moved unseen under the rippling, murky water, their eyes luminous and red in the light of the guttering lantern you held. There was no moon, and the stars you’d learned as a child were covered with dark clouds cracking with lightning; heavy with the coming storm, the air itself was expectant, restless, alive with humming and whispering and a strange, keening cry that could only be heard between the resonant peals of thunder.

Carefully making your way through the sedge and reedgrass, water sloshing over your boots as you measured each step and hoped for firm footing, you held your lantern higher and looked for.... someone. His name was trapped in some lockbox of your mind, or else you would have called for him; you knew that he loved you, but you felt some nagging fear that he might not be looking for you. What it was that had caused you to be out here alone was a mystery too, and you thought it must be something awful. Lightning illuminated the ghoulish trees looming far overhead, their images pale and bright in the wash of silver and purple, a bruise on the face of the stygian sky. You started to hurry, knowing you couldn’t be alone in this place for long.

You couldn’t find him anywhere. It was strange to you that he wasn’t with you; you’d knew you’d never been any place so dark and hazy, so dangerous and frightening, without having him near. But some part of you also knew that you’d driven him away, that it was through your own doing that you were all alone. Words came tauntingly under the roll of thunder: I hate you. You’re not trying hard enough. Be man for once in your life. Your own voice curled around the mossy, grasping branches, slinking through the water against scales and claws and teeth. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. 

You started to run, hearing the snapping of reptilian teeth wherever you stepped, feeling snakes skitter away under your skirts. The storm grew louder, filling the swamp with noise and wet, crackling heat; that phantasmic, warped caricature of your voice overshadowed you like a living thing, snarling and wailing. I hate you! He wasn’t anywhere in this shadowed, haunted maze of towering trees and marshy thickets. You tried to call his name, but the syllables of it evaporated before you like mist. If you knew it, if you called it, he would come. Even if you’d hurt him. You knew he would. 

Suddenly, your boot caught on something; prizing it from the sucking, groping mud, you saw the snare was a bleach-bone hand, its skeletal fingers wrapped around your heel. Giving a cry of terror, you stumbled back; you fell against someone, turning to see if it was him, finally coming to get you, please, God - and you froze in horror when you saw it was a man with no eyes and a leering, sharp-toothed grin.

Faces emerged from the mire, dark hoods pulled over choking, groaning mouths; with ragged, rotting hands they reached out for you, calling you by the name given to you by that someone who loved you - lady, lady, lady. You screamed and begged them to let you go, but your voice was lost in their moaning, in the sound of the storm, in the blackness that swallowed the stars. The man with no eyes grabbed hold of you, pulling you, dragging you into the mud with them; they grasped and groped at your hair, your throat, your eyes. Your mouth was filled with silt, your screams rattling and gurgling as they pulled you under; fighting and writhing to be free, you knew if you could just call his name, if you could just get to him -

“Lady, lady!”

You wrenched awake with a sudden, lurching gasp, eyes wide, heart racing. Everything was dark and you were still there, still looking for - 

“Oh, Arthur.”

You threw your arms around his neck, sobbing, grabbing at his shirt and pulling yourself as close to him as you could. You still felt their hands raking across your dress, your hair, your skin; delirious, drenched in sweat, you wanted to be inside him, under his ribs, in some part of him that they would never get to.

“I couldn’t find you!” you sobbed, your throat raw, your whole body shaking. “I couldn’t find you anywhere!”

“Okay,” he soothed, raising his voice enough to be heard over your frantic babbling, running a hand over your back. “You found me. I’m right here.”

“But they - they had me, and I - I couldn’t get out, and - ”

“Ain’t nobody got you but me, girl. It’s alright. You’re safe with me.”

With a miserable, keening cry, your horror unwound into relief so acute that you could do nothing but cling to him and cry, face pressed against his neck, cradled in his strong, gentle hands that would never, ever hurt you. He held you in his lap and ran his broad palm over your back, pressing a kiss to your clammy brow.

“My god, girl,” he rasped, resting his whiskery cheek against your sweat-damp hair. “You scared me to death, screamin’ like that.”

“I’m sorry,” you said pitifully. “I’m sorry for screaming, Arthur.”

“No, sugar,” he said quickly. “You ain’t gotta apologize. I just...” His sigh was shaky. “I thought I’d never be able to wake you up. I shook you and yelled at you, and that damn nightmare had such a hold on you I thought I’d never get to you.”

Your breath was sharp, shuddering. “I d-didn’t think you were l-looking for me.”

His arms tightened around you. “I was. Wherever you were, I was lookin’ for you.”

The memory of that voice, your voice, hateful and cruel, still rang in your ears. 

“But the things I said - ”

“Ain’t nothin’ could keep me from comin’ to you when you called me like that,” he said firmly. “You hear me?”

You nodded, mute. You hadn’t known you’d been calling him, and the thought of how frightened he’d been trying to wake you, hearing only his name over and over... for a moment, you shivered for his fear more than your own.

“You cold?” he asked, gentler now.

You didn’t answer. He had been looking for you. Even in that dark, cadaverous underworld, even after all you’d done to hurt him, he’d been searching for you, trying to bring you home. 

“Lady,” he said, pulling your attention back. “Talk to me, girl.”

You tried to focus, tried to be good for him. “Yes. I’m cold.” You were freezing despite the damp heat of the rainstorm, teeth chattering as you lay against the warmth of him. He took the quilt and wrapped it around you, holding you snug, putting a hand over yours as you grasped at his shirt.

“Easy,” he soothed. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Lightning flashed, washing the room in eerie purple light before plunging it back into darkness. Thunder rolled in a great wave, shaking the old house from the ground up, and you pressed closer to him.

“You’re sick, honey,” he said, the rumble of his voice a sure promise that he was real, that you were safe. “Me an’ Hosea have been tryin’ to keep your fever down, but you gotta tell me what you’re feelin’ so I know how to help.”

You didn’t know what you felt - nothing and everything all at once, numb and somehow still agitated, like something was humming and trilling under your skin. Everywhere he touched, you settled; whatever it was, it couldn’t get to the places his warm hands splayed across your back, the parts of you that pressed against him in the dark.

“What happened?” you asked weakly. You remembered him laying into Micah, the two of you yelling and cussing at each other over God knows what, then - nothing. 

“You said you couldn’t breathe,” he said. From the tone of his voice alone, you knew how badly that had frightened him. “You passed out. You ain’t been awake since then, and that’s been hours now.”

The tightness in your chest and the pain in your head made more sense, then. The drinking, the heat, the overwhelm of Kieran and the firefight afterwards, the screaming match between you and Arthur - no doubt these things had set off some physical response of illness from your weary body. It felt like you hadn’t been able to catch your breath for weeks, not since Arthur’s disastrous meeting with Colm; that had been like the first movement of a gigantic rockslide, and the best you could hope for now was simply for the debris to settle and no more boulders to come tumbling down.

“I’m glad you’re awake an’ talkin’ to me,” Arthur said, the slightest unsteadiness in his voice. “I’ve been real worried about ya.”

You tucked your hand under the open collar of his shirt, pressing your fingers to the scars and ridges you knew the shape of without having to see them. His heartbeat was fast, galloping under your touch like the hooves of a wild mustang.

“Arthur, I - ” Your voice broke. “I don’t hate you.”

That shifted something in him, like you’d touched a fresh wound.

“Lady,” he said guardedly, “we ain’t gotta - ”

“I know you’re angry with me,” you said, quick and desperate. No amount of whiskey or unconsciousness would ever rid you of the awful guilt of saying the things you had, and it rolled and churned inside you like a lethal dose of poison.

“You should be angry,” you said, the words spilling out of you. “But I didn’t mean it, Arthur. I didn’t mean any of it. I know it’s not worth much to say that now, but I swear it didn’t mean it.”

He swallowed. “Maybe you were right.”

“No, Arthur,” you moaned. Nothing could be worse than him thinking such hateful, terrible lies were true. You pressed your face to his neck with shivering little breaths, begging him to believe you. “I wasn’t right. I don’t want to go back to him. I want to be with you.”

“Shh, alright,” he said, putting aside his own hurt for you, like he always did. “I know. You ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“Please say you believe me,” you said, crying now. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please believe me.”

You could say it a hundred times and still not feel like you’d said it enough. How could you have told him you’d rather be back with your abusive, drunken father? How could you be your abusive, drunken father? He’d done this too, crying and pleading when the guilt finally caught up with him, and you were disgusted beyond telling at the marrow-deep evidence that you were your daddy made over and would never be any different.

“Arthur, please,” you begged. “Say you believe me.”

“Okay, I believe you.” He brushed your sweat-plastered hair back from your face, making you meet his eyes. “I believe you. Settle down before you work your fever up again.”

Some part of you - every part of you - knew he was saying it to placate you. That whatever he really felt about it was being put to the side for your sake. And, selfishly, you let him do it; you let him lie to you because it made you feel better, because it eased the panic clawing through your ribcage, because you were so weak and he was so good and it was so easy to let him take care of you when you’d done nothing to take care of him.

“I’ll be good, Arthur,” you promised brokenly. It was the least you could do.

“It ain’t about bein’ good,” he said. His voice was tight with something you couldn’t quite read. “You just rest now. We’ll talk about it later.”

Helpless to do anything but obey, you let him hold you and comfort you and keep you from falling to pieces. He gave of himself, like he always did, holding you close as the storm rolled over the house and rain drummed on the roof.

-

You stayed in bed the next morning, too sick and exhausted to do any more, and the rain continued unabated. Dutch was recovering from bash on the head gotten during the trolley job, freeing Arthur from any further reckless plans, at least for a little while; on whatever snatches of sleep he’d managed to get between your bouts of hysteria, he went out into the driving rain to take care of the gang. Splitting wood, repairing and reinforcing all the tents and shelters outside, hauling feed for the horses, boarding up the shattered windows against the storm - he worked when most everyone else stayed inside, and you watched him from the rain-streaked window with an acute sense of your own uselessness and weakness. The hand you’d been dealt wasn’t a good one, at least not right now; but he’d lost the same people you had, had witnessed the same horrors, had grown up just as bruised and battered as you. And still he worked tirelessly, held you when you needed comfort, withstood everything you and Dutch and life itself threw at him and took it like a man.

Turning from the window, you wrapped your arms around your middle and heard that voice you’d heard crawling through the swamp of your nightmares speak louder and louder. What could you do to make it up to him, really? Your hands were empty, never giving, always taking.

When he came up to your room, you hardly knew how to act. The frantic intimacy of the night before had turned to something awkward, strange, and tense; you’d never felt that way with Arthur, but there was some unspoken cog in the machinery that had gotten knocked loose, and the whole thing had ground to a halt, vibrating with expectancy.

I believe you. I don’t hate you. He sat at his worktable, cleaning his guns and fletching arrows and making countless split-point bullets; as you lay with fever finally broken but body and mind still worn, he filled every corner of the narrow, ramshackle room with his presence. You didn’t know what it made you feel - protected? Closed in? He was everywhere, big and alive and radiating some kind of vigor that felt like a fire: too far from him, and you were cold and lonely; too close, and you feared you would be burned. He didn’t say anything as he worked. Was he angry? Sad? Regretting ever finding you in that miserable nowhere town all those months ago? 

He’d said that you might have been right to say you’d be better off with your father than with him. Was he going to send you away? All you did was take and take and take, and maybe he’d finally had enough. Mind racing, agitated and nervous, you were desperate to convince him that you were sorry, that he shouldn’t give you exactly what you’d asked for and send you away from him for good.

“Arthur,” you said, your voice fragile and tightly-wound in the quiet.

He hummed, acknowledging that you’d spoken but offering nothing further. You wanted him to say something, to tell you what was going on inside his head, but he’d said nothing all morning; for the first time since you’d known him, his affect was impossible to read, and it only made you more anxious. He’d said, when you were fighting with Micah sprawled in a bloody heap at your feet, that you should probably go your separate ways. You couldn’t quite remember why he’d said that, but what did it matter? You had to do something, anything, to keep him from leaving you.

Rain splattered all over the floor as it came through the broken windows, leaving a silvery sheen on the warped floorboards. Feeling it come less naturally or enjoyably than it ever had, almost to the point of disgust, you loosened your posture and moved towards him, skating your hands over the broad planes of his shoulders and back. He stiffened, wary and curious like a proud, beautiful buck, unsure if he was being admired or hunted.

“I really am sorry,” you said, pitching your voice just so, trying to hide the wavering note of desperate fear behind a sheen of sensuality. “Let me make it up to you, Arthur.”

He pulled back a little, and you could feel the reaction of surprise and stifled aversion under your hands.

“Make it up to me?” he repeated, cagey and displeased. He turned to study your face. “What are you talkin’ about?”

You carded a hand through his damp hair. “You know what I’m talking about.” It felt strange and wrong to talk to him like this, to let your hands wander when your heart wasn’t in it; the only times he’d made love to you were when you wanted it too, so the sensation of forcing yourself to warm up to him was foreign and unpleasant. Still, what man would turn down such a plain advance? It wouldn’t fix everything, but a satisfied man would surely be more inclined to forgive than one who’d gone without.

“I told you’d I’d be good,” you said, your voice silky sweet. You pressed a kiss to his neck. “Let me show you how sorry I am, Arthur.”

He pushed you away then, not forcefully but enough for the rejection to be swift and unmistakable. 

“What the hell are you doin’?” he said, incredulous, maybe even angry. It was the first real reaction you’d gotten out of him all day, but it wasn’t the one you’d hoped for. You said nothing for a moment, and embarrassment and regret made your face heat with more than fever.

“I wanted to apologize,” you said stiltedly.

“So apologize!” He gave an incredulous shake of his head. “What makes you think you gotta feel me up to say you’re sorry?”

You couldn’t meet his eyes, shrinking in on yourself under the weight of his censure. 

“I thought it would help.”

“Help what?” he demanded. “You’re sick, neither of us has slept worth a damn, and we’ve been fightin’ like hell. You think a roll in the sack’s gonna help with that?”

Without waiting for an answer, he stood, restless and angry, pacing the narrow room like a caged coyote. Then, after a moment, he stopped and looked right at you.

“Do you even want to?” he asked bluntly.

Your cheeks flamed with color. “I will if you want to.”

He scowled. “That ain’t what I asked. I asked if you wanted to sleep with me.”

Right now, you couldn’t really think of anything you’d like to do less. Tired, dirty, coming off a fever, and suddenly realizing you were ravenously hungry, of all things - you could think of a hundred things you’d rather do than sleep with him. But none of those things would make him want to keep you around now that you’d proven yourself so miserable and hateful.

“I wasn’t trying to make you angry, Arthur,” you said, sincere in your growing unease and desperation. “I was trying to - ”

“Oh, I reckon I can guess what you were tryin’ to do,” he said, bristling. “You figured you’d give it to me good enough that I forgot everything that’s goin’ on with us, huh? Is that it?”

You swallowed. More or less, that’s exactly what you’d figured on doing.

“Like you think I’m some kinda animal,” he said bitterly. “Like I ain’t lookin’ for anything more outta you than somewhere to get off. Like I’m Micah.”

You flinched. “I don’t think you’re like Micah.”

“No?” he flashed. “You’re treatin’ me like you do. If you think doin’ me when you don’t even want to is gonna make me happy, you must think I’m just like him.”

“That’s not true,” you insisted. Tears pricked your eyes, but you weren’t sure what emotion had conjured them. “I was only trying to fix things. I didn’t think it would make you mad.”

He swept off his hat and whacked it against his thigh. “Well what’n the hell did you think it was gonna do, then?”

“I guess I thought you’d like it!” you said sharply. Hurt and embarrassment, anxiety and shame — all of them clamored for first place in your voice. “Don’t men like for their women to sleep with them?”

“My preference,” he said firmly, “if you’re gonna sleep with me, is for you to want to. As a matter of fact, it’s insulting that you think I’d still want to if you didn’t.”

He pointed accusingly at you with his hat he held in a too-tight grip. “And for another thing, it’s insulting that you think whatever’s wrong with me can be fixed just by sleepin’ with me. You didn’t even try talkin’ to me - you haven’t said a word all morning. You just figured you could get your big, dumb man to do whatever you wanted as long as you showed him a good time.”

He all but crumpled the crown of his hat in his tightening fist. “I ain't just some randy idiot who ain't got a heart or a brain, you know.”

The heat of embarrassment began to give way to the ashen pale of regret. You said nothing.

 “I’ve never touched you and made it cheap like that,” he said, and his voice was hard and hurting. “When I put my hands on you, I mean it. I don’t do it because I’m tryin’ to get somethin’ from you, tryin’ to get you to act a certain way. I touch you because I love you.” His jaw worked. “And the way you touched me just now didn't feel very much like love.”

You didn't know what to say. A wave of guilt and shame came on so strong you thought you might choke on it. All you ever did was make things worse, and now you’d hurt him in a way you didn’t even think a man could be hurt. But Arthur wasn’t like other men, and you’d done just as he said — you'd treated him like he was someone base and stupid and selfish, someone who had to be coaxed into goodness by physical pleasure, someone other than the man he’d always proven himself to be.

He jammed his hat back on his head. “I want you packed and ready to leave in an hour.”

You paled. “Why?”

“You an’ me, we’re gettin’ outta here for a while.”

He said nothing else, offered no other explanation, before he turned and left. The closing door behind him might as well have been the lid of a casket for all the comfort it gave you, and despite his order that he clearly expected to be obeyed, you couldn’t make yourself move for a long time. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, collecting in little pools by the balcony door; you watched the ripples of each drop of rainwater, trying to interpret his directions without giving into panic completely. He was going with you, so he couldn’t be sending you away from him. Could he?

When you heard his footsteps on the stairs again, you jolted into action; he found you stuffing whatever you could find - dresses, the quilt, a handful of bullets - into your pack with little consideration as to what you’d actually need. 

“I’m goin’ to get the hosses ready,” he said, his tone neither angry nor eager. “I’ll come up and throw some of my things together, and then we’re goin’.”

You only nodded. He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, looking you over. 

“You ain’t gotta look like I’m takin’ you to be hanged, neither,” he said, his voice flat. “We’re just goin’ away for a day or two. Slow down and pack like you got some sense.”

Your face reddened, and your response was sharper than you intended. “Can I ask where we’re going?” Do I need to pack to be gone forever?

“You can ask all you like,” he said. “But I reckon you’ll just have to trust me and see for yourself when we get there.”

That did nothing to settle your nerves, but he obviously wasn’t in the mood to settle them or anything else, so you didn’t press. As he left again, you forced yourself to do as he’d said and pack like you had some sense. The bullets were put back on the table holding his ammunition stock, and the quilt went into a different pack with some small things you thought you might need to make camp; the dresses were folded neatly, along with a nightgown, a hairbrush, and other personal articles into your pack. You dressed in a worn cotton shirt and jeans and braided your hair, pulling on your cowpuncher boots when you were done; when he came back into the room, he found you perched on the edge of the neatly made bed with your two small bags, waiting his direction, as calm as it was possible for a person to be.

He raised a brow. “You ready?”

“Yes, Arthur.” Maybe if you were as perfect and placid as a china doll, you’d stop bringing catastrophic damage with you wherever you went, and he wouldn't be so upset with you. It was worth a try, anyway.

He didn’t seem to know how to respond to this change in affect, and his only reaction was a vague frown hovering over his features.

“I saddled Ennis for you,” he said. “Reckon he could use some exercise, and I’d like you to have your own hoss just in case.”

You wanted to ask why you might need your own horse, but you didn’t. “Okay, Arthur.”

“Go on and get somethin’ to eat before we go,” he said. “I’ll pack and be down in a few minutes. Leave your stuff here, and I’ll bring it down for you.”

Skirting by him in the doorway, you were about to hurry down the steps when he stopped you.

“Here,” he said, taking off his jacket. “Hopefully the rain’ll let up by the time we’re leavin’, but I don’t want you soaked through before we even get outta here.”

You thought of many other times he’d given you his jacket, each one selfless and sweet. This time wasn’t sweet, necessarily, but it was still selfless, and you took it without protest even though you felt it was one more thing you couldn’t ever repay.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Sure.” He took his hat off and plunked it on your head. “Try an’ stay dry.”

Well-enveloped in his gifts to you, you went outside to the cookfire and ate hungrily of the stew Pearson had managed over the feeble flame. You thought it might be alligator, but you didn’t really care; you hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning, and it was hot and filling even if it wasn’t the most delicious thing you’d ever tasted. Grabbing three peaches, one for you and the rest for the horses, you made your way down the muddy slough of the path to the hitching post where Bucephalus and Ennis were saddled and ready, their coats shining in the watery, gloomy light. The three of you had your peaches, waiting for Arthur in the rain that was finally starting to taper off; when you finally saw him coming through the double doors, bearing your packs and wearing a less waterproof coat, you felt a thrill of nerves that only wound more tightly the closer he came.

“You need help gettin’ up?” he asked when he’d secured the packs to Bucephalus’ saddle. 

You shook your head. Ennis wasn’t overly tall, and you didn’t want to ask for Arthur’s help anyway; still, as you mounted, it didn’t escape your notice how Arthur hovered.

“The stirrups alright?” he asked. “Do I need to make ‘em any shorter?”

“They’re fine.”

He seemed to want to say more, but he only nodded. “Okay.”

“Do you want your hat back?” you asked, watching as he swung up into his own saddle.

He shook his head. “No. You wear it.”

Unwilling to argue, you clicked your tongue to get Ennis moving down the path between the posts of the stone entryway. He was a good horse, amenable to any rider who took the time to make friends with him; Sean had let you ride him sometimes, when Arthur was away and you didn’t have a horse of your own, and as you patted Ennis’ neck you hoped Sean would be happy you were riding him now.

Arthur still didn't say where you were going, and you didn’t ask. The rain finally stopped by the time you’d made it to Rhodes, and you thought of asking if you could go around the town instead of through it; you didn’t need to, as Arthur kept on the far side of the train tracks and brought you up a more roundabout way to Scarlett Meadows. You passed the faded path to Clemens Point, the road that wended east to the wooded cove he’d taken you to after that fight with the Lemoyne Raiders, then up to Dewberry Creek where you’d reunited the German family with their father. How different those places seemed to you than what you had now - you’d had no idea what fear and grief awaited you, and even then, you’d barely held up under the strain. 

You looked over at Arthur, tall and steady in the saddle on his big black horse, his tawny hair curling at the ends with the last of the rain, broad and strong and as unmovable as a mountain. If anyone had asked, you would have said it wasn’t possible for him to be hurt, not really. Turns out the only person able to really hurt him was you, and in your frantic, stumbling efforts, it seemed like all you did was continue to deepen the wound.

The hours passed in near silence, but the further you got from Shady Belle, the less you felt the crushing weight of everything that had happened there. The warm, cheerful sun finally broke through the clouds; the dense, flat humidity of Lemoyne gave way to the cool, dusty prairies of New Hanover. The air was redolent of sage and manzanita and yarrow, the countryside opening up to you in its plain, beautiful way that seemed to hide no secrets or sorrows. Tilting your head back to feel the sun on your face, you breathed deeply of the fragrant air and felt the rush of the breeze trailing through your hair.

“You wanna race?”

Looking over at Arthur, you saw him watching you with a light in his ocean-colored eyes that you hadn’t seen in a long time.

"Race?" you repeated, hesitant, not sure if you could trust what you saw in his expression. He didn't look angry any more, but you didn't want to say the wrong thing like you always did and make him upset again. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Thought it might be fun."

You didn't know what to say to that. The thought that he wanted to do something with you just for the pleasure of doing it made hope buoy in your chest, but still, you were careful.

"I didn't think we were going anywhere for fun," you admitted. "I thought you were..." You didn't know what. Really, you'd spent the whole ride so far wondering if he was taking you to the train station to send you miles and miles away from him after the things you'd done.

"Thought I was what?" he asked, almost teasing. "Takin' you somewhere to feed you to a pack of wolves?"

"You never know," you said warily.

He shook his head. "I didn't bring you out here to fight with ya or punish ya or anything like that. I just thought both of us would feel better gettin' outta the swamp for a while, and maybe we'd be able to figure some of this out between us. We've been so turned around we don't hardly know how to act with each other."

That was the understatement of the century, but you didn't mind him soft-pedaling it a little bit; just the thought of how "turned around" you'd gotten made you ill with regret. But even as he put it into words, you realized how different it was out here - there was something about getting out of Lemoyne, for both of you, that had scrubbed off the film of discomfort and tension that had lingered for so long it had started to feel permanent. Under the high, bright sun with the land wide open as far as the eye could see, there was some clarity and understanding and confidence that neither of you had felt in weeks. Even in Saint Denis, both of you had been hiding under the smog of the city, brass buttons and red ribbons, electric lights and cigar smoke and champagne. Out here, there was just the two of you and the sunshine - and you gripped the reins tighter and offered him a hesitant smile.

“Where are we racing to?” you asked.

“Horseshoe Overlook.” Bucephalus pawed the earth, feeling Arthur’s energy. “You know how to get there from here?”

“I think so,” you said. “Mostly just follow the train tracks, right?”

“Mostly,” he agreed. He gave you a crooked grin. “Just follow me if you ain’t sure.”

You couldn't help but laugh. “You’ll be following me, Mr. Morgan, I assure you.”

With that, you spurred Ennis into a run, and Arthur gave a ringing laugh of protest as he urged Bucephalus to match your speed. You leaned over Ennis’ neck, feeling his lithe strength and fluidity; he was a standardbred racehorse, built for just the kind of running you were doing now, and his long, smooth gait quickly built to a breakneck pace. Bucephalus was big and brave like his rider, but he wasn’t built for racing; still, under Arthur’s skilled hand, he was right on Ennis’ heels as you whipped up clouds of dust and trampled over the prairie grass growing along the train track.

As you came closer to Twin Stack Pass, you hesitated a little in an effort to make sure you were going the right direction; Arthur took his chance, pushing ahead, and you called out to him as you urged Ennis to keep up with him.

“Cheater!” you yelled.

Arthur looked over his shoulder and grinned. “You cheated first!”

Near the turnoff to Horseshoe Overlook, Arthur kept going down the river, and you followed in the exultation of the whipping breeze, the radiant sun, the flush of vitality and strength and joy that spilled from both of you in effortless waves. In the last straight shot down the hill, Ennis gave a powerful burst of speed that won you the race, and you splashed into the river with a triumphant shout and peals of laughter. The cool water rained down in diamond fragments, ducks and geese taking wing, the sun shimmering on the backs of hundreds of colorful fish; you caught your breath and gave Ennis a congratulatory pat, his sweat-slick coat gold-burnished in the sunlight.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Arthur said, panting a little as he walked Bucephalus over to you. He stopped when you were side by side, your horses facing opposite and the two of you face to face. “Guess I didn’t know how good a racer you were, lady.”

“You did, which is why you cheated,” you said primly. “And I still won, so take that.”

He smiled. “I’ll do my best. I’m just glad you didn’t lose my hat.”

“You’re the one who gave it to me,” you reminded him.

“I know. You look pretty cute in it. Maybe you should wear it more often.”

“Why, so I can pull it down low and intimidate people like you do?” You tugged the brim down to shade your face and put a hand to your empty holster, putting on a gruff voice. “Best you hand over the money, pal, a’fore I shoot ya full’a led.”

He laughed. “Been practicin’ that one, have ya?”

You took his hat off and handed it back to him. “I probably need a bit more practice before I try any robberies, huh?”

“Maybe so,” he agreed, but he still smiled at you as he brushed his hair back and put his hat on. “You feelin’ a little better, sweet pea?”

A dull blush reddened your cheeks, but you couldn’t deny that if that had been his plan all along, it had worked.

“Yes,” you admitted. It had been a long time since you did something just for the fun of it, and doing it with your dearest friend was a better medicine than anything in the world. Feeling more sure of yourself, more sure of his love for you, you were brave enough to say what you'd been so foolishly trying to work around at Shady Belle.

“Listen, Arthur...” You made yourself meet his eyes. “I’m sorry about earlier. I wasn’t thinking. Well, I was thinking, but it was...” You fiddled with the reins. “Stupid.”

“It was somethin’,” he agreed wryly. Then, sobering a little - “I was surprised more’n I was angry.”

“But you were angry,” you said. “Weren’t you?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was... well, yeah, I was a little angry. But mostly I don’t understand why you did it. It ain’t like you, sugar. I know you, and I know that ain’t the kind of lovin’ you want.”

“It’s not,” you said quietly.

“So why’d you try to do it that way?” he asked. “Help me understand. Did you think I expected anythin’ like that from you?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “No.” Arthur wasn't like that. “I guess... I thought you’d feel more like forgiving me if...”

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Ennis and Bucephalus bowed their heads to drink from the cool water that danced and sparkled and eddied around them.

“I’ve already forgiven you,” Arthur said. “You don’t hafta do anything extra to get that from me, girl. You know that.”

“But you didn’t say so.” Your voice was barely audible over the rushing water. “You said you believed me when I said I was sorry. That’s not the same thing.”

“Reckon not.” The saddle creaked as he adjusted his weight. “But I can say it now, so, I do forgive you. An’ I ain’t mad about all the rest of it any more, darlin’. I was too damn scared to be mad after you got sick like that.”

“But isn’t that...” You trailed off, wishing you knew how to say it. He waited patiently for you to speak again.

“I said something really awful to you, and then we were fighting about it, and it never got resolved because I got all hysterical and fainted.”

“Well, I don’t think you just fainted,” he said. “You had a real high fever. You were sick.”

“I know, but - ” You gave a huff, frustrated with yourself, a little frustrated with him. “I don’t think you should forgive me and forget about the whole thing just because I was sick.”

He raised a brow. “You want me to keep bein’ mad about it?”

“I want you to stop being so good to me.”

He reached his hand out to brush his knuckles over your cheek. “No can do, sweetheart.”

You looked at him with longing and heartache. “Arthur, all I do is mess things up between us. Saying I wanted to go back and change how we met, saying all those awful things about you and the work you do to take care of us, then trying to seduce you into forgiving me - I just can’t get it right. Everything I do is wrong.”

“I said the same exact thing to you when we were fightin’,” he reminded you. “I’ve been doin’ things just as stupid and clumsy and mean as anything you’ve done.”

“You didn’t say you’d rather we never met,” you said miserably.

He cleared his throat, and his voice was rough around the edges when he spoke.

“No, but I didn’t say anything that would make you think I was happy we did.” He brushed his big hand over your hair. “I’m sorry, lady. I’m sorry about all of it. Can you forgive me?”

“Yes,” you said, without hesitation.

“Then I forgive you too,” he said evenly. “It ain’t a competition, sugar. We’ve both been way outta sorts with each other, both of us sayin’ things we didn’t mean.”

“Did you mean it when you said I was right?” you asked. “You said that last night. You said I might be right about being better off with my father.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I was feelin’ pretty bad about treatin’ you like I did, for leavin’ when you needed me.”

He met your eyes. “But I like to think we ain’t usually as bad to each other as we have been. That us bein’ together makes things better, not worse.”

Your chest felt tight.

“It does make it better.” You took his hand. “Arthur, I’m sorry. For everything. I love you, and I think you’re a good man, and I don’t want to be with anyone else but you.”

He lifted your hand and kissed the back of it. “I love you too, sweet pea. An’ I reckon I don’t want to be with anybody else neither, not for anything in the world.”

[ellies-miller]

lady love — part thirty-three

Part Thirty-Three: Made for Mine — Before Shady Belle, before Colter, before any of it - you and Arthur were in Blackwater, and being with him was like finally being home.

Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader | Genre: fluff, h/c, angst | Word Count: 4.5k | Warnings: mentions of past abuse | Read on AO3 | Fic Masterlist

A/N: who doesn't love a special holiday flashback episode? i humbly offer this chapter with apologies for the delay since i've been sick, and i hope you guys enjoy a break from the trauma before it gets really bad lol!! <3

Blackwater, October 1898

Night was falling, and the moon hung like the globe of a golden hurricane lamp with delicate pattens etched across its luminous face in the pale, dusky sky. Switchgrass and wild rye bent gracefully in the chilly breeze, the longspur’s call of kityoo-trick-kityoo weaving with the trilling song of the crickets hidden in the tall grass; further off, near the dusty streets of town, the sounds of laughter and music could be heard as people gathered from miles around to join the festive air of Halloween night. You crossed your arms over your chest, wishing you’d thought to borrow one of the girls’ sweaters; you didn’t have any warm clothes of your own, having left them all behind at your father’s house nearly two months ago.

“You cold?”

Turning your gaze from the faint path that led away from camp, you looked over to see Arthur watching you with a kind, solicitous expression. You pinked, uncurling your posture and brushing your hair nervously behind your ear.

“No,” you lied. “I’m alright.”

He raised a brow, a gently amused smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “I think this is one of them things you say, ain’t it? Like when you wanna have more supper but you say you ain’t hungry, or when you burned your fingers on the coffee pot but wouldn’t ask anybody for medicine.”

Your blush deepened. Arthur was nothing if not plainspoken and stubbornly kind, especially when it came to you, and you still hadn’t figured out how to act around a man who could read you so clearly and yet didn’t want to hurt the vulnerabilities he found.

“I tell you what,” he said, saving you from having to answer. He shrugged off his buckskin jacket, leaving him in a handsome brown flannel shirt you’d mended recently. “I won’t make you wear this, but you ain’t allowed to shiver even once the whole time we’re out. Soon as you do, you’re puttin’ this thing on.”

As if on cue, the breeze picked up a little, sending a little shiver through you that you were helpless to hide. He grinned.

“See, now you’ve already gone and done what I told you not to do,” he teased. “Guess you gotta wear my jacket now.”

“Arthur,” you said bashfully. “I can’t take your jacket.”

“You ain’t,” he said. “I’m givin’ it to ya.”

He held it out so you could put it on, and though you were swimming in it, it was warm and smelled like him: tobacco, woodsmoke, castile soap, and fresh hay. He made sure you were snug, and you looked up at him with that same gratitude and gentleness he always brought up in you.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Don’t mention it. You need anything else, don’t be shy to let me know.”

The two of you had fallen behind the group a little as he coaxed you into his jacket, and you hurried to catch up to John, Abigail, and Sean. All of you were headed into Blackwater for the town’s Halloween festivities, given a free night by Dutch to explore the place you’d mostly been into for reconnaissance and odd jobs. Of course, if the opportunity presented itself, some pickpocketing or low-stakes thieving wasn’t out of the question for your group; still, the five of you were more than happy to put outlawry aside for the night and enjoy the simple pleasures of small-town life. 

The main street of Blackwater was decorated in colorful autumn regalia, wreaths and garlands of hay and golden buffalo grass adorning shop doors and windows, carved jack-o-lanterns flickering their cheerful grins from porch steps, cloth pennant banners in shades of orange, yellow, red, and brown strung overhead. A bonfire had been built at the intersection of the two main thoroughfares, serving as the hub of the gathering; ringed around it were street vendors, carnival games, and a jug band playing a rowdy, twanging reel.

Your gaze snagged on a small, colorful cart outside the general store, and you watched it for a moment trying to figure out what was inside the glass: a kettle-like contraption rattled and whistled, overflowing with white and yellow kernels of popcorn.

You tugged on Arthur’s arm. “I think that’s a popcorn machine,” you said excitedly. “I read about them a few years ago in the newspaper - they had them at the Chicago World’s Fair.”

“That right?” he mused. “Well, I reckon we oughta try it out.”

For a nickel graciously supplied from Arthur’s pocket, the vendor gave you a red and white striped bag of popcorn, and you and Arthur shared it as you walked around taking in the sights and sounds of the celebration. Though you’d been into Blackwater a handful of times since you joined the van der Linde gang, it was far busier now than you’d ever seen it, and you stuck close to Arthur’s side as townsfolk milled around and children ran pell-mell through the safe, enjoyably chaotic festivities.

At the end of Van Horn Street, facing the lake, an open section had been roped off for a shooting tournament. The boys dragged you and Abigail over to see the competition, earning more than a little good-natured groaning from the two of you, but you all were quickly drawn into the excitement: targets of all kinds, from clay disks to live pigeons, were shot out of the sky as competitors took their turns showing off their skill.

“Bet I could do just as well,” Sean said confidently after a round had ended, his fingers resting on the handle of his pistol. “What d’you say, Morgan, should we give these Englishmen a run for their money?”

Arthur grinned. “I’d like to see you try. Last time you tried target shootin’, we almost had to bury Uncle.”

“Wasn’t my bloody fault the old codger thought the bottles were full!” Sean retorted. “The hell kind of fool did he think I was, shootin’ at full bottles of whiskey ‘stead of drinking ‘em?”

Arthur laughed, and you looked up at his bright, handsome expression and felt your heart tilt.

“Come on, Morgan,” Sean cajoled. “Shoot a round with me.” 

“Reckon you’d need me to spot you the entrance fee, huh?” Arthur asked dryly.

Sean gave him a puckish grin. “I’d ask Martson before I’d ask you, you old skinflint.”

“Don’t look at me,” John said, amused. “Abby would have my head if I tried to pay for my own ticket in, let alone yours.”

“You can shoot if you want,” Abigail said, without even a little of her usual crankiness with him.

John’s brow shot up. “Really?”

She shrugged. “Sure.” She gave him a devilish smile, then. “Just so long as I can have as many candy apples as I want without you fussin’.”

“Deal,” he agreed eagerly. He kissed her cheek, and she pinked and gave a bubbling little laugh. You didn’t know what had put her in such a good mood with him, but John was evidently enjoying it, and you liked to see them enjoying each other’s company when things were so often fractious between them.

“You comin’, Arthur?” John asked.

“Reckon so.” He turned to you. “You alright if I go outshoot these fools? Shouldn’t be gone long.”

You smiled. “Yes. Good luck.”

As the three of them went to enter the competition, Abigail took your hand and led you to the rope barrier. You wouldn’t have been bold enough to try and muscle your way through the crowd yourself, but she did it happily, and you were glad you had her with you. 

Your boys were in the next round, and you and Abigail cheered and whistled as they took their turns. Sean shot as well as he always did, missing more targets than he hit, but he seemed to enjoy himself and took his friends’ ribbing with grace. John did very well, though he probably enjoyed Abigail’s cheering as much as the satisfaction of his sharpshooting. 

“You two seem to be having a good evening,” you teased lightly.

She gave you a lopsided grin. “Well, he’s still a lunkhead, but it’s a wonder what a night on the town and a roll in the hay beforehand will do for a woman’s mood.”

You blushed vividly, surprised and slightly fascinated at the plain admission. She laughed.

“Aw, I didn’t mean to embarrass ya,” she said. “But you know I ain’t shy about John one way or the other. He makes me madder’n a rained-on rooster sometimes, that’s for sure, but he damn sure shows me a good time when I ask him to.”

She wolf-whistled and called to him with a wave of her hand. “Say, who’s that big hunk of man shootin’ so well?”

Flustered and undeniably pleased, John was so distracted by her amorous call that he missed his last target. She laughed, a great big laugh that almost surprised you in its abundant merriment, and John grinned at her like she’d hung the moon. The first few weeks you’d been with the gang, you’d thought that Arthur must be overselling things when he said Abigail and John were a couple; but seeing them now, you wondered if they’d just been going through a rough patch. Nobody watching them now could deny how much they liked each other, and you were glad for whatever had eased the tension between them, even if you still blushed to think about it.

When Arthur stepped up for his turn, you watched in pride and wonder as he outshot every single one of his fellow competitors. You almost had the impulse to call to him like Abigail had to John - he certainly was a sight to behold, strong and broad, stunningly quick and blisteringly accurate as he hit every target dead-on. The crowd went wild, and you cheered along with them when he was awarded the ten dollar prize for winning the round.

“I didn’t know you could shoot like that,” you said, beaming up at him when he came to your side again. “That was wonderful!”

He smiled. “My one talent.”

“Oh, Arthur, that’s not true,” you said, meaning it. “I mean, you are talented at shooting, of course - but you’re good at lots of other things too. Hunting, riding, singing - ”

He laughed. “I’m gonna stop you there, honey. I can’t sing worth a lick.”

You liked that he’d called you a pet name; he’d been letting slip little terms of endearment for a few days now, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it meant he felt something more than friendship for you. You’d certainly felt yourself verging into more romantic territory when you thought of him or spent time with him, but you’d never dream of saying so - it was the first time you’d felt anything remotely romantic for a man in your life, and it brought a strange mix of excitement and nervousness that you weren’t quite sure what to do with. Besides, how could someone as brave and strong and handsome as Arthur Morgan feel anything more than friendship for someone like you? It was surprising and wonderful enough that he was even friends with you, and you’d not risk what you had by doing something as foolish as admitting what you were starting to feel for him.

Still, you let yourself enjoy the pet name, smiling up at him.

“Of course you can sing,” you said. “You were singing the other day while you were giving Boadicea a brush-down, and it was lovely.”

You couldn’t tell for sure in the twilight, but you thought he might have blushed.

“You heard that?” he asked. “And you thought it was lovely?”

“Yes,” you said with a laugh. “It was.”

His smile was bashful. “Well, thanks. Reckon I ain’t never been told my singin’ was lovely before.”

“It was almost as good as your shooting,” you said.

He grinned. “Now I know you’re joshin’ me. If I could sing half as well as I shoot, I’d be a famous opera star.”

The five of you went off to explore other corners of the festivities as you made your way back to the town’s center, Sean going to have a drink or several at the tables set up outside the saloon, you and Arthur walking down the row of game booths boasting fabulous prizes for ring tosses and ninepins and dart-throwing. John took Abigail out to the wooden dance floor and whirled her around, making her laugh as she hung on him, and you smiled as you watched them dance in the cool evening air.

Arthur nudged his shoulder against yours. “You wanna dance?”

You smiled. “I’m afraid I’m not a very good dancer.”

“Well, I ain’t either,” he said with a laugh. “But between the two of us, we might make out alright.”

He took your hand, leading you to the dance floor, and you felt a sudden thrill of schoolgirl giddiness to be pulled close to him as the band tuned their instruments for the next song. He was so handsome in the warm lantern light, strong and rugged and every inch a man; like a bird’s wings behind your ribs, your heart started to flutter in that way you’d started to feel every time you were near him. Nothing could be sillier - you were a fragile, painfully shy little thing, and he was a tough-as-nails outlaw who’d been kinder to you than you deserved in the weeks you’d been with the gang - but for a moment, with his hand on your waist and a smile showing at the corners of his twinkling eyes, you felt for the first time in your life you might know what it was to be in love with someone.

“I’ll go ahead and apologize for steppin’ on your toes,” he said. “I ain’t exactly the graceful sort, and I fear I’ll do more clodhoppin’ than dancin’ once we get started.”

You laughed, sure you’d step on his feet more than he’d step on yours, and the two of you began an enthusiastic whirl around the dancefloor as the band started to play “Little Maggie”. Arthur wasn’t half as graceless as he’d made himself out to be, leading you with a confident and playful ease as he sang along.

“Pretty flowers were made for blooming,

Pretty stars were made to shine,

Pretty women were made for lovin’,

Little lady was made for mine.”

You heard how he’d replaced Maggie’s name in the lyrics with “lady”, the name he’d taken to calling you, and the flush in your cheeks was from more than dancing. You were still thinking about it when the song ended, and you stood with one hand in his and the other on his shoulder, both of you catching your breath and looking at the other with a sense of shy, careful wonder.

“You ain’t a bad dancer at all,” he said sweetly.

You smiled. “Neither are you.”

Though another song was starting, neither of you moved from the careful hold you had on each other. The breeze tugged a wayward lock of hair over your face, and he gently tucked it behind your ear; your lips parted in soft expectation as you looked up at him with a softness and trust you hadn’t felt in years.

“Arthur...”

Before he could say anything, someone bumped into you from behind; jostled right into Arthur, you grabbed his shoulder as he steadied you with a protective arm around you.

“Easy,” he said. “You alright?”

“Yes, sorry,” you said quickly.

He breathed a surprised laugh. “Wasn’t your fault. But we should probably get off the dancefloor, unless you want another go-round.”

You didn’t know if you could handle another dance with any self-control; you’d been shamefully close to doing something outrageous with the last dance, like kissing him silly or asking him to marry you, and you didn’t think you ought to risk another.

“I’d like to try the cider,” you said, thinking that was a reasonable excuse. “If that’s alright.”

He frowned. “Now, I’ve already spent five whole cents on you, little miss,” he said sternly. “You’re sure askin’ a lot.”

You paled at the sudden shift in tone, feeling an overwhelming urge to run and hide before you’d even really registered what he said. Mortified, you realized you had already gotten a treat you didn’t need, and now you were asking for another like some ungrateful, demanding child.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, hoping to placate him before he got any more upset with you. You were always asking too much, taking up too much space, wanting more than you deserved. “You’re right. I forgot. I didn’t mean to - ”

“Woah, hey,” he said, his tone much gentler and concerned. He put his hand on your arm and met your eyes. “I was just teasin’, lady. You ain’t got anything to be sorry for.”

He’d been teasing you? As the rush of embarrassment and panic was met with that realization, you only felt worse for misreading him. Of course he’d only been teasing. How could you have thought he’d be upset with you over something like that, when he’d proven himself over and over to be so kind and generous?

“Oh,” you managed. You couldn’t think of anything else to say than what you always said, the constant refrain of the last few years that hadn’t made your father any kinder to you no matter how much you said it. “I’m sorry.”

He steered you off of the dancefloor, keeping a chaste hand at the small of your back until he found a spot out of the crowd to stand by the general store. The window display was lit with tin-can lanterns and flickering jack-o-lanterns, illuminating baskets of rosy apples and bolts of cloth and candy jars, and you looked at it like it was the most interesting thing on earth to keep from looking at Arthur.

“Lady?”

You turned away from him in a shamed, uncomfortable posture. “Yes?”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, honey,” he said gently. “I shouldn’ta teased you. I was only foolin’, but I didn’t think how it would sound to ya.”

“It was silly of me to think you were angry,” you said quietly. “I’m sorry, Arthur.”

“You ain’t gotta be sorry.”

You toyed with the long sleeves of his jacket, its warmth around you another reminder of his kindness. Worse than the thought that he’d been angry with you was the knowledge that you’d thought of him so poorly, even if it was a learned response from your father who always had been angry with you.

“We just got a little mixed up, is all,” he said kindly. “And I reckon you’re more used to folks actually bein’ angry with ya than just playin’ like they were, so I understand why.”

“Oh, Arthur...” You looked up at him then, his patience and understanding striking some unfamiliar, poignant chord in your heart. 

“I’m feel like I’m always getting mixed up,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to act around people who treat me decently. I always turn things into such a mess, especially things that are supposed to be nice. It’s just like that time you tried to tried to get those stupid leaves out of my hair.”

A few weeks ago, after you and Mary-Beth had been reading under a cottonwood at the edge of camp, Arthur had found you with a few of the tree's bright yellow leaves in your hair. He’d reached to take them out for you and you’d flinched violently, sure he was raising his hand to hit you just like your father would have for spending the afternoon in such laziness. Arthur had been miserable when you finally told him why you’d reacted so strongly to a simple act of affection, and you’d been ashamed and sorrowful that your first impulse was one of fear when he’d only ever been kind and gentle with you.

He scuffed a hand over his beard, thinking of that day and all the other little moments where you’d misunderstood jokes and acts of kindness from him and everyone else in camp who’d welcomed you in the weeks you’d been with them.

“Well, honey, you’ve been treated real rough for a long time,” he said patiently. “It takes some gettin’ used to, figurin’ out that folks here don’t wanna hurt you or make fun of you, but there ain’t one of us who don’t know what that’s like. Those of us as love ya... well, we’ll just do our best to keep showin’ it. I will, anyway.”

Your breath caught. “Show me that... that you love me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and gave you a bashful smile. “Yeah.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Here was this gentle giant of a man before you, shyly telling you he’d keep showing you he loved you as long as you needed him to, and it healed some crooked part of your heart that you’d always thought would never work right again. 

“Arthur...” You said it the same way you had after your dance, when he’d sang the words of a love song to you and held you close.

He met your eyes, and your heart did a somersault at the way he looked at you.

“Can I do somethin’ that might be kinda stupid?” he asked.

You couldn’t help a little laugh, endeared to his nervousness and just as nervous yourself.

“I guess,” you said softly. “What is it?”

He moved closer to you, and you looked up at him with your heart doing that same fluttering something it always did with him so near.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

Oh. 

You couldn’t find your voice, but you nodded, and he was slow and so very gentle when he ducked his head and pressed his mouth to yours. Like a flower opening up to the sun, you melted against him and felt some deep heartache mend at the feel of his arms around you, holding you close to him as he kissed you with every tenderness.

When you parted, you could do nothing but gaze up at him with your heart in your eyes, and he smiled at you like you were the most wonderful, precious thing in the whole world.

“Was that your first kiss?” he asked.

You pinked. “Why, was it bad?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “Wasn’t bad at all. I’m just mighty proud I got to be the one you gave it to.”

Feeling bold for doing so, you draped your arms around his neck, bashful, pleased, happier than you’d ever been.

“Thank you,” you said, then felt your face heat. “I’m not sure if that’s the right thing to say. Maybe I'm getting mixed up again.”

He chuckled. “I don't think so, sweet pea. Everything seems just right to me.” His thumbs traced little circles against your hips. “And you’re welcome. I’d be pleased to do it again just as many times as you want me to.”

“Could you...” You looked up at him, shy and eager. “Do you think you could do it again right now?”

You felt his smile when he kissed you again, a little more heat behind it this time, and it stirred something in you that was strange and deep and wonderful. Never had you imagined kissing to be like this, and the fact that it was him, your dearest friend, the man you knew from countless kindnesses to love you more than you’d ever thought you could be loved - it was a world of delights and tender pleasures so unknown and welcoming that you hardly knew what to do with yourself.

He cupped your face in his big hands when you finally came up for air, and didn’t have to wonder if he loved you when he looked at you with such tenderness and desire.

“You sure are pretty,” he said softly. He ran the pad of his thumb over your flushed cheek. “I love you, you know.”

You gave a shaky little sigh. “Say it again, please.”

He kissed your nose, your cheeks, your brow. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“Oh, Arthur.” You pressed your cheek against his, kissing the corner of his mouth, letting him hold you close. “I love you too.”

You stayed that way for a long while, lingering in the dreamy, patient intimacy of learning each other little by little, and you were glad he didn’t rush, that his hands didn’t wander, that he let you set the pace of this gentle exploration in the cold, beautiful night of music and laughter and golden moonlight. It didn't need defining, not yet - it was enough that you were together, that years of wandering had finally led you home to each other.

You could have kissed him forever, and you might have if you hadn’t heard the familiar, comforting sounds of your friends’ boisterous conversation coming your way. With bashful smiles and lingering glances, you and Arthur parted, both of you wanting to keep this newfound wonder to yourselves a little longer.

“Sean’s drunk,” Abigail said, swaying a bit as she hung on John’s arm. “I’m a little drunk. John’s a terrible dancer.”

He laughed. “I am not.”

“I am,” Sean said stoutly. He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Not a terrible dancer. But the other thing.”

“You don’t say?” Arthur said, amused. He put his arm over your shoulders, tucking you close to his side. “Well, I promised lady some cider, so if you three wanna stumble on over with us, we’d like to have you.”

“I ain’t stumblin’ anywhere,” John protested.

Abigail giggled. “Nowhere but the dancefloor.”

He put his arm around her waist and pulled her snug against him, much to her delight.

“You’re awful, Miss Roberts,” he chided.

“That’s Mrs. Marston to you,” she said primly.

He grinned. “That so? Well, that’s nice to hear. Reckon you must like me or somethin’.”

Sean groaned. “Lord, would you two houl yer whisht fer one feckin’ minute! All I’ve heard since you dragged me out the pub is how off yer haid you are for lobbin’ the gob on her, Marston. I’m pure scarlet just hearin’ ya.”

All of you burst into peals of laughter at that, getting the gist of his complaint even if half of his slurred Irish slang was gibberish to you. He grinned, proud to be the source of such amusement, and barreled his way towards the cider stand after Arthur had steered him in the right direction.

Over cups of cider wreathed in fragrant steam, the five of you stood by the cheerful warmth of the bonfire and listened to the band play a lonely mountain love song. Watching the sparks dance upwards towards the dark sky, tucked close to your friends, feeling the rumble of Arthur’s voice as he hummed along with the fiddle and banjo - you were struck with a deep gratitude simply to be alive, to have made it out of your father’s house, to be with people who loved you. That things as precious as these - laughter and apple cider and gentle kisses and chilly autumn nights - could be yours after so many years of grief and heartache... it was a miracle beyond telling, and you held the wonder of it close and thanked God for the gift of it.

Arthur pulled you snug to him, the crow’s feet by his eyes showing the ease of the smile on his beloved face.

“Happy, my girl?” he asked tenderly.

“Yes,” you said softly. You touched his cheek, and he turned his head to kiss your fingers. 

“And, Arthur...” You didn’t know how to say all that you meant, but you hoped he’d understand. “I’m glad I’m finally home.”

“Aw, lady.” He hugged you close. “I’m glad you’re finally home too.”

[ellies-miller]

lady love — part thirty-two

Part Thirty-Two: Nobody But a Fool — Arthur's scared to death that you're right about everything you said.

Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader | Genre: fluff, h/c, angst | Word Count: 3k | Warnings: canon-typical violence | Read on AO3 | Fic Masterlist

A/N: Another Arthur POV! I hope it captures what's going on inside that wonderful, messed up head of his and isn't ooc. Enjoy!

Running a hand over his face, Arthur stood for a long moment in the dusty road and listened to the wagon rumble off towards Shady Belle. The quiet was eerie, grating on his nerves that sparked like a live wire under his skin; only through a strong effort of self-control did he keep from looking over his shoulder, waiting for something to jump out that would break the tentative lull.

Nothing came, at least for now, and he slowly drew a steady breath, lit a cigarette, and took stock of himself. His entire body hurt. It always hurt, really, since he was always doing something dangerous and stupid, but this had been a rough one. He still didn’t think he’d recovered all the way from that thing with Colm, his ribs still giving him trouble, his left ear ringing or muffled at odd times, headaches more frequent; add onto it the bruising he’d taken crashing a huge metal box through the streets of Saint Denis with himself in the middle of it, and a dozen bullet-grazes from trying to outshoot every cop in the city, and he was as tired and sore as he’d ever been.

What a mess they’d gotten themselves into. Risking their necks for less than fifty dollars, pulling some hillbilly stunt in a city that had cops by the dozens, walking right into a trap laid by that slippery Angelo Bronte intended to put Dutch firmly in his place. Arthur was indignant, some of that ego he’d learned at Dutch’s hand rising to the surface after so blatant an attempt to get them killed or caught; but more than that, he was just irritated to be roped into another mule-headed scheme that made things worse instead of making them better.

He spat into the dust, trying to rid himself of the metallic taste of another close shave with death. For a long time, it hadn’t bothered him - he’d known since he was fifteen years old that his type met a quick, ignominious end on the wrong side of a gun barrel more often than not, and he’d settled himself to it long before this. It was only luck he hadn’t died yet, and for most of his life, he’d been content to play his hand for as long as his chips held out.

Now, though - it was different. Now he had something to live for, something to make dying a punishment rather than just another turn of fate. As soon as he’d laid eyes on you that night in Blackwater, he’d known he could never go back to thinking of death so casually. The more he knew you, the more deeply he loved you, the more he realized that he’d have to get out of this life before it killed him, if only to spend one more minute with you.

The waning light cast strange shadows from the skeletal trees lining the road, and he tossed his cigarette to the ground and put it out with the heel of his boot. He whistled to Bucephalus, hearing the distinctive heavy gait coming down the road; sheathing his rifle in the saddle, he allowed himself a groan as he pulled himself up onto the shire’s back.

He dithered for a while, occupying himself with giving Bucephalus a handful of grain, running a bandanna over his pistol, smoking another cigarette. He knew he ought to go straight home, but the thought facing you after what you’d said had him fighting the urge to ride in the other direction and get himself good and lost for a long while.

You’re not trying hard enough! I’m only in this mess because of you!

Your voice rang in his ears as loud as any gunshot, and the pain of it was twice as bad as any bullet he’d ever taken. The one thing he’d ever been proud of - loving you, helping you get away from your tyrant of a father, spending his time trying to make you happy and safe - all of it was worthless. At least, that’s what you’d said; if you’d meant any different, if it hadn’t finally been the truth coming out after all this time, he couldn’t tell. He was angry with you for saying such an awful thing, and he’d nursed the wound of it as he left and went to find Dutch; but more than that, more than any anger or hurt, he was scared to death that you were right.

You’d been very clear, despite the flush-drunk pink of your face, despite the glassiness of your gaze and the unsteadiness of your voice - you wanted to go somewhere safe, you wanted him to stop being at Dutch’s beck and call, and you didn’t want anyone else to die. What had he done when he left you other than do the exact opposite of the things you’d asked of him? The job was to get money for passage on a boat to some vague piece of land in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, not to go out west. It had been a bad idea from the beginning, and he’d still gone along with it despite that gut feeling, because Dutch had wanted him to. And he and Lenny and Dutch had nearly died. Like he was checking off a to-do list, he’d taken your three very plain requests and done his damndest to go against every single one of them.

Guilt and resignation gnawed at him as he urged Bucephalus down the road, not entirely sure he could face you after such a resounding failure. He almost hoped you’d knocked yourself out with enough drinking, giving him time to figure out how he could explain how badly he’d failed you, again - giving him time to think of how he was going to respond to the still acute pain of the worst insult he’d ever been given by the person he loved most in the world. If you hadn’t, well - he wasn’t known to back down from a fight, and a fight it would surely be if you were still as wound up and whiskey-soaked as you had been when he left.

Coming into camp, he wasted more time doing fussy little things: brushing down Bucephalus, asking after Dutch, putting some old belt buckles and watches he’d gotten forever ago into the lockbox. The more he thought of how stupid and dangerous that trolley job had been, the more he worried over whether you’d really meant it when you said you’d rather be back with your daddy then be with him, the more agitated he got. He’d worked himself into a fine fervor by the time he spotted you, and what he saw when he did made his entire world narrow to one singular target for the fear and anger and self-hatred that was eating him alive.

Micah hadn’t stood a chance, even as worn down and sore as Arthur was. Blow after blow, he’d punished Micah for daring to touch you, for turning Dutch towards greed and recklessness, for existing as a manifestation of everything Arthur had failed to fix. The mud, the sweat, the blood in his mouth - none of it mattered, and he would have killed Micah with his bare hands if you hadn’t stopped him.

He didn’t know what you fought about, not really. His head was foggy with one too many bashes, his ears thundering with the sound of his own heartbeat, pain radiating from every inch of him. He railed and cussed at you without thinking, without caring if he was hurting you - and he knew he did, because even if he’d been cold in the ground he could have read the expression on your face and the tone of your voice that told him you were hurt beyond endurance. Sean, Kieran, Micah, Dutch, Arthur - the horsemen of your very own apocalypse, each a staggering wound in their own way that might actually kill you if left too long without something to ease the pain of it. 

“Arthur, I - I can’t - breathe - ”

He’d felt his fair share of fear. A lifetime of fighting, robbing, killing, running - these things tended to rattle even the sturdiest of men, and he’d be the first to say he feared the consequences of giving and receiving violence, being caught, being killed. Nobody but a fool would deny it, and he was no fool.

But nothing, not in thirty-six years of slinging lead and dodging the law and facing down the most wicked and bloodthirsty of men, had ever scared him as bad as watching you go slack in front of him, your little hand on his arm, ashen, clammy, clawing for breath like a drowning thing.

He caught you purely on instinct, holding you limp to his chest as he looked down at you with wide-blown eyes and a panic too strong for words. 

“Lady?” he rasped. He shook you. “Lady!”

You didn’t answer, didn’t even move, and he thought his heart might be trying to come out his throat. You weighed practically nothing, wasted by grief and pain; when he felt frantically under your jaw for a pulse, it was faint, thready, jackrabbiting under his fingers. Unable to hear you breathing, he hauled your face close to his until he could feel your shallow breathing against his bruised cheek, and he felt you burning with fever.

“God almighty.” How long had you been sick? How much worse had he made it, leaving when you needed him close, yelling and cussing and fighting when you needed him to be good, dragging you to this cesspool of heat and brutality and death in the first place?

He scooped you up and ran, knowing exactly who he was looking for, exactly who to ask for help when his world was rolling underfoot like a ship tossed on the angry sea. Dutch may have been like a father to him, but he was Hosea’s boy, and it was to Hosea he went when everything seemed to close in around him.

His vision tunneled to that thin, greying frame he knew so well, and he brought you to Hosea with all the trust and innocence of a little child with a broken toy, knowing Hosea could fix it.

“I need your help,” he panted, his voice hoarse with pain and panic. “There’s somethin’ wrong, she - she just passed out and - ”

Hosea stood from his spot at the table, his bottles of medicine and plans for the bank forgotten, focused on Arthur with singular attention. A worried frown creased his brow, but he looked over you as you lay in Arthur’s arms with a clinical gaze.

“She’s burnin’ with fever,” Arthur said, feeling his heart try to beat its way out of his chest. He was woozy and plenty hurt himself, but nothing clamoured as loudly as the fear he felt over you. “We were fightin’, and all of a sudden, she just went out like a light. Said she couldn’t breathe.”

“Alright, Arthur,” Hosea said, calm and reassuring in a way that Arthur clung to like the last shred of sanity in this miserable world. “Let’s get her in bed. We’ll get her fever down and see what we can do after that.”

Arthur brought you upstairs, laying you in your shared bed like you were as fragile as glass and as precious as gold. The one good thing in his life, and he’d treated it like it was nothing - you were hurt something terrible, and he’d pushed and pushed until you were this pale, broken thing he’d never be good enough or gentle enough to love the way you ought to be loved. You were right. All along, no matter how hard he’d tried to make it any different, you were right.

Hosea came to your bedside and Arthur left him room to work, feeling as clumsy and stupid as an ox trying not to be in the way, hovering, nervous, listening to make sure you were breathing. He fetched water and washcloths, undressed you so you wouldn’t get too hot, did everything Hosea asked of him. He didn’t know the first thing about medicine besides a shot of whiskey and a few slapdash stitches, and as he watched Hosea rummage in his medicine box and give you what he thought best, he felt for the first time that he ought to learn what he could from Hosea before he couldn’t any more.

“What d’you think?” he asked when Hosea finally sat back on his heels. He waited like a man on a precipice, hoping the answer wouldn’t be the thing that pushed him over the edge.

Hosea ran a hand over his face. “She’s done in, Arthur. That’s really all there is to it, and something like that’s hard to treat.”

“But if she gets some rest, and we keep her fever down...?”

“She’ll be alright, physically.”

A wave of relief swept through him, so strong he was dizzy with it, and he finally drew a breath that wasn’t stilted with panic. 

“Thank you, Hosea.” If he said it, Arthur believed it was true.

“Of course.” Hosea pressed a few fingers to your wrist and seemed satisfied with what he felt. “But listen, Arthur - she doesn’t need to keep drinking like she’s been doing all day.”

Arthur grimaced. “She was still drinkin’ after I left?”

Hosea put his weathered hand to your brow, brushing your sweat-damp hair from your face.

“She’s hurting, Arthur. All this... it hasn’t been easy on her.”

That was the God’s honest truth, and he knew he hadn’t done anything to make it more bearable. What had he been thinking, leaving you after Kieran, knowing how sick and frightened it had made you? And for what, another failed job that only brought down more trouble on everyone’s head?

Arthur offered him a hand up, watching a flash of pain cross Hosea’s face.

“An’ how are you, old man?” he said, putting a little affectionate teasing into it to keep Hosea from getting his hackles up. “Things been easy on you?”

“Oh, I’m dandy,” he said wryly. “Just dandy.”

He rubbed hand over his chest, a telltale sign that his cough was worse, his pain more acute than usual. 

“I expect that job of Bronte’s went as well as could be expected,” he said mildly. 

Arthur shook his head. “It was worse. Dutch took a bad hit to the head, and we woulda got killed if it wasn’t for Lenny. Bronte set us up, put all the cops in the city on us before we’d hardly got in there.”

Hosea sighed. “I knew it wasn’t a good idea. But you can’t talk Dutch out of anything.”

Arthur ran a hand over his shoulder, feeling the pull of landing in a heap when the trolley crashed, hoping it hadn’t done some worse damage he couldn’t yet see. “Yeah, no kiddin’.”

“I’ll go see to him,” Hosea said. He met Arthur’s eyes. “Listen, son - I’m not trying to push in where I’m not wanted, but... you two were yelling to wake the dead. I know we’re not having the best run of it right now, but being at odds with her isn’t going to help. In fact, it’s going to make it worse.”

Arthur winced, loathe to explain his behavior to this man he loved and respected.

“I know,” he said. “Believe me. I... I licked Micah good, some for puttin’ his hands on her and mostly ‘cause I was mad at Dutch and the whole job, mad at myself. She’s what kept me from killin’ him, honest to God. And then we were fightin’, hollerin’ at each other about who the hell even knows what, and... I said some real ugly shit to her. I ain’t proud of it.”

“I didn’t think you were. And she wasn’t in any state to give you any comfort, I suspect.”

Arthur scuffed his boot against the scarred floor. “She said she wished she could go back to that night we found her, make it so that she didn’t come home with us.”

A grimace of sympathy crossed Hosea’s face. “That’s the grief and the whiskey talking, Arthur. She didn’t mean that.”

“Maybe she’d have been better off not comin’ home with us,” he said hoarsely. What had it gotten you but pain and sadness and more trouble than any of it was worth? “Maybe she’d be better off not bein’ with me.”

“Now, that’s not true.” Hosea’s voice was firm. “We saved her life, and you love her like you’re dying of it.”

He gave a choked laugh, watery and tight. “Feels like that, sometimes.” He looked over at you, guilt threatening to swallow him whole. “I don’t treat her like I ought to. I can’t give her what she needs. I’m too rough and stupid and mean to love her like she ought to be loved.”

A flicker of a smile lit Hosea’s expression. “We men often are rather clumsy in the ways of love, Arthur. Best just do what you can to be less clumsy next time, and if you know what she needs, do the work of finding out how to give it to her.”

It seemed too simple, maybe good advice for a spat over hurt feelings or something little, but he wasn’t just being clumsy with you. He was hurting you, and he knew it, and he almost wished Hosea would be a little more critical and harsh.

Hosea reached for his medicine box, and Arthur grabbed it for him, saving him the work. 

“You’re a good man, Arthur,” he said, direct and plain in his sincerity. “A few mistakes, even bad ones, doesn’t change that.”

“If you say so.”

Hosea patted his cheek in an almost motherly way. “I know so, boy. And I know you’ll fix it, no matter what mistakes you made.”

When Hosea had gone, Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle you. He wrung out a damp washcloth and smoothed it over your face, seeing clearly how shadowed and starved you looked, how very young you seemed as you wrestled with more fear and grief than any person should have to endure.

“Don’t feel like a good man,” he said quietly. Hosea’s words were a comfort, but they felt hollow in the face of everything he’d done, everything he’d said, everything he was. I hate you! you’d said, and even in the haze of fury, he’d felt it more sharply than any wound a bullet or a knife or a fist could give him.

“All that you said about me was right,” he said, the words sticking in his throat with remorse and lingering hurt and absolute confidence that they were true. “I ain’t nothin’ but a workhorse for Dutch an’ his crazy schemes, no matter how senseless they are. An’ I brought you down here to some place where it ain’t nothin’ but death and heartache, and I ain’t doin’ much other than makin’ it worse for ya.”

He cleared his throat against the tightness of tears. “I’m sorry, lady. I reckon it ain’t much better bein’ with me than bein’ with your daddy after all.”

[krill039]

A SECOND ARTHUR POV HAS HIT THE FANFICTION ｡(ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ｡

[zhongzichen]

[clunkyderp]

man, i need to relax. let me turn on my show where they all yell and fight and argue and shoot each other

[cece-says-stuff]

He looks absolutely disgusting in the best way possible. Filthy. Vile. Could still get it six ways to Sunday lmao

[mydeersopita]

that baby doesn't even look like me....