Arthur Morgan and the Van der Linde gang arrive in Saint Denis in search of Jack and their next big score.
Arthur begins a fraught, transactional arrangement with you, a greedy showgirl who works the vaudeville circuit at the Théâtre Râleur.
As he floats further adrift from the natural world and with the law breathing down his neck, he finds some solace in your bed. When the realities of his life begin to bleed through the curtain, you both must learn to make your peace with monstrous need.
-OR-
Arthur Morgan finds (temporary) respite.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x F!Showgirl reader
Warnings: 18+ sexual content, canon typical violence, racism, misogyny, food, toxic relationships, implied and former sex work, canon retelling, smoking, guns, implied infertility, slightly ooc arthur, tiny mention of bi arthur, implied/attempted sexual assault, smut in like every chapter, implied past addiction, implied past abuse, reader is described as foreign and dark
Moodboard credits: here, here, here
Series status: Ongoing
Ao3
ACTS:
ACT I: Arthur arrives in Saint Denis and finds his patience and restraint sorely tested.
affirmations they will not kill me at work today. it is not in my job description to get killed. if they did kill me at work that would be weird and probably not worth it for them
summary: your chronic pain is back and Charles waits for you to stop denying it so he can be here and support you.
pairing: charles smith x f!reader.
rating: general.
word count: 1.5 k or so.
warnings: it’s fluff. A little angsty maybe. Modern au. Reader has some sort of chronic muscle/joint disease. Don’t ask me what it is exactly cause guess what? I don’t know. They’re married. Reader has hair long enough to braid. Kissing. Mentions of nudity. That’s about it. Title by Paramore of course.
a/n: English isn’t my first language. Dividers by @/aquazero I wrote this at 4 am because I can’t sleep because of the pain lol. So no proofread. It’s a very personal piece, but hey self indulgent mini fic is what fanfic writing is about after all. I hope you like it if you read it. If it doesn’t sound relatable it’s okay too. At least it felt good writing it. And now I am going back to sleep. See ya ✨💓
"You aren’t tying your hair up ?"
An innocent but loaded question. Charles observes you from accross the room, like a man who already knows the answers but wait for your dance of lies to start veiling up the truth.
How can he not know ?
He had noticed the slight changes all week long. The headaches, the fatigue. You became incapable of staying seated on the couch and watch the tv past 9 pm. You take 5 breaks an afternoon to lie down in your bed.
But what struck him is the way your hands started to stop functioning. You can’t open a bottle of water, you can’t do the dishes anymore. You dropped a plate earlier tonight and you never do. Charles said nothing seated at the table, pausing with his fork still in the air and watching you silently curse yourself. No veggie, no meat. Because you can’t even cut it. You wince each time you stand up or walk down a step. It’s easy to miss for those who don’t pay attention. But Charles is your husband. He pays attention. He notices. He knows.
You became slower. Twice the amount of time to get ready in the morning. You lost your balance and bruised your hipbone against the counter trying to put on your socks without having to sit down.
He saw you crying as you washed your hair on Wednesday like you usually do. You said the shampoo bottle fell on your feet when he asked about it. Another white lie. He keeps tabs on them a lot lately.
You put on your bra the reversed way this morning. Charles frowned and asked about it too, toothbrush in his mouth, knowing fair well that he had never seen you coming out of the bathroom with your breast uncovered before. And he have been living here with you since you got married 8 months ago. You do things a certain way, not one prone to changes.
But everything changed this week and he noticed.
The tears staining your cheeks after an abrupt move. The frustrated sighs escaping your mouth as soon as you reach your new limits, the useless pills you swallow day and night. The emergency ones in your bedside table you still haven’t tried…
"You haven’t tied your hair up?" Charles asks again, eyes never leaving your frame as you feign to put your hair behind your shoulder.
But you twist your wrist the wrong way and the pain shooting through your elbow forces you to wince. It’s sharp. It takes more than a minute to stop.
Charles waits patiently, walking closer to your side of the bed.
He had never seen you sleep with your hair untied before. Especially when the temperatures are so high outside. It would prevent you from sleeping. The strand of hair tickling your cheeks as you lay on your pillow. He knows you hate that because you told him when you asked him that exact same question yourself the first time you shared your bed with him.
"What?" You ask back, eyes rising on him in confusion.
He stares at you now, intimidating, standing up before you, arms crossed on his chest. A silent dare, heart breaking a little at the fact that you aren’t sharing your struggles with him… how can his own wife not trust him enough to let him in on this hard truth?
"Lost my hair tie" you say after a while, offering him the least convincing smile he ever saw on your face.
"I got one right here" he is quick to roll the elastic band down his wrist and hold it out. He doesn’t want to rub you up the wrong way… but he sees the irritation in your eyes as you reach for the tie.
He can’t believe you are going to try to sit through the pain right under his scrutiny instead of asking for his help.
You don’t roll the hair tie all the way down to your wrist like you usually would. You managed to raise one elbow behind your head but your fingers struggle to wrap around the hair you gathered in a lose bun. Too lose to be really helpful anyway.
Charles sighs as he waits for you to admit your defeat.
You drop your arm slowly back on your knees. It’s not natural either the way you are holding your limbs up. Your shoulder are tensed and hunched forward, you rest your hands palms up towards the ceiling, but your elbows are arched weirdly. You can’t bend them. You can’t completely extend them either.
Charles grabs the hair tie from your motionless hands and sits right behind you. He gathers your hair delicately in his hands, let the pad of his fingers brush the sides of your neck, like he usually does when he plays with your hair before you fall asleep.
"I can’t" you finally say. There it is.
The silence stretches between you two. Charles is quick to finish his handiwork. Your braided hair is gathered in a bun. His hand rests on your shoulders. He holds you there, the warm feeling of his skin against yours, of his chest against your back.
"I know. I’ve noticed. How bad is it right now ?" Charles finally says, standing back up to face you. He just wants to make sure you aren’t lying again.
"Bad enough that the pills aren’t working. I don’t know what I am going to do Charles. I am just so tired" You confess, the last restraint slowly breaking down. Silent tears slide down your face.
Charles kneels down before you, and cups your cheeks in his hands.
"You gotta let me help you. You can’t hide this from me"
You nod, a sob escaping your lips.
"I just.. I don’t want this to start again. It’s going to take months to calm down… I am too exhausted for this pain to start again"
"I know. But I am here. I can try to make it less exhausting, I can handle things for you, I can help. Let me carry you through this for once" His eyes are pleading for yours to see that you don’t have to go through this alone. Not anymore.
He wishes he could find the reason why, why it’s happening again, why nothing is working to make it stop, something real this time. Not the "you are too fat, too anxious, you don’t exercise enough" reasons doctors always give you. "It’s not serious enough or why are you staying in such pain? We don’t know but it could be this or that. It can disappear forever or turn into something worse" He wishes he could pull you out of this medical limbo, once and for all.
In the meantime he will stay by your side, and hold you when you can’t stand by yourself. With his strength, with his patience, with his love.
"Okay" you simply mutter, your hand raising weakly to cup his face. You can’t really mold your fingers against his cheek like you usually do. But the faint touch of your skin on the scar carved on his face makes his heart skip a beat.
"No more hiding and no more lies" Charles states, leaning closer until his forehead touches yours.
"I promise" You whisper against his lips.
Charles kisses you slowly, careful not to put too much of his weight on you.
"I am sorry I am not a physician" He says with the most serious expression as he parts from you.
"I wouldn’t have married you if you were one, they are incompetent"You laugh, slowly laying on your side.
"I would have been the only exception" He replies, switching off the light before joining you in bed.
"Physician or not I am very lucky to have you by my side" You look at him with a soft smile and Charles leans down for a kiss.
He sits up in the dark and lets his hand caress your hair, your forehead, your naked shoulder. He probably won’t fall asleep so early but he can stay here with you.
"You okay?" He asks when he hears you humming, afraid that he might have inflicted you pain.
"Yeah… I am just going to pass out soon if you keep doing this"
"Good. You need to rest."
You close your eyes as his fingers resume their dance on your skin, and enjoy the feeling of the pain dying down for a fleeting moment.
Modern Arthur is something that can be so personal. @stupidgaynerd thank you for asking me about this! It made me rub my last two brain cells together.
The first thing I mentioned was that John and Arthur had been in foster care together. In my mind palace, Arthur and John met when John was a new placement, and Arthur was ageing out of the system
I think Arthur would have been troubled and always getting into scrapes and shoplifting, but he buckles down and finishes high school.
Maybe Dutch and Hosea own a business together, a bar and Arthur becomes one of those employees has nowhere to go for Christmas and Thanksgiving and just ends up at Dutch and Hosea's with their collection of strays. Arthur gets Eliza knocked up and she moves out of state. Then she and Isaac die, a car crash.
John absolutely idolised him as a kid and Arthur comes to view him as a little brother. He keeps a little photo of them when he moves out. They reconnect after John ages out of foster care. He's a little resentful of John, but still takes him under his wing. He helps him get a job, he shows him all the things he had to learn by himself. John meets Abigail and Arthur is consistently frustrated by the way he treats her.
I also think Dutch and Hosea's bar sort of becomes a home for peculiar children and Arthur mother hens the lot of them. Flat tire? Tilly calls Arthur. Creepy guy won't stop bothering Karen at the bar? Sic Arthur on him. Too drunk to drive home? Sean calls Arthur. Eventually the bar doesn't really cut it for him so he picks up the occasional shift and starts contracting with John and Charles.
Stupidly helpful. He gets himself involved in all sorts of things unintentionally. He coaches girls' football, he fixes up all the ancient appliances in the nursing home at a reduced rate, and the old ladies are obsessed with him. Arthur shows up with a car seat when the very unprepared John has a baby. He picks up strays and drives them to the shelter.
Relationships are also difficult for him and he is quite reserved initially.
Affectionate in his own, distant way. He makes an effort once you start getting closer and planning a future. Initially, he's sort of one of beaten up tom cats. You say you like apples, he brings you a giant crate of them, you say you want him to down on you, he's doing it till his jaw locks. But God forbid you ask him to use nicotine patches instead of smoking, or ask him to Please Eat A Grilled Cheese before he gets drunk so he won't have a hangover. Eventually he does try the nicotine patches and goes so ham with them that he complains about being dizzy all day, you pull back his collar and he has about ten patches stuck to him.
Likes photograpy! He still sketches and doodles and writes but he uses his phone camera to take photos of things he finds interesting. You become the subject of these after a while. Photos of you eating cereal, or reading or smoking. You gift him a proper camera and he immediately jams the storage by taking 5000 photos of you.
He also likes to collect oddities. A cool rock is coming home with him, he calls Charles about an injured bird. He finds an abandoned action figure and washes it in the sink to take home with him. His bag is filled with all sorts of strange shit. He displays these all on a shelf at home.
He listens to dad music but is also a big Amy Winehouse fan. He hums Valerie in the shower when he thinks you can't hear him. For films and and tv, he loves shit like Pawn Stars and gets invested in the occasional Say Yes to the Dress episode. He also likes Bear Grylls and watches TLC cooking shows religiously.
One of my friends hooked up with a guy who was the owner of a Jeanket. What is a Jeanket you might ask? It's a duvet made of…jean. It's NOT on his bed but he has one for the bed of his truck. It's been defiled many times.
Arthur's not a huge reader in the game but I imagine he likes being read to. He picks a book or even an article and puts his head in your lap. He promises he's following along but he conks out pretty fast. If he does read, he likes Westerns, the occasional short classic.
Also hates going to sleep mad. Despises it. Will give you a resentful kiss on the head and roll over. (Once he's committed, of course.)
Also I'm a Arthur is sexually reserved truther so some of that translates to the modern au? I think he struggles to open up to people but once in a while when he's drunk enough he will have a one night stand.
For touch tank relationship I had originally conceptualised it as Arthur is reader's kind but closed off fuck buddy (might still write this, stay tuned) but as I wrote it, it felt a lot more intimate than that? So it's sort of understood that he's hers and she is his.
I've got a few more but will shut up now. Also these are just like my mind palace headcanons its all just fun and games. Thank you for your lovely comments and also for asking me this! I had fun.
But firstly, I really do adore the foster care headcanon and how that stays true to them being orphaned at a young age and ending up brothers by choice or really just because of close proximity lmao
And wait oooo I like how you incorporated the yes-man tendencies from Arthur into this au with him still doing everything to help anyone at anytime! and him getting involved in all sorts of things is just like the stranger missions I LOVE THAT
Him being so willing to help everyone else but himself ugh this man
“Likes photograpy! He still sketches and doodles and writes but he uses his phone camera to take photos of things he finds interesting. You become the subject of these after a while. Photos of you eating cereal, or reading or smoking. You gift him a proper camera and he immediately jams the storage by taking 5000 photos of you.” <- Favorite headcanon by far because yesss I’ve always thought Arthur would love photography. there is that camera in his satchel👀
Ohhh he would love pawn stars that is one of those headcanons that just makes sense in a way that is like I don’t even know why but it just does He would be hate watching so much reality tv, I could see him making fun of people on Survivor but secretly planning to apply cause he is confident he’d win which honestly now that I think about it Arthur would excel on Survivor he’d definitely win or get close to winning, he’s also such a likeable person I could see him convincing a lot of people on the jury to vote him in the end no matter how sneaky he has been behind their backs
And honestly with a lot of your headcanons I’m almost wishing this was a sitcom, modern Arthur’s life would be such a good sitcom
A JEANKET IS WILD😭😭😭 and Arthur would def have one lmao anyone who sees it is just like “why do you own this” and it’s all dirty and stained so they’re even more disturbed
I love the reading headcanon I do think Arthur would indulge in a good book from time to time, I always love to imagine him reading some of these vintage romance novels I own. HE MIGHT GENUINELY LIKE THOSE he would be all secretive about it too and if anyone figured out they’d tease him lovingly and he’s like “no! I wasnt reading that” and marybeth is the only one he tells the truth about this guilty pleasure of his because she’d be sourcing him with them, this could be accurate to canon Arthur too honestly
butttt this made me think about Arthur going book shopping for jacks birthday and not knowing what to get, he’s losing it in a Barnes and Noble and complaining about the prices. Or it’d be the absolute opposite and he has a long ass lists of all the books Jack has mentioned and if reader is a big…reader (haha) he would be looking for them too and know exactly what they want. He’d still be complaining about the prices though. Also i just remembered that Barnes and Noble is only in the US😭 I apologize but this applies to any book store really
“For touch tank relationship I had originally conceptualised it as Arthur is reader's kind but closed off fuck buddy (might still write this, stay tuned)” <- oh em gee YES PLEASE PLEASE WRITE IT🙏 I love unclear and messy relationship dynamics ehehehehe and i need more touch tank vibes…. That fic seriously lives in my head and the scenes are on replay every night
I love all of these it just feels like you took the different missions and challenges we can do and the different weird collectibles we can find and made it all modern, and I adore that. Also everyone is so much smarter than me when it comes to thinking up things for modern aus so I just sit back and gush about the headcanons cause you all understand this man on such a deep level. But thank youuuu for taking your time and sharing these with us!!! I had so much fun reading them and if you ever just wanna chat about headcanons my dms are always open and I’m always willing to listen
No worries about a late response I’m always on tumblr because I spend most of my life on public transport.
Omg the headcanon about buying Jack and reader books is so so cute. It didn’t even cross my mind but it’s so Arthur fulfilling all the little camp requests. I have a COLLECTION of romance novels and I think you’d come back and Arthur would be reading some shit like My Mafia Baby Daddy and be like 👁️👄👁️ when you catch him.
Jeanket was actually one of the most flabbergasting experiences the poor guy went to take a piss and my hg facetimes me absolutely swaddled in the Jeanket.
Also I can’t help myself and have a follow up WIP to tough tank where Arthur breaks his arm and also a messy fwb modern lh Arthur semi outlined
You are so smart and I’m all ears for any headcanons Arthur or otherwise (Molly?👀 If you want no pressure at all)
But same here! Dms and asks always always always open for my moots or anyone who wants to chat and I had so much fun thinking about these. I spend so much time on transport that it’s fun to make little notes in my filofax and take them here later.
There's straight up no such thing as an apolitical fandom space btw, there are participants in fandom who are privileged enough to not notice the politics, and there are people who, if they speak up about bad experiences in fandom, are Making It Political.
jaime rushed through the long corridor, tracking the frantic clatter of heels echo past pale red stone walls and flitting servants. his long coat hem flapped with a rapid, snapping cadence that matched the heavy thud his boots doubled, sword swaying sharply at his hip as he rounded the corner.
ungloved palm scraping against the rough stone surface, fair skin turning a sensitive pink, yet the sting didn't bother him in the slightest. breath escaping his open mouth in a hurried pant as a stray sunbeam caught the fabric of your dress skirt just as you swayed around another turn into a connecting corridor. still, he pressed on, refusing to lose his trail, almost elbowing a vase.
“lord's — jus' slow down and listen to me” he rasped, and you deliberately quickened your pace, but the effort was entirely futile against a man trained from his youth to wield a blade and lead men into battle. his strong hands clamped around your waist just as you attempted to break away, spinning your body around so suddenly that your feet slipped. mouth falling open in a gasp before your features twisted into a defiant scowl.
his annoyingly handsome face was right there in your space, lean chest heaving from the chase. cheekbones flushed a deep, ruddy red, and his thumbs dug firmly into your ribs. you writhed deliberately, trying to drive your heel into his boot while swinging your hand up to strike, only for your wrist to be caught instantly in the unyielding grip of his sword calloused palm.
“you said enough, jaime” you snapped, all hiss and bared teeth. his head tilted in response, palm catching your second wrist the moment you attempted another swing. with both your hands hoisted high and held fast in just one grip, he was free to lay his other hand against your hip. cupping the curve through the layers of your gown, pressing his body so close that you were driven back, cornered flat against the stone wall.
your spine straightened, and you shot him a fierce, venomous glare from beneath quivering eyelashes. a slow grin curled the very corner of his thin lips, stretching wide enough to expose a flash of a sharp canine. angular jaw shifting and cheekbones sharpening as his emerald eyes smoldered with a wicked amusement, drawing his brows into a lazy arch.
the hand on your hip sliding higher, sweeping across your waist and toward your chest before disappearing behind your back to find the delicate notch of your spine, digging in just enough to send a shudder through your entire figure.
“bu' i am apologizing, am i not?” you heard his purring voice, a deep cadence that felt entirely infuriating. yet his face had already dipped to your collarbones, gaze locked onto the angry rise and fall of your plump breasts within the tight corset at your every breath. bristled jaw scruffing across your tender, oil scented skin, looming frame shielding you completely from any passing eyes.
his lips trailed a path upward, pressing lingering kisses towards your bobbing throat, breath searingly warm and carrying the faint, sweet tang of honey. you were still furious, very much so, your fingers straining against his grip to dig your nails into his hand, yet a sweet, melodic whimper escaped your lips the moment his teeth nibbled playfully at your shoulder. his hips shoved firmly against your thigh, leaving no doubt of the hard, tightening swell against his trousers seam.
“i'll bite your nose off” you mumbled, the breath leaving your lungs far too soon as his tongue soothed the bitten flesh at your shoulder. you writhed against him, hips twisting helplessly as sudden warmth flooded your undergarments, cunt dripping slick from undeniable arousal. jaime only laughed, a low, resonant rumble that sent a tremor straight to your belly, knotting in like threads, and pressed on, forcing his knee between your thighs until your legs surrendered to accommodate his weight.
you ground down against the firm muscle roped beneath his trousers, whimpering from the sharp friction against your pulsing clit. feeling his sharp smile against your skin before you tilted your head back, meeting his heavy, almost glazed gaze. blonde brown strands falling into viridian eyes, but there was no masking the way his pupils had dilated like lion's. hips rolling in sloppy rhythm, humping against your leg like some common dog.
the moment he released one of your hands, sore from his grip, your fingers immediately sought his nape, weaving into the thick strands of hair and tugging hard just to hear him groan.
“i'll moan, then” and he does, the low sound vibrating against your skin right as he nuzzles into your cleavage valley. releasing your other hand only to reach down and claim your ass, palming at the swell, hoisting you upward against him. you no longer cared, utterly forgetting what had even made you angry, or how you might look into the shocked eyes of a handmaiden who could stumble upon you two at any moment.
he dropped heavily to his knees with a hasty, loud thud, sword sheath scraping the stone floor, leather boots creaking under the strain.
his golden hair, messy and gleaming where the spilling sun caught it, vanished beneath the folds of your skirts as he wasted no time bunching the fabric out of his way. calloused palms wrapped around your thighs, fingertips sinking deep into your skin, completely obsessed with the plush warmth of your body against his weathered, scarred hands.
you muffle your moans behind a palm as he feasts upon your weeping cunt, crooked nose digging just below the puffy nub, tongue trapped between contracting, spongy walls, slurping at your spilling slick with guttive groans.
barely allowing him to help you adjust your undergarments and smooth the creases at your gown before eagerly tugging at his hand. with your fingers tightly entwined, you urged him down the corridor toward your chambers privacy. wet shimmer lingering upon jaime’s chin as he slowly licked the trace of your taste from his lips, a taste you would share with him, hours later, while straddling his cock in the bed's gloom.
Ugh I’ve been clocked out of GOT for so long but you might have just reignited sm.
Firstly this is going to sound so weird but I like how all the characters you write fuck differently? Like I run into the issue where smut just sounds like smut and all the characters blend and I’m left sad. But each character you write is so discernible. If that makes sense. Each action is in character.
“dilated like a lions” and “like some common dog” I’m obsessed with this comparison and it’s so wonderfully Jaime.
I also love how receptive he is to her being a little mean. Very canon adjacent he’s a little into that I think.
The little GOT typical quirks woven throughout are great, it feels like a scene pulled straight from the show. The details about the sword sheath and the boots, it flows so nicely.
The last bit about the bed’s gloom and reference to a future encounter is so succinct but might be my favourite part, it just tells of a larger more complex character dynamic. If you ever chose to write more for him I would be SEATED.
Pairing: Epilogue Charles Smith x F!Reader/ Former Arthur Morgan x F!Reader
WC: 7K
Summary: Arthur is dead, and the years are long.
Warnings: 18+ sexual content, piv, unsafe sex, oral sex, hand jobs, grief, pregnancy (don't boo me!) canon typical violence, racism and misogyny, death, animal death, sickness, photo credits here, here, here
A/N: This is a continuation of my fic I miss the sun, he knows. If this doesn’t go in a direction you were expecting, that makes two of us! But I have to post, or I'll keep stewing in self-doubt. I hope you enjoy it and consider letting me know what you think.
1899, Wapiti Reservation
"Stay here. Help Charles, help them."
"Stay? You piece of shit."
You wish you could hit him. The arm that you are sure is broken has been strapped to your chest, and you cannot. Arthur's face is exhausted, worn with grief. Eagle Flies lies dead behind the veil of the tent, and the air is thick with the song of mourning. He does not flinch, and Charles turns away, muttering that there is much to do. So it is just you and Arthur, standing on the ruined camp.
"Please. Please, I'll come with you." You are begging, now. Folding your good hand into his worn jacket, you clutch at him. "My arm is fine. I can ride and—"
"Sweetheart," Arthur says, patience lacing every word. His bloodshot eyes are soft with affection "You're hurt." He peels back the fingers fisted in his lapel and flattens them over his heart. Each breath rattles through his lungs. His heartbeat, once steady and reassuring, is erratic against your palm.
Sighing, he gathers you to him, curling his arm around your good side. He threads his other hand through your hair, cradling your head to his chest. Your cheek moulds to his heart. You let him protect you with his body for the last time.
He's so thin. He needs to eat more.
. . .
1902, Cumberland Forest
The throat under the steel toes of your boot swallows with fear. The muzzle of your gun presses hard into the skin of a liver-spotted forehead. Just an old man. You wait for pity to pierce the crocodile-hide of your heart. It doesn't. Grinding the tip of your boot into the paper-thin skin of his neck, you watch as he splutters. Droplets of spittle coat the toe of your boot and soak his tobacco-stained moustache. This putrid show of weakness sends a wave of revulsion over you. You press the gun into his forehead so far back that it smushes the back of his rotten head into the dirt.
"He's no good to us dead," Charles says mildly.
"Ain't no good to anyone alive." You ease the pressure of the gun back.
"Three hundred dollars seems like a pretty good reason to keep him alive."
William Randall. Killed his young wife, killed his children, too. Then lit off to live like a wild man in the woods. A three-hundred-dollar bounty for a man approaching his seventies. Wanted alive so the good people of Valentine can see the Sheriff enact justice. Light work for you and Charles. Apparently not.
You look back at Charles. He stands, quite at ease. The ends of his long, dark hair lift in the wind and pieces come loose from the cord, pulling it off his face. They drip into the collar of his coat. His face is unreadable. You take your boot off the old man's chest, and he coughs. Chest rattling, he curls in on himself, coughing and writhing. You flinch violently at the sound, and your grip falters on the gun. Before you can gather your wits, Randall yanks the knife from your boot and a starburst of pain explodes on your shoulder. It sends you reeling back. The old bastard is spry. Charles is on him in a moment, dragging his body up and slamming him face down into the dirt.
You groan and drag yourself up.. Charles has his knee planted on the old man's thin back. Blood soaks into your old duster coat. Arthur's old coat. Charles turns his head to look at you, his brow knit.
"I'm fine." You call. "Just my shoulder. He slashed it." You lift yourself from the mud, pressing the heel of your palm, trying to stop the slow spread of the blood over your coat. The mud soaks into your breeches, cold and slimy. Charles grabs Randall by the wisps of grey hair covering his skull and holds his hunting knife to his throat, beads of blood collecting at the razor edge.
"Want me to kill him?" He looks at you, solemn as an owl.
"Nah. Like you said, no good to us dead." You manoeuvre yourself to your feet, and with all the strength in you, kick the old man's jaw sideways.
Charles ties the man up, lest he wake up and try to escape. Fat chance of that happening with a broken jaw and the ankle Charles obligingly shattered. You lean against Guinevere heavily, and she noses at you, anxious. A little blood drips onto her silken red coat. Your initial assessment was correct; it is just your shoulder. But the blood loss makes your vision swim. Charles turns into an amalgamation of colours, blending in against the backdrop of the woods. Once Randall is stowed on Taima, who paws restlessly, he catches your elbow. You hadn't even realised your knees were trembling.
"That's a lot of blood." His voice is calm. Carefully, he peels open the collar of the coat and feels along the wound. His hand is warm, and you watch minute movements of his jaw as he checks you for any serious injury. From his saddle bag, he takes a clean rag and, with a soft apology, tourniquets your arm. You gasp and clutch at the frayed sleeve of his coat. Murmuring soothingly, he adjusts your wrist against your side so you do not jostle the wound.
"Think you can ride?"
"'Course I can ride." You scoff, and then wince as speaking jostles you. He does not contest this, but helps you onto Guinevere all the same, boosting you up with his hand braced on your calf.
A six-mile ride feels like six years. Your vision swims, and a steady drip of blood is pooling under your coat. You fist the reins and blink hard. Every rock and ditch makes itself known to your shoulder. Even the sway of Guinevere's flanks makes you gag a little, your head stuffed with cotton.
"Camp here tonight. I can ride into Valentine tomorrow to deliver. You can rest."
"So you can claim all my money?" You giggle very unseriously. Charles's brow knits with concern.
"I wouldn't." He says quietly. "But we can wait to deliver him, I was only worried his heart would give or somethin'."
You feel rather foolish, looking at his serious face. The blood rushes to your head, and when you dismount, he is there to catch you. Gratefully, you slump into the circle of his arms. He's warm, and the fabric of his coat is rough against your cheek. Charles's breath comes quick and panicked against your hair, but when he speaks, his voice is steady as ever.
"Could use a few stitches. Still bleeding."
You find yourself eased onto the ground and steered into a sitting position. When you slump into the broad bulk of his shoulder, his arm goes around you, and you feel his flask against your lips. The whiskey in it burns against your mouth pleasantly. He is talking, low but urgent. You cannot make out words, only the deep rumble in his chest. He smells like smoke and leather. Familiar.
Drifting, a velvety sleep overcomes you. The quiet, even voice in your ears turns gravelly and accented. The hands on your face and hair do not touch you impersonally, like a carer's. Instead, it is a lover's touch. You go, willing.
You wake to the crackle of a fire and a piercing pain in your shoulder. Blearily, you get your bearings. Charles sits across the fire, a piece of wood and a carving knife in his hands. Wood shavings curl into scrolls, falling at his feet. You sit up, feeling at your shoulder. It has been sewn and bandaged neatly.
"Charles?"
Looking up, he rises from his spot at the fire, and he kneels beside your bedroll. The shirt you wear is one of his, you realise. Soft and brown, the collar sags around your clavicle.
"I cut you out of your shirt." He says apologetically. "Don't think it'll scar too badly, though."
"When have I ever cared about that?" You snort with wry laughter. Once, a long time ago, a whole lifetime ago, you were ashamed of them. You had wanted to look as pretty and as lovable as Mary Beth or be as graceful as Tilly. All those women, like beautiful flowers in the desert of your life. Arthur used to kiss the scar where he shot you and tell you that it looked like a comet against your skin.
Charles has seen you, you realise. Your cheeks burn hot.
"Where's Randall?" You say suddenly, thinking of the three hundred dollars.
Charles grins a rare, wide grin and rises. With Charles no longer blocking your vision, you are treated to the sight of William Randall, the family killer, trussed up like a hog and tied to a tree in his shirtsleeves.
You feel better already.
. . .
1902, Valentine
"Is my nose really so big?"
The woman in the bounty poster stares back at you, her face hardened by rough living, her eyes sharp and mouth downturned. The cloud of hair rendered around her head makes her look wild and unkempt. The scar on her face cuts through her brow viciously. You touch your hair. Three thousand dollars for the woman in the poster. Good thing that isn't you, you have long since changed your name. Ripping the poster from the board, you shove it into your coat pocket. Your shoulder aches from the wound. Stitched up at Charles's insistence, it throbs under your ruined coat.
"The saloon's got a room. Could ride out to the reservation in the morning." Charles says from behind you. The sun is beginning to set, and staying in plain view is unwise. Valentine has expanded from the backwards cattle town; it is harsher and darker. Buildings have sprung up from where there was only flat earth and soft grass. Eyes are everywhere. A woman in men's garb and a man as scarred and massive as Charles are sure to attract attention. But the two of you are effective. So you go by different names and drag in criminals of a lower status than yourselves—and you get by.
The saloon room is dark and small, but clean. It is not crowded, but there is no point getting separate rooms. You would not be able to sleep without the even sound of Charles's breathing. You lie side by side, faces turned to the slanting ceiling. A thin shaft of light illuminates the room. The bed is too soft.
Charles speaks first.
"Arthur's grave is out this way."
You shut your eyes.
"Could ride past it. If you want." He says, no pressure behind his voice.
You have not seen Arthur's grave. You only know that it was Charles who buried him, and you are grateful that it was. If it had been you, given the chance, you might have crawled into the grave with him. You would have curled yourself around the bones that had carried him for so long and let yourself be taken by the elements. A hillside, Charles said. Where he would have wanted to be. As long as you do not see it, Arthur is where you want him to be. You might wake and find him snoring next to you. You can imagine that you hear the scratch of his pen, or feel the scrape of his beard against your face.
You wake slowly to the faint light seeping through the saloon window's grimy panes. Sometime in the deep of night, Charles must have shifted in his sleep, his arm now slung heavily across your waist. He's warm, and you can feel his heart beating steadily against your spine. Mumbling, he buries his face in the loose masses of your hair.
You shift in his arms, and he stirs into wakefulness, not before you feel the hard press of him against your lower back. There is a heartbeat’s worth of stillness where neither of you moves, where the creak of the bed and the faraway buzz of the waking town are the only sounds in the room. Then he draws in a sharp breath.
“Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick and low, and his arm jerks away as if burned.
"It—it's fine." But he is already turning away, dressing hastily. You exhale, an odd, brimming guilt in your stomach. Sleeping side by side under the stars is one thing; the whole land is your witness. Despite how quiet he is, it is never awkward between you two; there is always that steady companionship. The peace of knowing he will never push you to speak.
Charles is so warm.
. . .
1903, Temporary Wapiti Settlement
Hidden in a wide crevice of rock near the settlement is a creek. Water has been scarce, and you have had to make do by washing yourself by wiping the sweat and grime off your bodies with rags. Bounty hunting alone is tough on the body, and having Charles with you has made it easier.
Carefully, you work the buttons of your shirt open. Your shoulder aches from the wound, but it has healed considerably better than you thought it would. You unwrap the bandage, flexing a little. It will leave a scar, one of many. You survey yourself without emotion. The scars on your stomach and arms, and slashing over your collarbones. Vanity no longer afflicts you, and you have come not to worry about beauty any more. Undressing, you remove your hair from its plait and comb it out with your fingers. It has grown since you took a pair of shears to it and cut it to your jaw. It just sweeps the tops of your breasts, now. It is not convenient to have long hair in the wild. Charles does, though. It had struck you as odd that he would keep it so long. When you asked him, he said that it was something his mother believed was important.
The water is warm. Slipping in, you let it soothe your aching muscles.
Footsteps crunch softly on the gravel. You turn your head. It is Charles. Fully dressed, still in the clothing you wore while travelling. His shirt, tucked into his trousers, and his vest open. The afternoon sun slants through the crevice, gilding his dark head. His hair has been freed from the piece of twine he had been using on the ride, and the breeze picks it up so it curls in the air like black smoke.
He stills completely when he spots you, dark eyes widening a fraction as they find you among the water-worn stones of the creek. Surprise distorts the strong planes of his face, and his hand goes to the back of his neck as he averts his eyes. Even though it is just your shoulders and the hints of your breasts he can see, you feel oddly exposed. How ridiculous. It is only Charles who has seen you undressed a thousand times before. His voice carries over the bubble of the creek and the call of the birds.
"Didn't know you were here." His voice, low and steady. His skin is so smooth and dark that you never see him flush, but you can hear it in his voice. Fixing his eyes on the ground, he takes a half-step back. "I can go. Give you some peace."
"I—It's alright. Nothing you haven't seen before." In all these weeks travelling to see Rains Fall, how many times have you curled into the same bedroll for warmth? How many times has he woken you from the nightmares that plague you and held you till you fall asleep again? You have lived in such proximity that it should not be strange for him to see you undressed. Still, he hesitates, "There's no point to riding back. Stay."
Quietly, he sheds his clothing on the gravel surrounding the spring. You turn your head to give him some privacy, but in your periphery, the expanse of scarred skin is slowly revealed with every movement. His ribs are a bruised, blotchy purple, just visible in the deep, warm brown of his skin. He winces as he unbuckles his belt and shucks his trousers off. He is so graceful that you forget how large he is sometimes. Arthur had never been graceful, his bulk always apparent in the way he fought, the way he made love.
This thought dissolves as the water ripples with Charles's entry. Sighing, he shuts his eyes as he leans against the rock basin. The ends of his inky black hair swirl at the surface of the water.
"Feeling better?" He says, angling his head towards your shoulder.
"It's my own fault." You say, "I lost focus."
He shuts his eyes again, and you find yourself oddly struck by his nakedness. He is not hairy, as Arthur had been; the skin of his chest is smooth and deep brown, littered with scars. The ball of his bicep flexes as he takes a cupful of water in his hand and splashes it onto the laceration on his ribs. You had not noticed he was hurt. Then again, he does not let you worry about much.
You turn in the water, and Charles reaches for you, that instinctive movement so like the one where he draws for his shotgun.
His hand catches your elbow to keep you from slipping against the slick rock. You look up at him. He is already looking at you.
The body keeps score, you have realised. While your mind roils with guilt, your body wants and wants. Charles's hand has curled to cradle your elbow, and a keen desire to read his mind strikes you. Immovable as he seems, Charles is a man. He must have desires, too. Unconsciously, you have turned your body to his, the way a flower faces the sun. If you could not see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, you would think he was made of stone.
Turning your palm inward, you brace it against the inside of his forearm. The veins in his forearm pulse with his breath. You slide your hand upward, along the swell of his bicep, the slashing scar on his pectoral. The scar is ridged against your fingertips. He is still now, barely breathing. His heartbeat slams against your palm.
Slowly, his hand begins to search you. The pads of his fingers are rough as they travel up your shoulder, thumbing the healing wound.
"It's healing well." He says, you can almost hear a tremor in his voice.
"Yeah. It's thanks to you. I wouldn't have stitched it if I were on my own."
Somehow, you stand close in the sway of the creek, braced on each other for balance. Something brushes your thigh. Charles tenses, all the muscles in his body locking. Oh.
Shifting, he leans his body away from yours. "I didn't mean to—" He mutters, the scar on his cheek turning pink.
“No.” Your fingers tighten around his wrist before you can stop yourself. “Don’t—you don’t have to pull away.”
His eyes flick up to your face, searching. The sound of the water, like bells.
"I want to. I do." You splutter. "But I—not all at once."
He exhales. His other hand comes up to rest at your waist, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll break. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright.”
Curling your arm about his neck, you press close. His hair is thick and silky against your hand, and you tentatively pull your fingers through it. Then, he sighs and presses his mouth to yours, tentatively at first but then with a swift urgency that leaves you gasping and clutching at him. How long has it been since you have been touched? Mumbling, you brace your back against a rock. He crowds you against it. Both of you deserve something to ease the loneliness.
Reaching under the water to grasp him, you circle your hand around the heft of his cock. He grunts and twitches in your hand. Tentatively, you stroke upward, and he makes a strangled noise. He is hard and thick in your hand. Pressing your thighs together, you twist your wrist experimentally. The thick fringe of his eyelashes brush the tops of his high cheekbones. The scar on his cheek pulls taut. Slowly, you move your hand, studying the play of his muscles. Groaning, he drops his face to the slope of your neck, tasting the droplets of water collected there.
Then, his hands search between your thighs and find the parting in between. He, too, moves experimentally. Easing one thick finger in, he mouths the curve of your neck. You tighten around him, and he gentles the movement, those deft archer's fingers making you gasp. Everything in you is aching and crying out, desperate to be touched. He eases a second finger in, and you whimper, a desperate, animal sound.
"Too much?" Charles whispers, mouth brushing your temple. You kiss his cheek, his jaw.
"Go on, Charles."
. . .
1904, Three Sisters
Taima is dying. Her head rests in Charles's lap, his big hand smoothing along her shuddering neck. She is felled by a bullet, a flyaway one from a stage you and Charles foolishly tried to rob. And now Charles, always proud, always steady, comforts his dying horse. The spots on her flank blur as you blink away tears. You stand in the grove, the wind whistling around you. His hair lifts in the breeze, but otherwise, he is still.
"It's getting dark. Should bury her." You say softly. He says nothing. You cannot see his face.
Tentatively, you reach out and touch his shoulder. He flinches as you do, and you withdraw your hand.
"Go." His voice is choked. "I'll catch up with you."
"Charles—"
"Go." His tone is so final that all protests die on your tongue.
You leave him to mourn her.
. . .
1904, Temporary Wapiti Settlement
Dragging the comb through your hair, you peer into the wooden-framed mirror. The scar curving along your temple and through your brow is softened by the low light. The new Wapiti settlement is small, and the people are tired. Rains Fall has more streaks of grey in his hair by the day. Still, you had wanted his blessing. Any family you have is long dead or long gone; it has just been you and Charles. You are handfasted on the settlement, with as much ceremony as is possible. But it is enough, and the ceremony has never meant much to you anyway. It means something to Charles, though.
The tent flap falls shut behind Charles with a soft rasp of canvas, sealing the night outside. The wind murmurs against the walls, distant firetalk fading to a hush, leaving only the two of you in the low glow of a single lantern. You sit on the edge of the cot, still in the soft, borrowed dress. He stands a moment too long by the entrance, broad silhouette filling the space, his hair loose and catching gold in the light. When he turns, his eyes find you with that rare flicker of uncertainty you've only seen in private. Slowly, he lowers himself beside you, close enough that the heat of him cuts the chill.
"I ain't got much to give you—" He begins.
"Don't be foolish."
He takes your hand and presses something cool and beaded into it. Turquoise and bone, and smooth wood. It slips through your fingers. The necklace you have never seen him without.
"Charles. This is your mothers. I couldn't possibly—"
"It's yours." He says simply. "Like I am."
You want to tell him you have been his for years now. That you will be his for as long as you live. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Charles takes your hand, the necklace still fisted in it, and kisses your knuckles. His mouth is soft against the scarred, bruised skin. Silently, he draws you to your feet and steps behind you, the cot creaking softly as your knees brush it.
Your pulse stumbles as Charles gathers your hair over one shoulder with infinite care, his knuckles brushing the back of your neck. The beads are cool against your skin, and rest just below your collarbone. He hesitates, and you feel the soft press of his lips at your nape, where he fastens it. Charles’s hands slide slowly down your arms until they rest at your elbows. When you lean back against him, you feel the hitch in his breathing.
Turning, you face your husband. You lean up on your tiptoes and press your mouth to his. There is only his sigh into your open mouth and his arms around you. You reach for the top button on his shirt and giggle as it slips from your hands, trembling with anticipation. You loosen another one, and his breath hitches. His fingers find the ties at your collar and undo them with the same reverence he shows everything else. He presses a kiss to the column of your throat, and you twist your fingers into the thick, soft hair at the base of his skull. Pushing the shirt off his shoulders, you touch him, the hard planes of his chest and stomach.
"Charles." You say softly, sweetly. "Charles, you are so beautiful." You press another kiss to his sternum. He tips your head back in his hands and kisses your eyelids, slow. When you kneel, kissing the spot above his navel, he catches your shoulders, stroking the line of your jaw.
When he eases you onto the cot, he settles on his knees. You look down at his face, framed by your thighs and watch the lamp dance in his brown eyes. He takes your ankles in his wide hands and lifts them onto his shoulders. From this angle, you are laid bare and open for him. Charles bends his dark head to the soft inside of your thigh, the rasp of his stubble making you shiver. The want building all day is met with his soft mouth. Crying out, you twist your fingers into his hair and arch into his face. To steady you, he reaches up and flattens his big hand over your quivering belly; you grasp it blindly. Once you are left gasping and sweaty, he relents and rubs his cheek against the soft thatch between your legs.
Breathlessly, you beckon him closer. Crawling over your prone body, he cages himself over you. His long, muscular legs hang over the edge of the cot, tangled with yours. As he picks open your dress, you finally relieve him of his breeches. Then the two of you are joined. Strands of his dark hair are plastered to his face, and his eyes are sealed with pleasure. You take a moment to appreciate the architecture of his body, lined with heavy muscle and golden brown skin. Cradling his face in your hands, you kiss away the sweat beading at his temple, the bridge of his nose. You push at his chest, urging him to roll over.
"Charles." You whisper. "Lie down."
With difficulty, he opens his eyes and loosens his grip on you. You flatten your palms against his chest, and he falls back willingly. There is a shimmer of sweat on his chest, and the heavy length of his cock is angry red at the tip. Pulling the dress over your head, you swing your leg over his thighs to straddle him. He groans as you grasp his cock to guide it into yourself. Bracing your hands on his stomach, you sink on him slowly. Steadying you with one hand to your hip, he reaches up with the other to lay his palm over your sternum; your heart kicks against him. Tightening around him like a vice, you undulate your hips a little faster. Suddenly, he heaves himself up so you can twine your arms around his neck and he can mouth the peaks of your breasts. Cradling his head to your heart, you stroke his soft, dark hair as he comes. You kiss him as you reach your finish, you mouth at the salt on his cheek.
Afterwards, you lie with your cheek against his chest on the little cot. Throwing your leg over his hip, you lift his hand and bring your mouth to the rough pads of his fingers.
"Don't. I'll want you again." He says, a little helplessly.
"Mmph." You draw his index into your mouth. His cock stirs again, and he rolls onto his side, taking you with him. This time, he draws your leg over his thigh, chest to chest. He takes you again, with less ceremony than the first time. When you sleep, it is with him still inside of you, his head to your breast.
Dawn filters through the canvas, and you wake to Charles's broad form dressing next to the cot. You tuck your hand under your head and watch him. How many times have you watched him dress before, but never as his wife. Only as his companion. He buttons his loose shirt over his broad chest and ties his hair up with a piece of twine. When he draws his bow over his shoulder, he notices you watching. Leaning over the bed, he hesitates and then presses a kiss to the peak of your bare shoulder.
"Rains Fall asked me to go hunting with him." He says softly. "I thought I'd let sleep."
"Mm. He must miss Eagle Flies." You yawn. "I can help out around here."
"Could join us."
“I’d only slow you down,” you murmur.
“That’s not true.”
A small smile tugs at your mouth. “It is a little.” He smiles in response. "And, you can get used to Falmouth. He's still skittish." Your wedding present to him had been Falmouth, a spotted stallion that had taken you three bounties to purchase. He will not replace Taima, Charles's companion since he was eighteen, but Charles had needed a horse.
"Rains Fall. He doesn't say much these days." Charles says, thoughtfully.
"I know. Go. It'll be good for him." And for you too, you think.
"You'll be alright here?" He says, fingers still lingering on your arm.
"Sure. They're packing up this camp, I'll keep myself occupied."
Charles leaves, pressing a last kiss to your hair, his eyes lingering on your body under the pelt.
You stretch. The tent feels large without him. You've been pressed so close to him that the beads around your neck have left divots in your skin.
It must be early; the air is chill. Nobody would grudge you another hour of sleep.
. . .
1906, Saint Denis
"It's okay. It's just me. Wake up."
Charles's hands are soft on your hair. When he lifts you into his arms, you go limp. Regaining your senses, you can smell the oil from the lamp and the cool night air from the cracked-open window. The rented room that has been your home for months now is small and cramped. Charles hates it. Sometimes, he wakes in the night and sits on the small terrace, smoking for hours. He says he cannot breathe in Saint Denis, that the city doesn't suit him. It doesn't suit you either; you miss the open plains and long to press your cheek to cool grass. To sleep under the stars and smell fresh country air. Shivering at the draft, you cuddle into his broad chest. The acrid tang of sweat and drink clinging to his skin makes you wrinkle your nose.
"Bad dream?" He says against your hair. Pulling back, he cups your hot cheek in his hands. Nodding, you snuffle closer.
"I didn't hear you come in."
"Got back a few hours ago." He says softly, stroking your loose hair.
"You smell bad." You say, but slip your arms around his neck and bury your face in his shoulder anyway.
"Was too tired to wash." He says, and you lift your head to look at him. Charles's face is distorted with concern, and the light from the window illuminates his eye, swollen half shut. "And, too drunk."
"Did you lose?" You reach up to touch his swollen eye, he winces a little and then kisses the heel of your palm.
'Course not. He got a lucky hit in." The hint of indignance in his voice brings the slightest of smiles to your mouth. He relaxes when he sees it. "What about you? You get him?"
"Some idiot with a whole crew got to him first." You roll your eyes as you recount the day. "Don't know why you'd need a whole crew to get him. He came up to my shoulder. A strong gust of wind would've sent him to the grave."
Bounty hunting in Saint Denis has proved a little easier. Charles throws fights, and you pick up petty criminals off the outskirts of the city. This time, it has been a bespectacled doctor who had been lacing his medicines. It would have taken you an hour had that buffoon Jared Golding not gotten to him first. A whole crew of thoroughbreds. Guinevere, fast and faithful as she is, had been no match.
"S'alright. The payment from this fight should tide us over a while."
"Oh, your poor eye." You say, the guilt is hot and sudden. Tipping your head up, you press a kiss to the purpling mess.
" It ain't too bad." He says, a little embarrassed at the affection. "The other fighter came off a whole lot worse."
"I'm sure he did." You say, nuzzling his cheek. "But it's my fault you're throwing fights. I shouldn't have killed him."
"He started with you. I'd have killed him if you hadn't."
"I know." You say mournfully. "But you hate this." Nosing at your hair, he kisses your forehead in response.
The sun is beginning to spill through the windows, and there is no point trying to sleep. You slip out of bed and make two cups of coffee in tin mugs and hold a cool cloth to Charles's eye as he drinks his. You assuage your own guilt by kissing his battered face and combing out the tangles from his long hair.
"Got no bounties today." You say, buttoning your shirt. He sits at the small, round table, clad only in his breeches and nursing his third cup of coffee. "Could take the day off."
"A day off." He says slowly. "You alright?"
"Fine." You do not meet his eyes.
"What do you want to do on your day off?" He catches your wrist and pulls you to stand between his knees. Bracing your hand on his shoulder, you look down at him. His eyes are steady, but you can see the concern behind the question.
You do not tell him that you dreamt of Arthur, his voice wrecked with illness and pain, lying white-faced and feverish. You do not tell him that Arthur’s face had gone strange and blurred at the edges, then changed not all at once, but in terrible pieces until it was Charles looking at you through the same pain. Charles with Arthur’s voice. Charles begging you, over and over, to save him from the slow erosion of his insides.
“I want to go to the gunsmith,” you say. “Get my gun fixed.”
He nods once. “Alright.”
“Then I want to walk through Chinatown.”
“Mm.”
You swallow, then let yourself smile a little. “And then I want you to take me to bed.”
That gets the ghost of a smile from him. “That so?”
“That so.”
His hand tightens lightly around your wrist. “Alright, then.”
The knot in your chest does not ease until later that night. You lie on your belly with Charles over you, his weight warm and solid along your back. His hand rests over your hip, while the other braces beside your head as he ruts with slow, careful rhythm. His breathing is rough against your shoulder, but his touch stays gentle. You sleep easily.
. . .
1907, Mount Hagen
Charles has been shot.
The frost bites through the worn knees of your breeches as you kneel beside him, his blood bright and terrible against the snow. For one blank second, you cannot make sense of it. Then he makes a low, ragged sound, and your body moves before your mind does, half-dragging him behind the boulder as another bullet cracks past.
“Charles.” Your hands are already on his shoulder, pressing, slipping, pressing again. “Charles, stay with me.”
His face has gone ashen. Blood pours between your fingers, warm enough to make you feel sick. “I’m okay,” he says, but the words are thin.
“No, you’re not.” Your voice comes out too sharp, too fast. “You’re bleeding too much.”
“I said I’m okay.”
“You don’t know that.” You press harder, as if you can force the wound shut by will alone. “Has it hit anything important?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?” Fear knots your throat so tight you can hardly breathe around it. “Charles, look at me.”
He does, and the sight of his eyes half-lidded with pain almost makes you fold in on yourself. Snow has fallen onto his hair, his shoulders. The bright glitter of it makes your eyes burn.
The shooting has stopped, you realise dimly, and the silence is worse than the gunfire. Sadie appears through the snow, breath ragged. “Hey. You’re okay,” she says, though she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. “You’re okay.”
Charles lets out a rough breath. “I will be.”
You sag closer, hands still pressed to the blood. “Then we’re getting you out of here.”
“No.” He shifts weakly and winces. “Go on with John.”
You shake your head once. “No.”
"Move fast. Or they'll come down that hill and kill us all."
"I won't."
“Go,” he says again, quieter now. “I can follow. Just not fast.”
You stare at him, at the blood soaking through his shirt, at the strain in his mouth that he’s trying so hard to hide. Your fingers tighten on his coat.
“I don’t care about Micah. I don’t care about any of it. Let John have him.”
Sadie glances between you and Charles, then steps back, leaving the two of you in the cold. Charles’s gaze stays on your face.
“John and Sadie need you.”
“Don’t.” You blink hard, but it does no good. “Don’t ask me to go.”
He studies you for a long second, blood still spilling through your fingers, his own breath shallow. “Why? This is what you wanted.”
The words tear out of you before you can stop them.
"Because I'm not having this child without you."
Even Sadie does not speak. The wind seems to go quiet around the boulder. You stare at Charles, suddenly sick with the fact that it is out now, impossible to take back, impossible to bury in the lining of your skin.
For a long moment, he only looks at you.
Then his face changes — not in disbelief, exactly, but in shock so deep it seems to cut straight through pain. “You’re—”
You give a tiny, helpless nod. “I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
"After this. After I kill Micah."
Madly, you wonder if he is upset with you. With his blood spilling through your fingers and his face grey with pain. You wonder if he thinks what a reckless, selfish woman he has married. One who will risk anything, everything for vengeance.
But then, his hand comes to cover yours. You exhale, a cold puff of air that makes your relief visible. The light weight of Sadie's hand is on your shoulder, but you barely feel it. You watch Charles's eyes, glazed with pain and love.
"I'm sorry." You whisper, stroking his hair away from his face with your free hand. His skin is slick with sweat despite the cold, but his heart, thrumming beneath your hand, is strong. "I should have told you. I thought you wouldn't let me—"
“No.” His voice is low, roughened with pain.“No.”
He swallows, and you see the effort of it. See him try to gather himself for you.
Then his fingers tighten over yours with weak insistence, as if he can tether himself on earth, simply by touch.
“You’re not leaving me,” he says.
. . .
1903, Ambarino
"I'm getting married."
The breeze sifts through your hair. You look down, feeling idiotic. Arthur's grave is a cross. On it, inscribed;
"Blessed Are Those Who Hunger And Thirst For Righteousness"
Blessed. Arthur would have laughed. Are you supposed to weep? That is what women are supposed to do. Weep into hankies and lay flowers on the tombs of their lovers. You do not have flowers. What you do have is the mad urge to laugh.
Arthur Morgan is dead. Dead! His massive, powerful body has been reduced to bones underneath your feet. The man who loved you and fucked you and danced with you by the fire is dead. The man who killed for you and killed with you and seemed tall as the mountains, as bright as the sun.
Charles has buried him, and you think what it must have been like. Charles shooing crows off Arthur's rotting flesh, picking maggots out of his sunken face. Charles has said none of this to you, but you know.
He had been so tired. He had been so brave.
"I don't want to leave you." Arthur's eyes are bloodshot. Exhausted. He has woken at midnight, his skin burning with fever. He sits at the edge of the cot, his aching head cradled in his hands. You sit beside him, kissing the sharp jut of his shoulder blade. You taste sweat.
"I'm hard to get rid of." Your voice trembles. You force a smile.
"I know." He enunciates slowly, forcing the words through the feverish delirium. "But I'm tired. Real tired."
"Rest a while, then."
"You'll wake me?"
"'Course."
"Will you—will you rub my head a little? It hurts."
You sit up on the cot, patting your lap. Crawling over your legs, he puts his head in it. Silently, you run your fingers through his hair, press your thumbs against his sweaty temples. His breathing evens, and he drifts. You lean down and whisper in his ear.
"Rest, my love. Rest."
The soil is cool beneath your cheek. The sun breaks through the clouds, blanketing you in light.
