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Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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@stevenssacrab
𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕓𝕝𝕠𝕘 𝕚𝕤 ℕ𝕊𝔽𝕎 | 𝟙𝟠+ 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪, 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕠𝕣𝕤 𝕕𝕠 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥!
ℍ𝕚! 𝕀’𝕞 𝕁𝕖𝕟𝕟𝕪, 𝕀’𝕞 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕦𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕒𝕤 𝕒 𝕨𝕒𝕪 𝕥𝕠 𝕨𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕞𝕪 𝕕𝕒𝕪𝕕𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕞𝕤, 𝕡𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕡 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕀’𝕞 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕒 𝕨𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕖𝕣, 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕤 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕗𝕦𝕟; 𝕚𝕗 𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕔𝕒𝕟 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕛𝕠𝕪 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕨𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥’𝕤 𝕔𝕠𝕠𝕝 𝕥𝕠𝕠.
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*
𝕸𝔞𝖘𝔱𝖊𝔯𝖑𝔦𝖘𝔱 ┆𝕽𝖚𝖑𝖊𝖘 ┆ 𝕬𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖙 ┆ 𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖘
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*
𝕭𝖊𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝕽𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 ┊ 𝕽𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙
The worst part isn't what happened. It's what he'll do when he finds out.
Chapter 5 drops Tuesday.
“You think if I know who it is,” he says slowly, “I’m gonna go after ‘em.”
Your silence answers before your words can.
Arthur lets out a breath, long and shaky, his eyes dropping briefly toward the floor before lifting back to you again.
“That’s why you’re hidin’ it.”
When You Wake Up
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
Summary: As scattered memories begin to resurface, Arthur starts noticing the gaps between what you remember and what you refuse to say. The closer he gets to the truth, the harder it becomes to hide what’s really frightening you.
Rating: 17+
Warnings: hospital setting, injury recovery, memory loss/amnesia themes, emotional distress, anxiety, unresolved relationship tension, medical trauma themes, references to a traumatic incident, fragmented memories, panic responses, and discussions of possible danger or harm
Word Count: 3.7k
a/n: this is chapter 4 of my Arthur Morgan series, finished writing the series and boy, y'all are in for it lol 😈 ENJOY!
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
· · ─ · previous | next · ─ ·
“Alright.”
The word lands, heavy and inflexible, devoured by the mechanical pulse of the room. His hand stays gripped around yours, not gentle, not desperate—just holding on, as if you may vanish if he lets go.
For a while, nothing changes.
The monitor continues its even pattern. The light hum of the equipment fills the space. Your breathing stays steady, unchanged, the same controlled rise and fall he’s been watching since he sat down.
Then, slowly, something shifts.
It starts as a betrayal—barely there, but enough. Your breath stumbles, a broken catch that fractures the rhythm. Wrong. Out of place.
His grip stills.
He doesn’t tighten it, doesn’t move away—just holds there, his focus narrows, nothing else about him moves.
Your fingers twitch.
The movement is faint, uncoordinated, like your body is testing something it hasn’t used in a while. It happens once, then again, slightly stronger, a tension pulling unevenly through your hand before settling back.
The monitor responds before anything else does, the even rhythm shifting just enough to notice—not erratic, not worrisome, but no longer as controlled as it was before.
He leans forward then, the motion small but immediate.
“Hey.”
His voice is still low, but there’s something firmer under it now, something more deliberate. His thumb presses lightly against your hand, grounding, as he says your name again—closer this time, like it might reach you if he gets the distance right.
Your breathing changes again.
Your breathing turns frantic, ragged—your body clawing for a rhythm it can’t find. Your chest jerks, sharp and uneven, and the strain carves itself across your face, impossible to hide.
His grip goes rigid in response, just enough to feel it.
“Easy,” he says, quieter now, but more focused. “You’re alright.”
Your eyes move beneath your eyelids before they open, a faint, unfocused motion that lags behind everything else. When they do open, the light hits too quickly, too harsh against vision that hasn’t adjusted yet, and everything comes in fragments.
Sound arrives first.
A steady beeping, close but indistinct. A low mechanical hum underneath it. Something moving nearby, too close to ignore but too blurred to place.
Then comes the weight.
Your body is leaden, every limb sunk in dead weight. There’s a pressure on your arm—warmth, intrusive, practically strange. It takes a second to remember it’s meant to be there.
A hand.
Warm enough to feel familiar before you understand why.
Your vision lags, everything smeared and wrong. The room claws its way into focus—shards of light, the bed’s outline, a shadow hunched too close.
Closer than anything else.
You blink, once, then again, your focus intensifies just enough to settle on the figure beside you.
He’s already watching you.
He’s close—too close to mistake, his hand still held around yours. He’s all tension, the kind that hides in stillness, in the refusal to move.
Recognition doesn’t come all at once.
It builds—slow, uneven, something your mind reaches for before it fully forms.
“…Arthur?”
Your voice doesn’t sound like yours.
It’s rough, scraped thin, like it raked its way out of your throat and barely made it.
His expression changes, subtly though unmistakably, something in it easing just slightly while something else strains underneath.
“Yeah,” he says, steady, quiet. “I’m here.”
The words hang between you, heavy and sharp. He doesn’t let go. He just waits, not for you to wake up, but for the next blow.
Your eyes stay on him, trying to hold focus as the rest of the room continues to blur at the edges. Recognition is there—it’s not missing, not gone—but it comes with a delay, like your mind is working through something thicker than it should be, pushing past resistance that wasn’t there before.
He looks the same. That’s the first clear thought that settles. Close enough that there’s no mistaking him, close enough that you can see the details you remember without effort—the line of his jaw, the way his attention stays fixed on you without shifting, the way his hand hasn’t moved from yours since you opened your eyes.
That should feel like something.
It doesn’t. Not the way it used to.
You stare too long, not out of confusion, but because the feeling doesn’t fit the face. There’s a gap—small, jagged, impossible to ignore. You try to force it closed, but it only widens.
“…You’re—” you start, then stop, the word catching before it fully forms.
You already said his name. You know who he is. That’s not the problem.
It shows in the way his grip adjusts slightly around your hand, not pulling away, not tightening enough to hurt, just adjusting as if he’s bracing for something he doesn’t name out loud.
“Yeah,” he says again, quieter this time, like he’s emphasizing it rather than correcting you. “It’s me.”
The reassurance is simple, but it doesn’t quite settle.
Your focus slips, dragged away from him. The walls press in, the light is surgical, everything too neat, too controlled. Your body is a stranger—heavy, slow, refusing to obey.
A pressure builds behind your eyes—dull, then sharp, punishing you for trying to remember. Your breath stutters, never quite steady, never quite safe.
“What—” you start, your voice hitching slightly before you push through it. “What happened?”
“Was I alone?”
The question is a demand, not a plea. But the second it’s out, you flinch inside, knowing the answer will cost more than you want to pay.
He doesn’t respond right away, and that’s the first thing you notice—not the quietness itself, but the way it feels deliberate. His eyes stay on you, steady, measuring something you can’t quite see from where you are, his expression tightening just slightly before it settles again.
“You don’t remember?” he asks.
Too simple.
You look down, chasing after memories that shatter before you can catch them. Fragments flicker—almost familiar, then gone, leaving nothing but the longing of what you can’t reach.
“I—” you start, then stop, your brow pulling tighter as the effort of trying to piece it together sends a sharper edge of discomfort through your head.
Something’s there, barely out of reach, taunting you. It refuses to settle, refuses to let you rest.
“I don’t…” You say slowly, the words uneven, not quite certain. “I don’t know.”
It’s not a lie. Not entirely.
Your hand moves in his, restless, searching for something your mind can’t name. His hand stills against yours.
“Alright,” he says after a second, his voice lower now, steadier in a fashion that feels more controlled than before. “Don’t push it.”
Your eyes lift back to him, searching for something on his face that explains the tension sitting just below the surface, the way he’s watching you like he’s waiting for something specific rather than just relief that you’re awake.
Nothing fits. Not him, not you. There’s a hole in your memory, a blank where something vital should be. The harder you reach, the further it slips away.
Your fingers curl against his, desperate for something solid. It doesn’t help.
“…It was—” you start again, quieter this time, your voice sinking as something almost surfaces. For a second, it feels close enough to touch.
Then it’s gone.
Frustration flashes across your face before you force it down, eyes dropping, as if looking away could hide the fracture.
“…I don’t remember,” you finish.
The words come easier this time.
It shouldn’t be that easy.
He hears the difference. Doesn’t call it out. But something in the way he looks at you changes—subtle, controlled, but there.
He doesn’t press you. Not yet.
“Okay,” he says instead, his tone even, yet quieter than before. “We’ll figure it out.”
The machines continue their even rhythm, filling the calm that follows. You’re awake, but whatever happened is still sitting somewhere slightly out of reach.
And he knows it.
Even if you won’t say it yet.
That silence that settles after that feels different from the one before. Not empty, not uncertain—just careful, like both of you are circling around something neither one wants to touch directly yet.
Your hand stays in his, the contact suddenly too loud, too present. His warmth anchors you, but the rest of the world is still out of reach, your mind always a beat behind.
The light overhead.
The steady beeping beside you.
The ache digs in, deeper now that the fog is lifting.
You adjust slightly against the pillow, and the movement pulls a sharper discomfort through your side and up into your head so quickly that your expression tenses before you can stop it.
He leans forward immediately.
“Easy,” he says quietly, “Don’t move too fast.”
You exhale, slow and shaky, letting the pain settle like sediment. It leaves a pressure behind—physical, yes, but worse in your head, something wedged behind your thoughts, refusing to move.
Your eyes close briefly.
Pain lances behind your eyes so sharply that it drags something up with it.
Wet asphalt under sodium light. Your phone skidding away. Someone shouting.
Not Arthur’s.
Your eyes snap open. The memory is already gone.
Wait—’ you whisper, more to yourself than to him.
“What?” he asks.
The question comes low and controlled, but there’s tension under it now, quieter than before but harder to miss.
You stare through him, clawing at the memory as it fades away. All that remains is the aftertaste—sharp, unfinished, wrong.
“I just…” Your voice falters slightly. “I thought I remembered something.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush you.
His thumb moves against your skin, patient, grounding, but it only makes the pressure worse. You want to pull away.
“What was it?” he asks.
You grit your teeth, forcing the memory to the surface. It comes in shards—a blur of movement, a voice, your pulse pounding so hard it drowns out everything else.
Then—
a name.
Your stomach knots, dread arriving before understanding.
You know that name.
More importantly, so would he.
The realization hits like a punch. Your face betrays you before you can stop it.
Something on his face stills.
“What?” he asks again, quieter this time.
Your eyes flick toward him too quickly, instinct taking over before thought does. For a second, the name sits right there at the edge of your tongue, dangerously close to becoming real.
You choke it back, burying the name where he can’t reach it.
“It’s nothing,” you say.
Too fast.
His gaze doesn’t leave your face.
“That didn’t look like nothing.”
You look away, hiding your face in the blank wall. Your pulse stutters, not due to pain, but from the harsh certainty that something in your memory survived. Not all of it.
Just enough.
“I said I don’t remember,” you reply, quieter now.
The bitterness in your voice surprises even you.
The quiet lingers, tension pulled thin and sharp. He doesn’t push, but you feel him watching, listening for what you’re not saying.
Your fingers curl slightly against his hand again before you realize you’re doing it.
You shouldn’t have let him see that crack.
You know it the second the thought crosses your mind.
Now he knows there’s something you’re not saying.
The silence thickens, heavier, changed. Not hostile, just loaded—waiting for the next fracture.
You keep your eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder, trying to let your breathing settle back into something normal before he grasps that too.
“You thirsty?” he asks after a moment.
The question jars you—not for what it is, but for how normal it sounds, rubbing against everything raw beneath the surface.
You glance back at him, momentarily thrown by the shift.
“…A little.”
“Alright.”
He lets go, careful, and the loss of contact is immediate, stinging. He stands, reaching for the cup, and you hate how much you miss it.
The movement is familiar.
Not the specific action itself, but the way he does things—quietly, efficiently, without turning them into something bigger than they need to be.
You watch him pour water, the disconnect crawling back under your skin.
Broad shoulders slightly tense beneath the worn dark shirt, attention focused completely on what he’s doing even though it’s something simple. There’s grease just faintly worked into the lines of his hands near the knuckles, like he came here straight from work without thinking twice about it.
The realization strikes peculiarly in your chest.
“You came from work,” you say before you mean to.
He glances at you briefly as he steps back toward the bed.
“Yeah.”
“You were working when they called?”
A pause.
Small.
“Yeah.”
He presses the cup into your hand, steadying it when your grip falters. The touch sends a dull ache through your skull—pressure, not pain, a sign that your body is still out of step with itself.
“Easy,” he says quietly as you adjust your grip.
The word settles differently than it should.
You take a small sip, the water cool enough to feel almost startling going down. Your throat still burns slightly with it, rough because of disuse, and you lower the cup after only a second.
He takes it back without asking and sets it down beside the bed again.
The familiarity of it presses on you harder this time.
Not because it’s comforting.
Because it shouldn’t feel this natural after everything.
Your gaze drifts toward him again before you can stop it.
“How long have you been here?”
The question leaves your mouth quietly, but it changes something in his expression immediately—not dramatically, just enough for you to notice the slight adjustment in his jaw before he answers.
“A while.”
“That doesn’t answer it.”
The words come out softer than intended, the edge underneath them doesn’t go unnoticed.
His eyes stay on you for a second longer than necessary before he leans back slightly into the chair again.
“They called me a few hours ago,” he says.
A few hours. The number settles heavily in your chest.
Silence presses in again.
“…Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
This time the pause is longer.
Not uncertain.
Measured.
“You still had me listed,” he says finally.
The answer settles heavily into the room.
Your chest contracts before you can control it.
Of course.
Right.
You had forgotten about that.
Or maybe you hadn’t.
You’re not entirely sure anymore.
Your gaze drops briefly toward the blanket gathered across your lap, fingers flexing slightly against the fabric as the memory of filling out that information flickers somewhere in the back of your mind. It had been automatic at the time, thoughtless in the way habits become thoughtless after long enough.
You never changed it.
Hearing it aloud makes your skin prickle.
“You could’ve changed it too,” you say quietly before thinking better of it.
The second the words leave you, you wish they hadn’t.
His expression alters slightly—not anger, not surprise, but something tighter than before.
“That ain’t how emergency contacts work,” he says.
You let out a small breath through your nose, somewhere between embarrassment and frustration.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
The problem is that he probably does.
And somehow that only makes the quiet afterward feel heavier.
You keep your gaze lowered for a moment longer, fingers gently curled lightly against the blanket, attempting to ignore the pressure building behind your eyes every time you think too hard about anything that came before waking up here.
The room has gone quiet again except for the unwavering rhythm of the monitor beside you, but now the quietness feels more aware than before. Arthur doesn’t fill it unnecessarily, and that’s always been part of the problem with him—he observes too much while saying too little.
“How bad is it?” you ask eventually, your voice quieter now.
His brow furrows faintly.
“The injuries?”
You nod once.
Another small pause settles before he answers, and the hesitation meets your attention immediately.
“You’re alright,” he says. “Got some bruising. Couple other things they’re watchin’. Nothin’ life-threatening.”
It sounds controlled. Too controlled.
Your eyes narrow slightly.
“That sounded rehearsed.”
His mouth shifts without becoming a smile.
“Been hearin’ the same thing for hours.”
Hours.
You look away.
You try not to think too hard about him sitting in this room alone while you were unconscious, but the image forms anyway—Arthur in that chair, tense and sleepless, listening to doctors avoid answering questions while waiting for you to wake up.
You look away before the image can settle.
Your attention drifts instead toward the window across the room, though there’s nothing visible beyond the reflection of the dim hospital lights. You focus on that reflection, attempting to steady your thoughts somewhere outside yourself.
You try to force the missing seconds into order.
Rain streaking across the glass.
A silver sedan idling crooked near the curb.
The passenger door hanging open.
Someone saying, low and sharp, ‘No.’ A hand braced against the open door.
Your throat goes dry.
A name. You know that name.
You know exactly why hearing it matters.
Your expression changes before you can stop it.
You don’t answer fast enough.
“What is it?” he asks, his sound hushed now, sharper underneath.
You blink quickly, trying to smooth over whatever just crossed your face, but it’s already too late. His posture has shifted slightly forward in the chair, attention narrowing completely onto you.
“Nothing,” you answer.
Too quick again.
His eyes stay on you.
“That’s twice now.”
You look back at him before you mean to.
“What?”
“You remember somethin’, then shut down.”
The observation comes evenly, not accusing, which somehow makes it worse.
Your jaw braces slightly.
“I said I can’t remember clearly.”
“You said you don’t remember.” His gaze doesn’t move from yours. “That ain’t the same thing.”
The room feels smaller all at once.
Your pulse feels uneven now, the memory still sitting too close beneath the surface. You can hear that voice again in fragments, hear the shape of the name without letting yourself fully think it.
Because if you do—
You’re not sure what comes after that.
You swallow once before answering.
“It doesn’t matter.”
The second the words leave your mouth, his expression changes.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for you to catch the change in his eyes, the way something harder settles there beneath the restraint he’s been holding onto since you woke up.
“It mattered enough to scare you,” he says quietly.
You don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right, and the worst part is that he knows it without needing the rest explained.
Arthur leans back slightly in the chair, but not fully, as he watches you with that same steady focus that’s been fixed on you since you woke up. There’s nothing dramatic in his expression, nothing openly confrontational, but the restraint in him feels tighter now, pulled thinner by every reaction you haven’t managed to hide quickly enough.
You can feel it.
It isn’t accusation. That would be easier. It’s attention—the dangerous kind.”
Your pulse still hasn’t settled completely, and you hate that he can probably tell. The room suddenly feels too warm in spite of the chill sitting beneath your skin, the hospital blanket heavier across your lap than it was a few minutes ago.
You shift slightly against the pillow again, trying to ease some of the tension building through your shoulders, but the movement pulls another dull ache through your side and you stop almost immediately.
Arthur straightens in his chair.
“Careful,” he says quietly.
The word comes automatically, instinctively, like he doesn’t even have to think before saying it.
That somehow makes it worse.
You glance toward him briefly before looking away again, your eyes catching on the monitor beside the bed instead. The steady rhythm scrolling across the screen gives you something neutral to focus on, something that doesn’t ask questions.
Arthur lets the silence sit a little longer before speaking again.
“You got anybody I should call?”
The question surprises you, off guard enough that you look back at him immediately.
“What?”
“Friends. Family.” His tone stays even. “Anybody who oughta know you’re here.”
There’s nothing suspicious in the wording.
But something about the timing feels deliberate.
Heat floods your face.
“No,” you answer after a second. “Nobody.”
His expression doesn’t change, though his gaze lingers on you just a fraction longer than before.
“Nobody?”
You already know what he’s doing.
Not pushing.
Checking.
Seeing if your answer changes the second time.
“It’s not exactly a long list,” you mutter.
“No,” he says quietly. “Guess it ain’t.”
The response lands with more familiarity than sarcasm, and that somehow hurts worse than if he’d been openly sharp about it.
You look down again, fingers clenching slightly against the blanket.
Another flash pushes suddenly at the edge of your memory before you can brace for it.
Your knees slam into wet pavement.
Your palms scrape raw against concrete.
Your phone glows inches beyond your reach.
Your entire body stills.
The memory vanishes immediately after, ripped away before the rest can follow, but the reaction hits too late to hide. Your breathing is hitching sharply enough that Arthur straightens slightly in the chair.
“What?” he asks immediately.
Too immediate.
Too focused.
You shake your head too fast.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not nothin’.”
Your jaw firms up.
“I said I’m fine.”
The words come out quicker than intended, edged now with frustration that has less to do with him and more to do with the panic crawling slowly up your spine.
Every time he looks at you too carefully, it feels like the missing pieces shift just enough to threaten coming apart entirely.
“You keep reactin’ before you remember,” he says quietly.
His eyes stay fixed on you for a long moment after that. You can practically feel him thinking, connecting things silently behind that steady expression he’s been holding onto since he walked into this room.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says, still calm, still watching you with that same unbearable level of focus, “whatever you’re rememberin’ scares you before it even makes sense.”
You stare at him.
And the worst part—the truly awful part—is that he’s right.
You don’t even fully understand what you’re afraid of yet.
Just that every fragment connected to that name feels wrong the second it surfaces.
Arthur studies your expression for another second before his jaw tightens faintly, like he’s arriving at something internally without deciding whether to say it out loud yet.
“You know who it was,” he says.
Even the monitor feels too loud.
Your pulse stumbles hard enough that you feel it.
And Arthur sees that too.
When You Wake Up
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
Summary: As scattered memories begin to resurface, Arthur starts noticing the gaps between what you remember and what you refuse to say. The closer he gets to the truth, the harder it becomes to hide what’s really frightening you.
Rating: 17+
Warnings: hospital setting, injury recovery, memory loss/amnesia themes, emotional distress, anxiety, unresolved relationship tension, medical trauma themes, references to a traumatic incident, fragmented memories, panic responses, and discussions of possible danger or harm
Word Count: 3.7k
a/n: this is chapter 4 of my Arthur Morgan series, finished writing the series and boy, y'all are in for it lol 😈 ENJOY!
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
· · ─ · previous | next · ─ ·
“Alright.”
The word lands, heavy and inflexible, devoured by the mechanical pulse of the room. His hand stays gripped around yours, not gentle, not desperate—just holding on, as if you may vanish if he lets go.
For a while, nothing changes.
The monitor continues its even pattern. The light hum of the equipment fills the space. Your breathing stays steady, unchanged, the same controlled rise and fall he’s been watching since he sat down.
Then, slowly, something shifts.
It starts as a betrayal—barely there, but enough. Your breath stumbles, a broken catch that fractures the rhythm. Wrong. Out of place.
His grip stills.
He doesn’t tighten it, doesn’t move away—just holds there, his focus narrows, nothing else about him moves.
Your fingers twitch.
The movement is faint, uncoordinated, like your body is testing something it hasn’t used in a while. It happens once, then again, slightly stronger, a tension pulling unevenly through your hand before settling back.
The monitor responds before anything else does, the even rhythm shifting just enough to notice—not erratic, not worrisome, but no longer as controlled as it was before.
He leans forward then, the motion small but immediate.
“Hey.”
His voice is still low, but there’s something firmer under it now, something more deliberate. His thumb presses lightly against your hand, grounding, as he says your name again—closer this time, like it might reach you if he gets the distance right.
Your breathing changes again.
Your breathing turns frantic, ragged—your body clawing for a rhythm it can’t find. Your chest jerks, sharp and uneven, and the strain carves itself across your face, impossible to hide.
His grip goes rigid in response, just enough to feel it.
“Easy,” he says, quieter now, but more focused. “You’re alright.”
Your eyes move beneath your eyelids before they open, a faint, unfocused motion that lags behind everything else. When they do open, the light hits too quickly, too harsh against vision that hasn’t adjusted yet, and everything comes in fragments.
Sound arrives first.
A steady beeping, close but indistinct. A low mechanical hum underneath it. Something moving nearby, too close to ignore but too blurred to place.
Then comes the weight.
Your body is leaden, every limb sunk in dead weight. There’s a pressure on your arm—warmth, intrusive, practically strange. It takes a second to remember it’s meant to be there.
A hand.
Warm enough to feel familiar before you understand why.
Your vision lags, everything smeared and wrong. The room claws its way into focus—shards of light, the bed’s outline, a shadow hunched too close.
Closer than anything else.
You blink, once, then again, your focus intensifies just enough to settle on the figure beside you.
He’s already watching you.
He’s close—too close to mistake, his hand still held around yours. He’s all tension, the kind that hides in stillness, in the refusal to move.
Recognition doesn’t come all at once.
It builds—slow, uneven, something your mind reaches for before it fully forms.
“…Arthur?”
Your voice doesn’t sound like yours.
It’s rough, scraped thin, like it raked its way out of your throat and barely made it.
His expression changes, subtly though unmistakably, something in it easing just slightly while something else strains underneath.
“Yeah,” he says, steady, quiet. “I’m here.”
The words hang between you, heavy and sharp. He doesn’t let go. He just waits, not for you to wake up, but for the next blow.
Your eyes stay on him, trying to hold focus as the rest of the room continues to blur at the edges. Recognition is there—it’s not missing, not gone—but it comes with a delay, like your mind is working through something thicker than it should be, pushing past resistance that wasn’t there before.
He looks the same. That’s the first clear thought that settles. Close enough that there’s no mistaking him, close enough that you can see the details you remember without effort—the line of his jaw, the way his attention stays fixed on you without shifting, the way his hand hasn’t moved from yours since you opened your eyes.
That should feel like something.
It doesn’t. Not the way it used to.
You stare too long, not out of confusion, but because the feeling doesn’t fit the face. There’s a gap—small, jagged, impossible to ignore. You try to force it closed, but it only widens.
“…You’re—” you start, then stop, the word catching before it fully forms.
You already said his name. You know who he is. That’s not the problem.
It shows in the way his grip adjusts slightly around your hand, not pulling away, not tightening enough to hurt, just adjusting as if he’s bracing for something he doesn’t name out loud.
“Yeah,” he says again, quieter this time, like he’s emphasizing it rather than correcting you. “It’s me.”
The reassurance is simple, but it doesn’t quite settle.
Your focus slips, dragged away from him. The walls press in, the light is surgical, everything too neat, too controlled. Your body is a stranger—heavy, slow, refusing to obey.
A pressure builds behind your eyes—dull, then sharp, punishing you for trying to remember. Your breath stutters, never quite steady, never quite safe.
“What—” you start, your voice hitching slightly before you push through it. “What happened?”
“Was I alone?”
The question is a demand, not a plea. But the second it’s out, you flinch inside, knowing the answer will cost more than you want to pay.
He doesn’t respond right away, and that’s the first thing you notice—not the quietness itself, but the way it feels deliberate. His eyes stay on you, steady, measuring something you can’t quite see from where you are, his expression tightening just slightly before it settles again.
“You don’t remember?” he asks.
Too simple.
You look down, chasing after memories that shatter before you can catch them. Fragments flicker—almost familiar, then gone, leaving nothing but the longing of what you can’t reach.
“I—” you start, then stop, your brow pulling tighter as the effort of trying to piece it together sends a sharper edge of discomfort through your head.
Something’s there, barely out of reach, taunting you. It refuses to settle, refuses to let you rest.
“I don’t…” You say slowly, the words uneven, not quite certain. “I don’t know.”
It’s not a lie. Not entirely.
Your hand moves in his, restless, searching for something your mind can’t name. His hand stills against yours.
“Alright,” he says after a second, his voice lower now, steadier in a fashion that feels more controlled than before. “Don’t push it.”
Your eyes lift back to him, searching for something on his face that explains the tension sitting just below the surface, the way he’s watching you like he’s waiting for something specific rather than just relief that you’re awake.
Nothing fits. Not him, not you. There’s a hole in your memory, a blank where something vital should be. The harder you reach, the further it slips away.
Your fingers curl against his, desperate for something solid. It doesn’t help.
“…It was—” you start again, quieter this time, your voice sinking as something almost surfaces. For a second, it feels close enough to touch.
Then it’s gone.
Frustration flashes across your face before you force it down, eyes dropping, as if looking away could hide the fracture.
“…I don’t remember,” you finish.
The words come easier this time.
It shouldn’t be that easy.
He hears the difference. Doesn’t call it out. But something in the way he looks at you changes—subtle, controlled, but there.
He doesn’t press you. Not yet.
“Okay,” he says instead, his tone even, yet quieter than before. “We’ll figure it out.”
The machines continue their even rhythm, filling the calm that follows. You’re awake, but whatever happened is still sitting somewhere slightly out of reach.
And he knows it.
Even if you won’t say it yet.
That silence that settles after that feels different from the one before. Not empty, not uncertain—just careful, like both of you are circling around something neither one wants to touch directly yet.
Your hand stays in his, the contact suddenly too loud, too present. His warmth anchors you, but the rest of the world is still out of reach, your mind always a beat behind.
The light overhead.
The steady beeping beside you.
The ache digs in, deeper now that the fog is lifting.
You adjust slightly against the pillow, and the movement pulls a sharper discomfort through your side and up into your head so quickly that your expression tenses before you can stop it.
He leans forward immediately.
“Easy,” he says quietly, “Don’t move too fast.”
You exhale, slow and shaky, letting the pain settle like sediment. It leaves a pressure behind—physical, yes, but worse in your head, something wedged behind your thoughts, refusing to move.
Your eyes close briefly.
Pain lances behind your eyes so sharply that it drags something up with it.
Wet asphalt under sodium light. Your phone skidding away. Someone shouting.
Not Arthur’s.
Your eyes snap open. The memory is already gone.
Wait—’ you whisper, more to yourself than to him.
“What?” he asks.
The question comes low and controlled, but there’s tension under it now, quieter than before but harder to miss.
You stare through him, clawing at the memory as it fades away. All that remains is the aftertaste—sharp, unfinished, wrong.
“I just…” Your voice falters slightly. “I thought I remembered something.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush you.
His thumb moves against your skin, patient, grounding, but it only makes the pressure worse. You want to pull away.
“What was it?” he asks.
You grit your teeth, forcing the memory to the surface. It comes in shards—a blur of movement, a voice, your pulse pounding so hard it drowns out everything else.
Then—
a name.
Your stomach knots, dread arriving before understanding.
You know that name.
More importantly, so would he.
The realization hits like a punch. Your face betrays you before you can stop it.
Something on his face stills.
“What?” he asks again, quieter this time.
Your eyes flick toward him too quickly, instinct taking over before thought does. For a second, the name sits right there at the edge of your tongue, dangerously close to becoming real.
You choke it back, burying the name where he can’t reach it.
“It’s nothing,” you say.
Too fast.
His gaze doesn’t leave your face.
“That didn’t look like nothing.”
You look away, hiding your face in the blank wall. Your pulse stutters, not due to pain, but from the harsh certainty that something in your memory survived. Not all of it.
Just enough.
“I said I don’t remember,” you reply, quieter now.
The bitterness in your voice surprises even you.
The quiet lingers, tension pulled thin and sharp. He doesn’t push, but you feel him watching, listening for what you’re not saying.
Your fingers curl slightly against his hand again before you realize you’re doing it.
You shouldn’t have let him see that crack.
You know it the second the thought crosses your mind.
Now he knows there’s something you’re not saying.
The silence thickens, heavier, changed. Not hostile, just loaded—waiting for the next fracture.
You keep your eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder, trying to let your breathing settle back into something normal before he grasps that too.
“You thirsty?” he asks after a moment.
The question jars you—not for what it is, but for how normal it sounds, rubbing against everything raw beneath the surface.
You glance back at him, momentarily thrown by the shift.
“…A little.”
“Alright.”
He lets go, careful, and the loss of contact is immediate, stinging. He stands, reaching for the cup, and you hate how much you miss it.
The movement is familiar.
Not the specific action itself, but the way he does things—quietly, efficiently, without turning them into something bigger than they need to be.
You watch him pour water, the disconnect crawling back under your skin.
Broad shoulders slightly tense beneath the worn dark shirt, attention focused completely on what he’s doing even though it’s something simple. There’s grease just faintly worked into the lines of his hands near the knuckles, like he came here straight from work without thinking twice about it.
The realization strikes peculiarly in your chest.
“You came from work,” you say before you mean to.
He glances at you briefly as he steps back toward the bed.
“Yeah.”
“You were working when they called?”
A pause.
Small.
“Yeah.”
He presses the cup into your hand, steadying it when your grip falters. The touch sends a dull ache through your skull—pressure, not pain, a sign that your body is still out of step with itself.
“Easy,” he says quietly as you adjust your grip.
The word settles differently than it should.
You take a small sip, the water cool enough to feel almost startling going down. Your throat still burns slightly with it, rough because of disuse, and you lower the cup after only a second.
He takes it back without asking and sets it down beside the bed again.
The familiarity of it presses on you harder this time.
Not because it’s comforting.
Because it shouldn’t feel this natural after everything.
Your gaze drifts toward him again before you can stop it.
“How long have you been here?”
The question leaves your mouth quietly, but it changes something in his expression immediately—not dramatically, just enough for you to notice the slight adjustment in his jaw before he answers.
“A while.”
“That doesn’t answer it.”
The words come out softer than intended, the edge underneath them doesn’t go unnoticed.
His eyes stay on you for a second longer than necessary before he leans back slightly into the chair again.
“They called me a few hours ago,” he says.
A few hours. The number settles heavily in your chest.
Silence presses in again.
“…Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
This time the pause is longer.
Not uncertain.
Measured.
“You still had me listed,” he says finally.
The answer settles heavily into the room.
Your chest contracts before you can control it.
Of course.
Right.
You had forgotten about that.
Or maybe you hadn’t.
You’re not entirely sure anymore.
Your gaze drops briefly toward the blanket gathered across your lap, fingers flexing slightly against the fabric as the memory of filling out that information flickers somewhere in the back of your mind. It had been automatic at the time, thoughtless in the way habits become thoughtless after long enough.
You never changed it.
Hearing it aloud makes your skin prickle.
“You could’ve changed it too,” you say quietly before thinking better of it.
The second the words leave you, you wish they hadn’t.
His expression alters slightly—not anger, not surprise, but something tighter than before.
“That ain’t how emergency contacts work,” he says.
You let out a small breath through your nose, somewhere between embarrassment and frustration.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
The problem is that he probably does.
And somehow that only makes the quiet afterward feel heavier.
You keep your gaze lowered for a moment longer, fingers gently curled lightly against the blanket, attempting to ignore the pressure building behind your eyes every time you think too hard about anything that came before waking up here.
The room has gone quiet again except for the unwavering rhythm of the monitor beside you, but now the quietness feels more aware than before. Arthur doesn’t fill it unnecessarily, and that’s always been part of the problem with him—he observes too much while saying too little.
“How bad is it?” you ask eventually, your voice quieter now.
His brow furrows faintly.
“The injuries?”
You nod once.
Another small pause settles before he answers, and the hesitation meets your attention immediately.
“You’re alright,” he says. “Got some bruising. Couple other things they’re watchin’. Nothin’ life-threatening.”
It sounds controlled. Too controlled.
Your eyes narrow slightly.
“That sounded rehearsed.”
His mouth shifts without becoming a smile.
“Been hearin’ the same thing for hours.”
Hours.
You look away.
You try not to think too hard about him sitting in this room alone while you were unconscious, but the image forms anyway—Arthur in that chair, tense and sleepless, listening to doctors avoid answering questions while waiting for you to wake up.
You look away before the image can settle.
Your attention drifts instead toward the window across the room, though there’s nothing visible beyond the reflection of the dim hospital lights. You focus on that reflection, attempting to steady your thoughts somewhere outside yourself.
You try to force the missing seconds into order.
Rain streaking across the glass.
A silver sedan idling crooked near the curb.
The passenger door hanging open.
Someone saying, low and sharp, ‘No.’ A hand braced against the open door.
Your throat goes dry.
A name. You know that name.
You know exactly why hearing it matters.
Your expression changes before you can stop it.
You don’t answer fast enough.
“What is it?” he asks, his sound hushed now, sharper underneath.
You blink quickly, trying to smooth over whatever just crossed your face, but it’s already too late. His posture has shifted slightly forward in the chair, attention narrowing completely onto you.
“Nothing,” you answer.
Too quick again.
His eyes stay on you.
“That’s twice now.”
You look back at him before you mean to.
“What?”
“You remember somethin’, then shut down.”
The observation comes evenly, not accusing, which somehow makes it worse.
Your jaw braces slightly.
“I said I can’t remember clearly.”
“You said you don’t remember.” His gaze doesn’t move from yours. “That ain’t the same thing.”
The room feels smaller all at once.
Your pulse feels uneven now, the memory still sitting too close beneath the surface. You can hear that voice again in fragments, hear the shape of the name without letting yourself fully think it.
Because if you do—
You’re not sure what comes after that.
You swallow once before answering.
“It doesn’t matter.”
The second the words leave your mouth, his expression changes.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for you to catch the change in his eyes, the way something harder settles there beneath the restraint he’s been holding onto since you woke up.
“It mattered enough to scare you,” he says quietly.
You don’t answer.
Can’t.
Because he’s right, and the worst part is that he knows it without needing the rest explained.
Arthur leans back slightly in the chair, but not fully, as he watches you with that same steady focus that’s been fixed on you since you woke up. There’s nothing dramatic in his expression, nothing openly confrontational, but the restraint in him feels tighter now, pulled thinner by every reaction you haven’t managed to hide quickly enough.
You can feel it.
It isn’t accusation. That would be easier. It’s attention—the dangerous kind.”
Your pulse still hasn’t settled completely, and you hate that he can probably tell. The room suddenly feels too warm in spite of the chill sitting beneath your skin, the hospital blanket heavier across your lap than it was a few minutes ago.
You shift slightly against the pillow again, trying to ease some of the tension building through your shoulders, but the movement pulls another dull ache through your side and you stop almost immediately.
Arthur straightens in his chair.
“Careful,” he says quietly.
The word comes automatically, instinctively, like he doesn’t even have to think before saying it.
That somehow makes it worse.
You glance toward him briefly before looking away again, your eyes catching on the monitor beside the bed instead. The steady rhythm scrolling across the screen gives you something neutral to focus on, something that doesn’t ask questions.
Arthur lets the silence sit a little longer before speaking again.
“You got anybody I should call?”
The question surprises you, off guard enough that you look back at him immediately.
“What?”
“Friends. Family.” His tone stays even. “Anybody who oughta know you’re here.”
There’s nothing suspicious in the wording.
But something about the timing feels deliberate.
Heat floods your face.
“No,” you answer after a second. “Nobody.”
His expression doesn’t change, though his gaze lingers on you just a fraction longer than before.
“Nobody?”
You already know what he’s doing.
Not pushing.
Checking.
Seeing if your answer changes the second time.
“It’s not exactly a long list,” you mutter.
“No,” he says quietly. “Guess it ain’t.”
The response lands with more familiarity than sarcasm, and that somehow hurts worse than if he’d been openly sharp about it.
You look down again, fingers clenching slightly against the blanket.
Another flash pushes suddenly at the edge of your memory before you can brace for it.
Your knees slam into wet pavement.
Your palms scrape raw against concrete.
Your phone glows inches beyond your reach.
Your entire body stills.
The memory vanishes immediately after, ripped away before the rest can follow, but the reaction hits too late to hide. Your breathing is hitching sharply enough that Arthur straightens slightly in the chair.
“What?” he asks immediately.
Too immediate.
Too focused.
You shake your head too fast.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not nothin’.”
Your jaw firms up.
“I said I’m fine.”
The words come out quicker than intended, edged now with frustration that has less to do with him and more to do with the panic crawling slowly up your spine.
Every time he looks at you too carefully, it feels like the missing pieces shift just enough to threaten coming apart entirely.
“You keep reactin’ before you remember,” he says quietly.
His eyes stay fixed on you for a long moment after that. You can practically feel him thinking, connecting things silently behind that steady expression he’s been holding onto since he walked into this room.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says, still calm, still watching you with that same unbearable level of focus, “whatever you’re rememberin’ scares you before it even makes sense.”
You stare at him.
And the worst part—the truly awful part—is that he’s right.
You don’t even fully understand what you’re afraid of yet.
Just that every fragment connected to that name feels wrong the second it surfaces.
Arthur studies your expression for another second before his jaw tightens faintly, like he’s arriving at something internally without deciding whether to say it out loud yet.
“You know who it was,” he says.
Even the monitor feels too loud.
Your pulse stumbles hard enough that you feel it.
And Arthur sees that too.
He's starting to ask the right questions.
Chapter 4 drops Tuesday.
“That’s twice now.”
You look back at him before you mean to.
“What?”
“You remember somethin’, then shut down.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The second the words leave your mouth, his expression changes.
“It mattered enough to scare you.”
NEW CHAPTER TODAY 7:30pm MST
He's starting to ask the right questions.
Chapter 4 drops Tuesday.
“That’s twice now.”
You look back at him before you mean to.
“What?”
“You remember somethin’, then shut down.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The second the words leave your mouth, his expression changes.
“It mattered enough to scare you.”
You Don't Look Yourself
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
Summary: Arthur finally comes face to face with the person at the center of the chaos—but what should be relief quickly gives way to something far more unsettling. The closer he looks, the harder it becomes to believe the story he’s been given.
Rating: 17+
Warnings: hospital setting, medical trauma themes, unconscious reader, implied injury, emotional distress, unresolved relationship tension, anxiety, discussions of possible non-accidental harm, and suspense/mystery themes
Word Count: 2.9k
a/n: this is chapter 3 in my Arthur Morgan series "Emergency Contact", I know I said I'd post this chapter yesterday but life got in the way so I wasn't able to :c
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
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His fingers close around the handle.
The metal bites colder than it should. Like it knows something he doesn’t.
He stands there, hand locked on the handle, every mistake and lie pressing in behind him. The hallway, the questions, the half-truths—they’re all waiting, crowding the other side of the door, daring him to open it.
Then he pushes it open.
The room beyond is quieter than the hallway.
Not silent. Never silent. Just trapped. The quiet here is a cage built from the drone of machines, the unceasing beep, the hiss of air he can’t place. All of it pretending to be calm.
The light is wrong. Dim, soft, suffocating. It doesn’t settle—it smothers, dragging the room in on itself.
He steps inside.
The door closes behind him with a muted click.
For a moment, he doesn’t go any further.
Just stands there, just past the threshold, letting his eyes adjust—not to the light, but to the shape of the room, the way everything is arranged with purpose.
A chair near the bed.
A tray pushed off to the side.
Monitors are positioned where they can be seen without getting in the way.
And then—
You.
You’re there.
Not hidden. Not obscured.
Just lying there, center stage, like you were always meant to be the exhibit.
Still.
Too static. Like you’re waiting for the punchline.
It doesn’t hit all at once.
Not like he expected it might.
No shock. No drama. Just that slow, ugly recognition crawling up his spine as he takes in the shape of you, the blanket pulled up too neat, your head turned just enough to look peaceful. It’s a lie.
Your chest rises.
Falls.
Steady.
That’s the first thing he notices.
Breathing.
Regular.
Uninterrupted.
His shoulders drop, barely. Not relief. Just enough to dull the panic that’s been eating away at him since the call.
He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been strangling.
You don’t look—
His gaze moves over you again, more carefully this time.
There’s nothing immediately wrong.
No obvious damage.
No blood.
No chaos.
Just—
You.
Lying there.
Quiet.
He moves closer, slow, careful, like if he rushes the whole thing will shatter and he’ll see what he’s not supposed to.
The sounds in the room stay steady.
Unbothered.
Unaffected by his presence.
Even his movement feels intrusive here.
Everything feels boxed in. Like the room is holding its breath.
Controlled.
He stops at the side of the bed.
Close enough now that the details come into focus more clearly—the way your hand rests near your side, fingers slightly curled, the way the blanket dips where it follows the shape of your legs, the slight rise and fall of your breathing more noticeable from here.
At first glance, nothing looks immediately out of place.
Nothing that explains the knot in his chest, the way his nerves keep screaming for something to be wrong.
He stands there a second longer, just looking.
Waiting for something to stand out.
Something to explain it.
Nothing does.
Not yet.
He stays where he is, standing at the side of the bed, eyes moving over you again—slower this time, more deliberate, like if he looks long enough something will shift into place.
Your breathing stays steady, quiet though clear, inside the stillness of the room. Your face is relaxed in a way that doesn’t match the word incident, or the tone people used when they said it. There’s no tension there, no visible strain—just the kind of quietness that could almost pass for sleep if not for everything around you.
The machines.
The wires.
The setting.
He exhales again, gentler this time, and some of the tightness in his chest eases—not gone, just… loosened at the edges.
“…Alright,” he mutters, more to himself than anything else.
It’s not reassurance.
It’s something close to it.
He shifts his weight slightly, leaning in just enough to get a better look without realizing he’s doing it. From here, the details sharpen—the light color in your skin, the way your hair falls where it’s been pushed back, the small, familiar things that don’t look any different than they should.
You look like you.
Just—
unchanged.
His gaze lingers on your face a second longer, like he’s expecting you to react to it somehow—to shift, to frown, to do something that breaks the quiet.
You don’t.
He lets his eyes move again, scanning over what he can see without thinking too hard about it.
No obvious injuries.
No bandages wrapped around your head.
No signs of anything immediate or severe.
Whatever happened—
It doesn’t show.
Not the way it should.
That thought settles in slowly, not sharp enough to alarm, just enough to sit wrong beneath everything else.
He straightens slightly, one hand coming to rest against the edge of the bed without fully committing to it, like he’s still not sure where he fits in the space.
“You look fine,” he says under his breath.
The words sound off the second they leave him.
Too simple.
Too easy for everything it took to get here.
His jaw shifts faintly, and he glances away for a second, toward the monitor, watching the steady pattern move across the screen. It doesn’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know.
His gaze drifts back to you.
Nothing’s changed.
Not in any way that explains the pressure of the room, or the way the staff kept talking around things instead of through them.
Not in any way that corresponds to what was reported as an accident.
He leans back just slightly, like distance might help him see it differently.
It doesn’t.
You’re just there.
Unmoving.
Untouched, at first glance.
And that’s the part that doesn’t sit right.
He doesn’t move at first.
Just stands there with that thought settling in, quiet but persistent, like something slightly beyond reach that refuses to take shape.
You look fine.
Which somehow makes this worse.
Not with the way they said it. Not with the way they didn’t say it.
His eyes shift again, slower now, not just looking—searching.
It starts small.
As the blanket shifts, a faint mark along your arm catches the light.
He notices it.
Doesn’t react.
Just takes it in.
His gaze moves higher.
There’s another one—closer to your shoulder this time, partially hidden, the edge of it vanishing beneath the fabric. Different shape. Not quite the same.
He leans in slightly.
Not consciously.
Just enough to see better.
Your face still looks the same. Calm. Undisturbed.
But now that he’s closer—
There’s a faint discoloration near your temple. Not large. Not dramatic. The kind of thing someone might miss if they weren’t looking for it.
He hadn’t been.
Now he is.
That’s not from nothing.
His eyes move again, more quickly this time, connecting what he’s seeing with what he isn’t being told.
Something about the pattern sits wrong.
They’re scattered.
Like—
He stops that thought before it finishes.
His hand shifts slightly on the edge of the bed, fingers pushing down harder than before.
The monitor continues its constant rhythm beside you, calm, unchanging, as if it doesn’t belong to the same situation he’s looking at.
Too calm.
There’s more equipment here than he expected.
He notices it now—the extra line running from your arm, the way something has been positioned just off to the side, not pressing but not minimal either. It’s all placed carefully, deliberately, like someone is watching for something specific.
None of it looked routine.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“No…” he mutters, scarcely audible. “That don’t—”
He doesn’t finish it.
Doesn’t need to.
The room feels different now.
Smaller.
Tighter.
What he saw before—the peacefulness, the quiet, the absence of obvious damage—that wasn’t reassurance.
It was something else.
Something incomplete.
He shifts his weight, leaning in just a fraction more, eyes focused on your arm again, on the marks that don’t quite belong there.
“Accident,” he repeats under his breath.
The word sounds worse here.
Doesn’t hold.
Not against this.
His hand lifts slightly from the bed, hovering now, like he’s about to reach for you but hasn’t decided if he should.
He hesitates.
Just for a second.
Then his fingers lower, brushing lightly against the back of your hand.
Warm.
That’s the second thing he notices.
Not cold. Not distant.
Warm.
Real.
His hand stills there, contact light but deliberate, as if confirming you’re real.
You don’t react.
The monitor doesn’t change.
Nothing shifts.
But now—
Now it’s different.
Now the calm feels misleading.
It doesn’t match the story they’re giving him.
Neither do the marks.
Your skin is warm.
Not distant. Not fading.
Warm in a way that makes everything else feel sharper.
His hand settles more fully, thumb shifting slightly against your knuckles without thinking about it, the motion small, instinctive—something he’s done before without needing a reason.
It doesn’t feel new.
That’s the problem.
He stiffens mildly as that realization settles in, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, his grip steadies, just enough to make it intentional.
“…Hey,” he mutters, quieter now, like the word is meant for you even if you can’t hear it.
He shifts closer to the bed, the movement slow, unforced, drawn more by habit than decision. The chair beside you scrapes softly as he pulls it out, the sound sharper amid the quiet room than it should be.
He sits.
Not all the way back—just on the edge, like he’s ready to move again if he needs to.
His hand doesn’t leave yours.
From here, everything is closer.
Too close to ignore.
The marks on your arm stand out more now, the uneven edges of them clearer than they were from a distance. One near your wrist, dim yet distinct. Another higher up, partially hidden but still there if he looks for it.
He is looking now.
He shouldn’t have to.
“Same as always. Ignore me ‘til I become a pain in the ass.”
The words come without much thought, low and rough within the quiet of the room.
“Not listenin’.”
There’s no humor in it.
Not really.
Just something familiar, pulled up from somewhere he hasn’t let himself go in a while.
You don’t respond.
The monitor keeps its constant beat beside you, indifferent to the way the air in the room feels like it’s tightening.
His gaze moves back to your face, studying it more closely now—the slight discoloration near your temple, the way your expression hasn’t shifted at all, not even slightly, like you’ve been set there and left exactly as you are.
It’s overly still.
Even for sleep.
His grip on your hand tightens before he can stop it, not enough to hurt, just enough to feel the pressure of it.
“…Hey,” he says, a little firmer this time.
Your name follows, quieter, pulled from him without much control over it.
It sounds different in here.
Closer.
More real than it did anywhere else.
He waits.
A second.
Two.
Nothing.
Not a twitch. Not a shift.
Just that steady rise and fall of your chest and the soft, unchanging rhythm of the machine beside you.
He exhales softly. “Figured.”
But he doesn’t let go.
Doesn’t pull back.
If anything, he leans in slightly, elbow resting against his knee, his other hand coming up to adjust the edge of the blanket where it’s shifted just enough to leave part of your arm exposed.
The gesture is automatic.
Careful.
Familiar in a way that doesn’t belong here, not after everything that’s been said—and everything that hasn’t.
He smooths it once, then lets his hand linger there for a second before pulling it back.
His eyes drop again to your arm.
To the marks.
Closer now, clearer.
And still not right.
His visage hardens, just slightly.
Not outward.
Not enough for anyone else to see.
But it’s there.
Settling in.
Whatever happened—
It wasn’t simple.
And sitting here, close enough to feel the heat of your hand in his, close enough to see the details no one bothered to explain—
He knows that much for certain.
But knowing it doesn’t change anything in front of him.
Your hand stays in his, warm and still, your fingers unmoving against his as if the contact doesn’t reach you at all. The room holds steady around the two of you, machines continuing their quiet work, indifferent to the tension settling deeper into his chest.
He watches you for a second longer.
Then—
“…Hey.”
It’s low. Not sharp, not loud. Just enough to carry across the short distance between you.
His thumb shifts slightly against your hand as he says your name again, this time more deliberate, like saying it the right way might make a difference.
It doesn’t.
Nothing changes.
Your breathing stays even. Your face doesn’t move. The light marks he noticed before don’t shift or fade or explain themselves.
He exhales through his nose, slower this time, like he’s giving it a second to catch up.
“You hear me?”
A little firmer now.
No response.
His gaze flicks to the monitor without really knowing what he expects to see.
The steady line continues, unbothered.
He looks back at you.
“…C’mon,” he mutters, quieter, the word slipping out before he can stop it.
Your name again.
Different this time.
Less controlled.
He waits.
A beat.
Then another.
Nothing.
The quiet extends, not empty, while filled with the same small sounds that haven’t changed since he walked in—the light beeping, the low hum, the slight rush of air. They keep going, steady and predictable, like they don’t recognize the gap forming in the space between what he’s doing and what’s coming back.
Which is nothing.
Tension is pulling tighter through his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he says under his breath, the word rougher now. “Alright.”
But it’s not an agreement.
It’s something closer to acknowledgment.
You’re not waking up.
Not because you won’t.
Because you can’t.
Not yet.
That thought settles heavier than the others.
He leans back slightly in the chair, but his hand doesn’t leave yours, as though letting go would mean something he’s not ready to admit.
His eyes move over your face again, slower, more focused, like he’s trying to catch something he missed the first time—some small sign that you’re closer to the surface than this.
There isn’t one.
You’re just—
unreachable.
His thumb drags once lightly across your knuckles, a small, absent motion that doesn’t carry expectation anymore.
“You always had bad timing,” he says quietly.
It’s not a joke.
Not really.
Just something to fill the space where your voice should be.
The words rest and stay there, unanswered.
He doesn’t try again right away.
Doesn’t persist in pushing.
Because now he knows.
This isn’t the type of silence you can break just by saying the right thing.
His gaze drops to your hand again, watching the way his fingers fit around yours like they always have, like nothing’s changed there even if everything else has.
That familiarity sits wrong now.
Not because it’s gone.
Because it isn’t.
Because it’s still here, in something as small as this, after everything that led up to it.
“…Christ,” he murmurs.
Everything else feels arranged.
Placed.
Like it’s been set up to look a certain way.
His gaze drifts again—slower now, more deliberate than before, retracing what he’s already seen but not the same way he saw it the first time.
Not looking.
Examining.
The marks on your arm.
He studies them again, closer this time, his thumb shifting just enough to move your hand slightly without meaning to. The change in angle makes one of them clearer—a faint discoloration that spreads unevenly beneath the skin, not clean, not singular.
His eyes move higher, following the line of your arm, catching the edge of another mark near your shoulder, the shape wrong in a way that doesn’t need explanation to feel off.
It doesn’t seem like one impact.
His hand stills.
The room doesn’t change with the shift in him, but something in the way he’s sitting does—his posture tightening, his focus narrowing, everything that was uncertain before starting to settle into something more defined.
Not clearer.
Just… sharper.
He looks at your face again.
At the pale discoloration near your temple.
The way it doesn’t match anything else.
In the way, nothing matches anything else.
“That ain’t right.”
It’s not a question.
Not even doubt.
Just recognition.
The pieces don’t line up.
Not for something simple.
Not for something random.
“Accident,” he scoffs.
The words come back again, but they don’t sit the same way they did before.
Now they feel wrong.
Deliberate.
Like something chosen.
His gaze drops back to your arm, to the marks that don’t belong together but somehow ended up in the same place anyway.
“…No,” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear.
Whatever happened—
It wasn’t one thing.
It didn’t look like the kind of accident he’d imagined.
And the way they’ve been talking around it—
The way no one’s answered him straight—
It felt less like caution and more like avoidance.
He exhales, slower this time, tension settling into something steadier, something less reactive and more focused.
If it was random—
They’d say it.
If it were simple—
They’d explain it.
They haven’t done either.
Which leaves—
He doesn’t finish the thought.
Doesn’t need to.
His eyes lift once more, examining the room like it might offer something it hasn’t yet—some missing piece, some confirmation sitting just out of sight.
There isn’t one.
Just you—somewhere he can’t reach.
And whatever happened to you—
left behind in pieces, no one here is willing to put it together out loud.
His hand doesn’t loosen.
If anything, it steadies further, his grip more deliberate now, like something’s shifted into place inside him without needing to be said.
“Alright,” he says quietly.
Not to you.
Not to anyone.
Just into the space between what he knows and what he’s been told.
The word sits there, solid.
Uncertain before.
Not anymore.
You Don't Look Yourself
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
Summary: Arthur finally comes face to face with the person at the center of the chaos—but what should be relief quickly gives way to something far more unsettling. The closer he looks, the harder it becomes to believe the story he’s been given.
Rating: 17+
Warnings: hospital setting, medical trauma themes, unconscious reader, implied injury, emotional distress, unresolved relationship tension, anxiety, discussions of possible non-accidental harm, and suspense/mystery themes
Word Count: 2.9k
a/n: this is chapter 3 in my Arthur Morgan series "Emergency Contact", I know I said I'd post this chapter yesterday but life got in the way so I wasn't able to :c
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
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His fingers close around the handle.
The metal bites colder than it should. Like it knows something he doesn’t.
He stands there, hand locked on the handle, every mistake and lie pressing in behind him. The hallway, the questions, the half-truths—they’re all waiting, crowding the other side of the door, daring him to open it.
Then he pushes it open.
The room beyond is quieter than the hallway.
Not silent. Never silent. Just trapped. The quiet here is a cage built from the drone of machines, the unceasing beep, the hiss of air he can’t place. All of it pretending to be calm.
The light is wrong. Dim, soft, suffocating. It doesn’t settle—it smothers, dragging the room in on itself.
He steps inside.
The door closes behind him with a muted click.
For a moment, he doesn’t go any further.
Just stands there, just past the threshold, letting his eyes adjust—not to the light, but to the shape of the room, the way everything is arranged with purpose.
A chair near the bed.
A tray pushed off to the side.
Monitors are positioned where they can be seen without getting in the way.
And then—
You.
You’re there.
Not hidden. Not obscured.
Just lying there, center stage, like you were always meant to be the exhibit.
Still.
Too static. Like you’re waiting for the punchline.
It doesn’t hit all at once.
Not like he expected it might.
No shock. No drama. Just that slow, ugly recognition crawling up his spine as he takes in the shape of you, the blanket pulled up too neat, your head turned just enough to look peaceful. It’s a lie.
Your chest rises.
Falls.
Steady.
That’s the first thing he notices.
Breathing.
Regular.
Uninterrupted.
His shoulders drop, barely. Not relief. Just enough to dull the panic that’s been eating away at him since the call.
He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been strangling.
You don’t look—
His gaze moves over you again, more carefully this time.
There’s nothing immediately wrong.
No obvious damage.
No blood.
No chaos.
Just—
You.
Lying there.
Quiet.
He moves closer, slow, careful, like if he rushes the whole thing will shatter and he’ll see what he’s not supposed to.
The sounds in the room stay steady.
Unbothered.
Unaffected by his presence.
Even his movement feels intrusive here.
Everything feels boxed in. Like the room is holding its breath.
Controlled.
He stops at the side of the bed.
Close enough now that the details come into focus more clearly—the way your hand rests near your side, fingers slightly curled, the way the blanket dips where it follows the shape of your legs, the slight rise and fall of your breathing more noticeable from here.
At first glance, nothing looks immediately out of place.
Nothing that explains the knot in his chest, the way his nerves keep screaming for something to be wrong.
He stands there a second longer, just looking.
Waiting for something to stand out.
Something to explain it.
Nothing does.
Not yet.
He stays where he is, standing at the side of the bed, eyes moving over you again—slower this time, more deliberate, like if he looks long enough something will shift into place.
Your breathing stays steady, quiet though clear, inside the stillness of the room. Your face is relaxed in a way that doesn’t match the word incident, or the tone people used when they said it. There’s no tension there, no visible strain—just the kind of quietness that could almost pass for sleep if not for everything around you.
The machines.
The wires.
The setting.
He exhales again, gentler this time, and some of the tightness in his chest eases—not gone, just… loosened at the edges.
“…Alright,” he mutters, more to himself than anything else.
It’s not reassurance.
It’s something close to it.
He shifts his weight slightly, leaning in just enough to get a better look without realizing he’s doing it. From here, the details sharpen—the light color in your skin, the way your hair falls where it’s been pushed back, the small, familiar things that don’t look any different than they should.
You look like you.
Just—
unchanged.
His gaze lingers on your face a second longer, like he’s expecting you to react to it somehow—to shift, to frown, to do something that breaks the quiet.
You don’t.
He lets his eyes move again, scanning over what he can see without thinking too hard about it.
No obvious injuries.
No bandages wrapped around your head.
No signs of anything immediate or severe.
Whatever happened—
It doesn’t show.
Not the way it should.
That thought settles in slowly, not sharp enough to alarm, just enough to sit wrong beneath everything else.
He straightens slightly, one hand coming to rest against the edge of the bed without fully committing to it, like he’s still not sure where he fits in the space.
“You look fine,” he says under his breath.
The words sound off the second they leave him.
Too simple.
Too easy for everything it took to get here.
His jaw shifts faintly, and he glances away for a second, toward the monitor, watching the steady pattern move across the screen. It doesn’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know.
His gaze drifts back to you.
Nothing’s changed.
Not in any way that explains the pressure of the room, or the way the staff kept talking around things instead of through them.
Not in any way that corresponds to what was reported as an accident.
He leans back just slightly, like distance might help him see it differently.
It doesn’t.
You’re just there.
Unmoving.
Untouched, at first glance.
And that’s the part that doesn’t sit right.
He doesn’t move at first.
Just stands there with that thought settling in, quiet but persistent, like something slightly beyond reach that refuses to take shape.
You look fine.
Which somehow makes this worse.
Not with the way they said it. Not with the way they didn’t say it.
His eyes shift again, slower now, not just looking—searching.
It starts small.
As the blanket shifts, a faint mark along your arm catches the light.
He notices it.
Doesn’t react.
Just takes it in.
His gaze moves higher.
There’s another one—closer to your shoulder this time, partially hidden, the edge of it vanishing beneath the fabric. Different shape. Not quite the same.
He leans in slightly.
Not consciously.
Just enough to see better.
Your face still looks the same. Calm. Undisturbed.
But now that he’s closer—
There’s a faint discoloration near your temple. Not large. Not dramatic. The kind of thing someone might miss if they weren’t looking for it.
He hadn’t been.
Now he is.
That’s not from nothing.
His eyes move again, more quickly this time, connecting what he’s seeing with what he isn’t being told.
Something about the pattern sits wrong.
They’re scattered.
Like—
He stops that thought before it finishes.
His hand shifts slightly on the edge of the bed, fingers pushing down harder than before.
The monitor continues its constant rhythm beside you, calm, unchanging, as if it doesn’t belong to the same situation he’s looking at.
Too calm.
There’s more equipment here than he expected.
He notices it now—the extra line running from your arm, the way something has been positioned just off to the side, not pressing but not minimal either. It’s all placed carefully, deliberately, like someone is watching for something specific.
None of it looked routine.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“No…” he mutters, scarcely audible. “That don’t—”
He doesn’t finish it.
Doesn’t need to.
The room feels different now.
Smaller.
Tighter.
What he saw before—the peacefulness, the quiet, the absence of obvious damage—that wasn’t reassurance.
It was something else.
Something incomplete.
He shifts his weight, leaning in just a fraction more, eyes focused on your arm again, on the marks that don’t quite belong there.
“Accident,” he repeats under his breath.
The word sounds worse here.
Doesn’t hold.
Not against this.
His hand lifts slightly from the bed, hovering now, like he’s about to reach for you but hasn’t decided if he should.
He hesitates.
Just for a second.
Then his fingers lower, brushing lightly against the back of your hand.
Warm.
That’s the second thing he notices.
Not cold. Not distant.
Warm.
Real.
His hand stills there, contact light but deliberate, as if confirming you’re real.
You don’t react.
The monitor doesn’t change.
Nothing shifts.
But now—
Now it’s different.
Now the calm feels misleading.
It doesn’t match the story they’re giving him.
Neither do the marks.
Your skin is warm.
Not distant. Not fading.
Warm in a way that makes everything else feel sharper.
His hand settles more fully, thumb shifting slightly against your knuckles without thinking about it, the motion small, instinctive—something he’s done before without needing a reason.
It doesn’t feel new.
That’s the problem.
He stiffens mildly as that realization settles in, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, his grip steadies, just enough to make it intentional.
“…Hey,” he mutters, quieter now, like the word is meant for you even if you can’t hear it.
He shifts closer to the bed, the movement slow, unforced, drawn more by habit than decision. The chair beside you scrapes softly as he pulls it out, the sound sharper amid the quiet room than it should be.
He sits.
Not all the way back—just on the edge, like he’s ready to move again if he needs to.
His hand doesn’t leave yours.
From here, everything is closer.
Too close to ignore.
The marks on your arm stand out more now, the uneven edges of them clearer than they were from a distance. One near your wrist, dim yet distinct. Another higher up, partially hidden but still there if he looks for it.
He is looking now.
He shouldn’t have to.
“Same as always. Ignore me ‘til I become a pain in the ass.”
The words come without much thought, low and rough within the quiet of the room.
“Not listenin’.”
There’s no humor in it.
Not really.
Just something familiar, pulled up from somewhere he hasn’t let himself go in a while.
You don’t respond.
The monitor keeps its constant beat beside you, indifferent to the way the air in the room feels like it’s tightening.
His gaze moves back to your face, studying it more closely now—the slight discoloration near your temple, the way your expression hasn’t shifted at all, not even slightly, like you’ve been set there and left exactly as you are.
It’s overly still.
Even for sleep.
His grip on your hand tightens before he can stop it, not enough to hurt, just enough to feel the pressure of it.
“…Hey,” he says, a little firmer this time.
Your name follows, quieter, pulled from him without much control over it.
It sounds different in here.
Closer.
More real than it did anywhere else.
He waits.
A second.
Two.
Nothing.
Not a twitch. Not a shift.
Just that steady rise and fall of your chest and the soft, unchanging rhythm of the machine beside you.
He exhales softly. “Figured.”
But he doesn’t let go.
Doesn’t pull back.
If anything, he leans in slightly, elbow resting against his knee, his other hand coming up to adjust the edge of the blanket where it’s shifted just enough to leave part of your arm exposed.
The gesture is automatic.
Careful.
Familiar in a way that doesn’t belong here, not after everything that’s been said—and everything that hasn’t.
He smooths it once, then lets his hand linger there for a second before pulling it back.
His eyes drop again to your arm.
To the marks.
Closer now, clearer.
And still not right.
His visage hardens, just slightly.
Not outward.
Not enough for anyone else to see.
But it’s there.
Settling in.
Whatever happened—
It wasn’t simple.
And sitting here, close enough to feel the heat of your hand in his, close enough to see the details no one bothered to explain—
He knows that much for certain.
But knowing it doesn’t change anything in front of him.
Your hand stays in his, warm and still, your fingers unmoving against his as if the contact doesn’t reach you at all. The room holds steady around the two of you, machines continuing their quiet work, indifferent to the tension settling deeper into his chest.
He watches you for a second longer.
Then—
“…Hey.”
It’s low. Not sharp, not loud. Just enough to carry across the short distance between you.
His thumb shifts slightly against your hand as he says your name again, this time more deliberate, like saying it the right way might make a difference.
It doesn’t.
Nothing changes.
Your breathing stays even. Your face doesn’t move. The light marks he noticed before don’t shift or fade or explain themselves.
He exhales through his nose, slower this time, like he’s giving it a second to catch up.
“You hear me?”
A little firmer now.
No response.
His gaze flicks to the monitor without really knowing what he expects to see.
The steady line continues, unbothered.
He looks back at you.
“…C’mon,” he mutters, quieter, the word slipping out before he can stop it.
Your name again.
Different this time.
Less controlled.
He waits.
A beat.
Then another.
Nothing.
The quiet extends, not empty, while filled with the same small sounds that haven’t changed since he walked in—the light beeping, the low hum, the slight rush of air. They keep going, steady and predictable, like they don’t recognize the gap forming in the space between what he’s doing and what’s coming back.
Which is nothing.
Tension is pulling tighter through his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he says under his breath, the word rougher now. “Alright.”
But it’s not an agreement.
It’s something closer to acknowledgment.
You’re not waking up.
Not because you won’t.
Because you can’t.
Not yet.
That thought settles heavier than the others.
He leans back slightly in the chair, but his hand doesn’t leave yours, as though letting go would mean something he’s not ready to admit.
His eyes move over your face again, slower, more focused, like he’s trying to catch something he missed the first time—some small sign that you’re closer to the surface than this.
There isn’t one.
You’re just—
unreachable.
His thumb drags once lightly across your knuckles, a small, absent motion that doesn’t carry expectation anymore.
“You always had bad timing,” he says quietly.
It’s not a joke.
Not really.
Just something to fill the space where your voice should be.
The words rest and stay there, unanswered.
He doesn’t try again right away.
Doesn’t persist in pushing.
Because now he knows.
This isn’t the type of silence you can break just by saying the right thing.
His gaze drops to your hand again, watching the way his fingers fit around yours like they always have, like nothing’s changed there even if everything else has.
That familiarity sits wrong now.
Not because it’s gone.
Because it isn’t.
Because it’s still here, in something as small as this, after everything that led up to it.
“…Christ,” he murmurs.
Everything else feels arranged.
Placed.
Like it’s been set up to look a certain way.
His gaze drifts again—slower now, more deliberate than before, retracing what he’s already seen but not the same way he saw it the first time.
Not looking.
Examining.
The marks on your arm.
He studies them again, closer this time, his thumb shifting just enough to move your hand slightly without meaning to. The change in angle makes one of them clearer—a faint discoloration that spreads unevenly beneath the skin, not clean, not singular.
His eyes move higher, following the line of your arm, catching the edge of another mark near your shoulder, the shape wrong in a way that doesn’t need explanation to feel off.
It doesn’t seem like one impact.
His hand stills.
The room doesn’t change with the shift in him, but something in the way he’s sitting does—his posture tightening, his focus narrowing, everything that was uncertain before starting to settle into something more defined.
Not clearer.
Just… sharper.
He looks at your face again.
At the pale discoloration near your temple.
The way it doesn’t match anything else.
In the way, nothing matches anything else.
“That ain’t right.”
It’s not a question.
Not even doubt.
Just recognition.
The pieces don’t line up.
Not for something simple.
Not for something random.
“Accident,” he scoffs.
The words come back again, but they don’t sit the same way they did before.
Now they feel wrong.
Deliberate.
Like something chosen.
His gaze drops back to your arm, to the marks that don’t belong together but somehow ended up in the same place anyway.
“…No,” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear.
Whatever happened—
It wasn’t one thing.
It didn’t look like the kind of accident he’d imagined.
And the way they’ve been talking around it—
The way no one’s answered him straight—
It felt less like caution and more like avoidance.
He exhales, slower this time, tension settling into something steadier, something less reactive and more focused.
If it was random—
They’d say it.
If it were simple—
They’d explain it.
They haven’t done either.
Which leaves—
He doesn’t finish the thought.
Doesn’t need to.
His eyes lift once more, examining the room like it might offer something it hasn’t yet—some missing piece, some confirmation sitting just out of sight.
There isn’t one.
Just you—somewhere he can’t reach.
And whatever happened to you—
left behind in pieces, no one here is willing to put it together out loud.
His hand doesn’t loosen.
If anything, it steadies further, his grip more deliberate now, like something’s shifted into place inside him without needing to be said.
“Alright,” he says quietly.
Not to you.
Not to anyone.
Just into the space between what he knows and what he’s been told.
The word sits there, solid.
Uncertain before.
Not anymore.
Some explanations fall apart the moment you look too closely.
Chapter 3 drops Tuesday.
If it was random— They’d say it.
If it were simple— They’d explain it.
They haven’t done either.
You're Listed Here
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
Summary: Arthur comes looking for answers, but the deeper he’s pulled into the situation, the clearer it becomes that no one is telling him the whole truth. With every vague explanation and unanswered question, the night becomes harder to make sense of—and even harder to walk away from.
Rating: 16+
Warnings: hospital setting, medical emergency, unconscious reader, emotional distress, unresolved relationship tension, anxiety-inducing uncertainty
Word Count: 3.8K
a/n: this is chapter 2 in my newest Arthur Morgan series "Emergency Contact", hope y'all like this one.
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
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And then he moves again—toward the front desk.
The floor changes beneath his boots—concrete giving way to tile that carries sound differently, each step ringing just enough to remind him where he is. The noise around him settles into something layered and constant—voices intermingling, low and hazy, the occasional sharp tone of a monitor or phone breaking through before disappearing again.
The desk sits ahead, wide and clean in a way that doesn’t match the people moving through the room. Screens glow behind it, casting pale light upon stacks of paper arranged with precise accuracy.
A woman stands behind the counter, focused on her computer screen, fingers moving quickly on the keyboard. She doesn’t look up right away.
He stops at the desk, hand braced against the counter, fingers snagging in just enough to feel the edge bite back. Testing if anything here is real, or if it’ll give way like everything else.
The typing continues for a moment longer than it should before she finally looks up.
“Can I help you?”
Her tone sounds even, practiced, already moving past the question before he answers it.
He nods, but the word won’t come. Your name sticks in his throat, familiar and suddenly unbearable. It’s heftier now, weighted with everything he can’t say.
“I’m here for—” he starts, then says it.
Saying it out loud is worse. On the phone, it was just noise. Here, it’s a sentence.
She doesn’t react to it. Just turns back to the screen, fingers moving again, quick and efficient, the soft clicking filling the space between them. For a few seconds, that’s all there is—the sound of typing, the low hum of the room, his hand still against the counter.
Then her motions slow.
Not much, just enough to notice.
Her eyes move across the screen again, more deliberately this time, and something in her look shifts before she looks back at him.
“And you are?”
His jaw moves slightly before he answers.
“Arthur Morgan.”
She enters it without comment, the tempo of her typing steady again, but it doesn’t last long. There’s another pause—longer this time, he watches it happen, watches the way her attention stays on the screen just a second too long before she speaks.
“You’re… listed here.”
There’s a faint hesitation in it, small enough that most people might miss it.
His fingers dig in, knuckles blanching. The counter doesn’t give. Nothing does.
“What does that mean?” he asks, the words still even, but tighter now.
She glances back at the screen, as if confirming something she’s already seen.
“Emergency contact.”
Simple. Direct. Supposed to be reassuring. It isn’t.
He doesn’t respond right away, and she doesn’t push him to. Instead, her attention turns slightly, her posture changing as if she’s deciding what to do next.
“Let me just pull up the rest of the intake,” she says, turning back to the screen.
Her hand moves across the mouse. Click.
Another click.
Then she pauses again.
This time, even she can’t hide it.
Her eyebrows tighten slightly as she reads, and for a short second, her stare flicks away from the screen—toward the hallway behind her—before returning just as quickly.
“What?” he asks.
It comes out sharper than before, not raised, just… quicker.
She looks back at him, smoothing over whatever was there.
“Nothing,” she says, too quickly to mean it. “Just reviewing their intake.”
A small beat passes before she continues.
“They were brought in not too long ago.”
He watches her, the way she keeps her focus on the screen instead of him now.
“How?”
The question lands without force, but there’s not much room around it.
There’s a pause.
Different this time. Not procedural. Not routine.
She shifts slightly, one hand resting against the desk as if centering herself in something familiar.
“They came in through emergency services,” she says, her manner careful, each word measured.
His eyes narrow just enough to register the gap.
“That ain’t what I asked.”
The hush after is thin, stretched to breaking. Something’s about to snap.
She exhales once, in control, and this time, when she answers, the neutrality is more deliberate.
“I don’t have full details,” she says. “You’ll need to speak with the attending staff.”
It sounds practiced.
Like something she’s already decided to say.
She reaches for a clipboard without looking away from the screen, sets it down in front of him, and turns it so the paper faces his direction.
“We’ll need you to sign in,” she adds, placing a pencil against the page, the tip tapping lightly once against the line where his name belongs.
“Since you’re listed.”
The words sit there as he looks down at the clipboard, the paper already angled toward him, the pen resting exactly where his name is meant to go.
He doesn’t reach for it right away.
The line waits.
Blank.
Expectant.
For a second, it’s not just a form. It’s a verdict.
He picks up the pen anyway.
The plastic is light in his hand, cheap, the tip hovering just above the paper as his eyes move over what’s written there—your name printed cleanly at the top, followed by blocks of text that don’t say much unless you already know what they mean.
Consent. Authorization. Acknowledgment.
His grip tightens. The pen could snap. He almost hopes it does.
“Just confirming,” the receptionist continues, her voice composed as she glances between the screen and the page in front of him, “you’re listed as the emergency contact, so you’ll be the point of communication while they’re here.”
He doesn’t look up.
“That’s what I was told,” he says.
It’s not quite an answer.
She doesn’t treat it like one.
“Alright,” she replies, already moving forward, her demeanor changing into something more procedural, more certain. “If something changes, we’ll come to you first. If the attending physician needs to speak with someone, it’ll be you.”
The pen touches the paper.
He signs his name.
It looks wrong next to yours.
Not unfamiliar. Just out of place, like it’s trespassing.
He sets the pen down, but his hand doesn’t move away immediately.
“And if any decisions need to be made,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.
That makes him look up.
“What kind of decisions?”
The question comes out before he can stop it, sharper than he intends.
She pauses, just slightly, like she’s deciding how much to say.
“Medical,” she answers. “If it comes to that.”
If.
The word doesn’t settle.
His jaw shifts, something tightening there, but he doesn’t push further. Not yet.
She takes the clipboard back, scanning it quickly before setting it aside with the others, filing back into the stack next to her.
“Alright,” she says, her inflection smoothing again. “Someone will come get you shortly.”
A beat passes.
Then—
“You can wait just over there,” she adds, gesturing toward a section of chairs off to the side.
He doesn’t move immediately.
“You said they were brought in,” he says instead, his speech lower now, more controlled. “What happened to them?”
There’s a trace of something in her look again—not surprise, not exactly—but acknowledgment.
Like she knew the question was coming.
“They’re being evaluated,” she says carefully, each word placed with intention. “The team is still working to assess everything.”
“That don’t answer it.”
It’s quieter this time, but it carries more weight.
She holds his gaze for a second longer than before, then looks back to the screen, fingers resting on the keyboard without moving.
“They’re stable,” she says.
A pause.
“We’re monitoring them closely.”
The two statements don’t sit together the way they should.
Something flickers behind his eyes, subtle but there, the earlier confusion starting to sharpen into something else.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks.
This time, she doesn’t answer right away.
The pause lingers—not long, but enough to feel deliberate.
When she does speak, her delivery sounds even, but more guarded than before.
“You’ll be able to speak with the attending physician,” she says. “They’ll have more detailed information.”
Not won’t tell you.
Someone else will.
It’s a small difference.
She straightens slightly, indicating the end of the exchange without saying it outright, her attention already beginning to shift back toward the screen.
“Please take a seat,” she says, calmer now, but no less firm. “We’ll call you as soon as we can.”
He stands there a moment longer.
Long enough to feel the space closing back in around him.
Long enough for your name to settle again—on the form, in his head, in the way she said we’ll come to you first, like it was already decided.
Then he steps back from the counter.
Not far. Just enough to break contact, as if distance could loosen the noose constricting around all of this.
He doesn’t make it to the chairs.
“Mr. Morgan?”
The voice comes from his right—closer than he expects.
He turns.
A nurse stands there, a tablet tucked against her side, pen clipped neatly to the collar of her uniform. She looks like she’s been watching the exchange longer than he realized, her attention settling on him with a kind of steady confidence that doesn’t leave much room for confusion.
“That’s you, right?” she asks, already moving closer.
He nods once.
Her stare moves over him briefly—not assessing in any obvious way, just taking him in, like she’s confirming something against what she’s already been told.
“I’m going to need to ask you a few questions,” she says, shifting the tablet into her hand. “Just to make certain we have everything we need on file.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Just watches her.
She doesn’t wait for it.
“You’re with them?” she asks, tapping the screen once.
The question sounds casual.
It doesn’t feel that way.
There’s a pause, short.
Long enough to matter.
He could correct it.
Say no.
Put distance where it belongs.
He doesn’t.
“…Yeah,” he says instead.
The word comes out low, rough, carrying more weight than he means it to.
She nods once, like that settles something.
“Alright,” she says, already moving on. “How long have they been unconscious?”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“I don’t know.”
That gives her a brief pause.
“You weren’t with her when it happened?”
“No.”
She studies him for a second longer, something subtle shifting behind her expression, before looking back down at the tablet.
“Okay,” she says, quieter now. “That’s alright. We’ll confirm the rest when she’s able to answer.”
When.
Not if.
It doesn’t help.
She scrolls.
“Any known allergies? Pre-existing conditions? Medications?”
Each question comes clean and quick.
He doesn’t have answers.
“Don’t know.”
Again.
“And current prescriptions?”
“Don’t know.”
“Any history we ought to be aware of?”
“Don’t know.”
Each time, her pen stills just a fraction longer.
Still your emergency contact.
Still the person they called.
But not someone who knows the answers he should.
When she looks up again, there’s something softer there.
More human.
“You must’ve been worried,” she says.
The words land hard.
He says nothing.
Her tone shifts back into something steadier.
“We’re keeping her under observation for now,” she says. “There were a few concerns when she was brought in, but her vitals have been stable.”
His focus sharpens immediately.
“What kind of concerns?”
She stills.
“Nothing we can’t manage.”
“That ain’t an answer.”
A beat passes.
Her look flicks briefly toward the hallway before returning.
“The attending physician will go over everything with you.”
Redirected.
Again.
She adjusts the tablet against her side.
“If she wakes up and asks for you, we’ll come get you right away.”
That catches.
Ask for you.
His jaw tightens.
“Right,” he says.
She nods once.
“For now, just stay nearby.”
Then she turns and walks back toward the desk.
He doesn’t follow right away.
Just stands there a second longer, the words still hanging in the space she left behind—we’ll come to you, we’ll need you, you’re listed—stacking on top of each other until they start to feel less like information and more like something being handed to him without asking.
A chair scrapes somewhere to his left.
Voices shift.
The room keeps moving.
He exhales once, slowly, then turns toward the waiting area she pointed out earlier.
It’s not far—just a section of chairs set against the wall, spaced out in a way that’s meant to feel organized but doesn’t quite manage it. A television hangs in the corner, playing something low and forgettable, the volume just high enough to exist without anyone really listening.
A few people sit scattered across the seats.
None of them looks at the others.
He doesn’t sit.
Not at first.
He stops near the end of the row, one hand coming to rest on the back of a chair, fingers bending gently around the edge like he’s deciding whether or not to stay there.
Then he sits.
Finally.
Not all the way back. Just enough to pretend he belongs here.
Across the room, someone glances in his direction.
Only for a second.
Then looks away.
Like they hadn’t meant to.
His gaze lingers there a moment longer than necessary before shifting back toward the hallway the receptionist looked at earlier.
The one she didn’t explain.
The one no one’s said anything about since.
Your name sits there again.
Different now.
Attached to something he doesn’t fully understand.
Something no one’s saying out loud.
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting against his knees, hands coming together loosely in front of him. It’s not comfortable, not settled—just a position that gives him something to do besides sit still with it.
The television in the corner drones on, cycling through something forgettable, the images shifting without meaning. No one’s really watching it.
He isn’t either.
His attention stays on the hallway.
A set of doors at the far end opens briefly, a hint of movement beyond them—staff passing through, quick, purposeful, gone just as fast. The doors swing shut again with a soft, controlled click.
Too controlled.
Everything here is.
His jaw shifts.
Something’s wrong.
Since the way they said it.
Incident.
The word circles back again, slower this time, heavier.
People don’t hesitate for nothing. Not here.
They don’t dodge questions unless there’s something bad.
A voice breaks through his thoughts.
“…Mr. Morgan?”
He looks up.
A man stands a few feet away, different from the others. Not in scrubs this time, but still part of it, still carrying that same feeling of purpose. A badge clipped to his shirt, a folder tucked under one arm.
“Yeah.”
The man steps closer, not rushed but direct.
“I just wanted to follow up on a few details while we wait for the attending physician,” he says, flipping the folder open. “Make sure everything we have is accurate.”
Arthur nods once.
The man glances down at the page, scanning.
“They were brought in by emergency services,” he says, more to himself than anything else, confirming it as he reads. “No immediate identification on arrival…”
Arthur’s attention sharpens instantly.
“What do you mean?”
The man looks up, like he hadn’t realized he said it out loud.
“They didn’t have identification on them when they were brought in,” he clarifies. “We were able to match them through other means.”
Other means.
The phrasing sticks.
“How’d they get them here?” he asks.
The man hesitates—not as clean as the others. Not as practiced.
“Paramedics responded to a call,” he says. “They were already on site when—”
He stops.
Just for a second.
Then corrects:
“When they arrived.”
Arthur’s eyes narrow.
“That ain’t the same thing.”
The man shifts slightly, changing his grip on the folder.
“They were transported here by ambulance,” he says, more carefully now. “That’s the important part.”
Arthur leans back slightly, just enough to look at him differently now.
“What kind of call?” he asks.
There’s a beat.
The man exhales quietly through his nose, glancing down at the folder again like it might give him an easier version of the answer.
“I don’t have the full report in front of me,” he says. “That’ll be something the physician goes over with you.”
Again, passed off.
Moved.
Not answered. Not even close.
Arthur doesn’t look away from him.
“What kind of call?” he repeats.
This time, there’s no softening in it.
The man meets his gaze for a second longer, then looks past him—toward the desk, toward the hallway—anywhere else.
“It was… reported as an accident,” he says.
Reported.
Not confirmed.
The word sits wrong.
“What kind of accident?” Arthur presses.
Another pause.
This one is heavier.
The man’s jaw tightens slightly before he answers.
“There were signs of—” he starts, then stops himself.
His grip on the folder shifts.
“…of possible complications,” he finishes instead.
That’s a replacement.
Arthur leans forward again, slower this time.
“What kind of complications?” he asks.
The man closes the folder.
Not hard.
Just final.
“As I said,” he replies, his tone firming up now, less open than it was a while ago, “the attending physician will go over everything with you.”
There it is again.
That line.
That wall.
Arthur holds his gaze a second longer.
Then:
“Yeah,” he says.
But there’s nothing in it that agrees.
The man nods once, like the conversation has reached its end, whether Arthur accepts it or not.
“They’ll be with you shortly,” he adds, stepping back.
Then he turns, moving away toward the hallway, disappearing through the same set of doors the others have used.
Arthur watches him go.
Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t look away.
Reported as an accident.
Already on site.
No identification.
The pieces don’t sit together.
They don’t line up clean.
And no one here is going to fix it. Not for him.
His hands come together again, tighter this time, fingers pressing into each other just enough to feel it.
Something’s wrong.
Not just with you.
With what happened.
And whatever it is—
They already know more than they’re saying.
He stays there a second longer after the man disappears through the doors, eyes focused on the spot where he disappeared, like something might come back out if he waits long enough.
Nothing does.
The waiting area settles again around him, quiet in the same uneasy way it’s been since he sat down. The television keeps running. Someone shifts in their seat across the room. A phone rings somewhere behind the desk and gets picked up too quickly.
Everything moves.
Nothing changes.
He leans back slightly, just enough to take the pressure off his hands, his fingers flex once, then still again, resting against his knees like he’s holding himself in place.
Reported as an accident.
The words don’t sit any better the second time.
Neither does already on site.
That one sticks.
Paramedics don’t just wait around. Something put them there. Something ugly.
Across the room, someone gets up, their chair sliding softly upon the floor before they move toward the desk. The receptionist greets them the same way she greeted him—identical tone, same tempo, like none of this is different from any other night.
Like this happens all the time.
Maybe it does.
The doors at the end of the hall open again.
This time, a nurse steps through and doesn’t turn away.
She looks directly at him.
“Mr. Morgan?”
It slices through the noise. Finally.
He’s already on his feet before he answers.
“Yeah.”
His speech is rougher now. He doesn’t fix it.
She gives a small nod, already turning back toward the hallway she came from.
“You can come with me,” she says.
No buildup.
No explanation.
Just that.
He moves without hesitation, falling into step behind her as she pushes through the doors. They swing shut behind him with that same controlled sound, cutting off the waiting room in an instant.
The shift is immediate.
Quieter.
Tighter.
The hallway stretches ahead, lined with closed doors and muted lights that feel dimmer after the brightness out front. The air smells sharper here—cleaner, but not in a way that settles anything.
She walks at a steady pace, not looking back to check if he’s keeping up.
He is.
His boots hit the floor in a measured rhythm behind her, each step ringing just enough to remind him how far they’re going.
Too far.
Not far enough.
His eyes move as they walk, catching small details but without holding onto any of them—open doorways with glimpses of movement inside, equipment pushed against walls, a cart left just slightly out of place like someone meant to come back for it.
No one stops them.
No one asks anything.
They turn a corner.
Another hallway.
Quieter still.
“She’s stable,” the nurse says as they walk, her tone calmer now, less formal than it was before. “The doctor will go over everything with you once you’ve had a chance to see her.”
The words register.
So does the shift.
She.
He doesn’t react to it out loud.
Just keeps walking.
“How long’s she been out?” he asks.
“A few hours,” she says. “She hasn’t regained consciousness yet, but her vitals have been steady.”
Steady.
He’s heard that word too many times. It’s lost all meaning.
“What happened?” he asks.
The question comes the same way it has every time—direct, leaving no space around it.
This time, the nurse hesitates.
Not long.
Just enough to sting.
“We’re still working through the details,” she says.
Same answer.
Different voice.
Still not an answer.
He doesn’t push again.
Not yet.
They pass another set of doors. This one is half open.
Inside, he catches a glimpse—just a second—of someone sitting upright in a bed, talking to someone beside them, voices low but present.
Normal.
Contained.
They keep moving.
The nurse slows as they approach the end of the hall, her steps shortening slightly before she comes to a stop in front of a closed door.
She turns to him then.
For the first time since they started walking.
“This is her room,” she says.
Her tone shifts again—quieter, more careful now.
“She’s still unconscious,” she adds. “So she won’t be able to respond yet.”
A small pause.
“But you can sit with her.”
The words pause between them.
He nods once.
Doesn’t trust his voice. Not now.
Her hand moves to the door, but she doesn’t open it right away.
“If you need anything,” she says, “just let us know.”
Then—
She steps aside.
Gives him space.
The door is right there.
Closer than anything has been since the call.
His hand comes up, hovering just short of the handle.
For a second—
He doesn’t move.
Everything that’s been building—the call, the muteness, the questions that didn’t get answered—sits right there with him.
Then his fingers close around the handle.
And he pushes the door open.
You're Listed Here
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
Summary: Arthur comes looking for answers, but the deeper he’s pulled into the situation, the clearer it becomes that no one is telling him the whole truth. With every vague explanation and unanswered question, the night becomes harder to make sense of—and even harder to walk away from.
Rating: 16+
Warnings: hospital setting, medical emergency, unconscious reader, emotional distress, unresolved relationship tension, anxiety-inducing uncertainty
Word Count: 3.8K
a/n: this is chapter 2 in my newest Arthur Morgan series "Emergency Contact", hope y'all like this one.
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
· · ─ · previous | next · ─ ·
And then he moves again—toward the front desk.
The floor changes beneath his boots—concrete giving way to tile that carries sound differently, each step ringing just enough to remind him where he is. The noise around him settles into something layered and constant—voices intermingling, low and hazy, the occasional sharp tone of a monitor or phone breaking through before disappearing again.
The desk sits ahead, wide and clean in a way that doesn’t match the people moving through the room. Screens glow behind it, casting pale light upon stacks of paper arranged with precise accuracy.
A woman stands behind the counter, focused on her computer screen, fingers moving quickly on the keyboard. She doesn’t look up right away.
He stops at the desk, hand braced against the counter, fingers snagging in just enough to feel the edge bite back. Testing if anything here is real, or if it’ll give way like everything else.
The typing continues for a moment longer than it should before she finally looks up.
“Can I help you?”
Her tone sounds even, practiced, already moving past the question before he answers it.
He nods, but the word won’t come. Your name sticks in his throat, familiar and suddenly unbearable. It’s heftier now, weighted with everything he can’t say.
“I’m here for—” he starts, then says it.
Saying it out loud is worse. On the phone, it was just noise. Here, it’s a sentence.
She doesn’t react to it. Just turns back to the screen, fingers moving again, quick and efficient, the soft clicking filling the space between them. For a few seconds, that’s all there is—the sound of typing, the low hum of the room, his hand still against the counter.
Then her motions slow.
Not much, just enough to notice.
Her eyes move across the screen again, more deliberately this time, and something in her look shifts before she looks back at him.
“And you are?”
His jaw moves slightly before he answers.
“Arthur Morgan.”
She enters it without comment, the tempo of her typing steady again, but it doesn’t last long. There’s another pause—longer this time, he watches it happen, watches the way her attention stays on the screen just a second too long before she speaks.
“You’re… listed here.”
There’s a faint hesitation in it, small enough that most people might miss it.
His fingers dig in, knuckles blanching. The counter doesn’t give. Nothing does.
“What does that mean?” he asks, the words still even, but tighter now.
She glances back at the screen, as if confirming something she’s already seen.
“Emergency contact.”
Simple. Direct. Supposed to be reassuring. It isn’t.
He doesn’t respond right away, and she doesn’t push him to. Instead, her attention turns slightly, her posture changing as if she’s deciding what to do next.
“Let me just pull up the rest of the intake,” she says, turning back to the screen.
Her hand moves across the mouse. Click.
Another click.
Then she pauses again.
This time, even she can’t hide it.
Her eyebrows tighten slightly as she reads, and for a short second, her stare flicks away from the screen—toward the hallway behind her—before returning just as quickly.
“What?” he asks.
It comes out sharper than before, not raised, just… quicker.
She looks back at him, smoothing over whatever was there.
“Nothing,” she says, too quickly to mean it. “Just reviewing their intake.”
A small beat passes before she continues.
“They were brought in not too long ago.”
He watches her, the way she keeps her focus on the screen instead of him now.
“How?”
The question lands without force, but there’s not much room around it.
There’s a pause.
Different this time. Not procedural. Not routine.
She shifts slightly, one hand resting against the desk as if centering herself in something familiar.
“They came in through emergency services,” she says, her manner careful, each word measured.
His eyes narrow just enough to register the gap.
“That ain’t what I asked.”
The hush after is thin, stretched to breaking. Something’s about to snap.
She exhales once, in control, and this time, when she answers, the neutrality is more deliberate.
“I don’t have full details,” she says. “You’ll need to speak with the attending staff.”
It sounds practiced.
Like something she’s already decided to say.
She reaches for a clipboard without looking away from the screen, sets it down in front of him, and turns it so the paper faces his direction.
“We’ll need you to sign in,” she adds, placing a pencil against the page, the tip tapping lightly once against the line where his name belongs.
“Since you’re listed.”
The words sit there as he looks down at the clipboard, the paper already angled toward him, the pen resting exactly where his name is meant to go.
He doesn’t reach for it right away.
The line waits.
Blank.
Expectant.
For a second, it’s not just a form. It’s a verdict.
He picks up the pen anyway.
The plastic is light in his hand, cheap, the tip hovering just above the paper as his eyes move over what’s written there—your name printed cleanly at the top, followed by blocks of text that don’t say much unless you already know what they mean.
Consent. Authorization. Acknowledgment.
His grip tightens. The pen could snap. He almost hopes it does.
“Just confirming,” the receptionist continues, her voice composed as she glances between the screen and the page in front of him, “you’re listed as the emergency contact, so you’ll be the point of communication while they’re here.”
He doesn’t look up.
“That’s what I was told,” he says.
It’s not quite an answer.
She doesn’t treat it like one.
“Alright,” she replies, already moving forward, her demeanor changing into something more procedural, more certain. “If something changes, we’ll come to you first. If the attending physician needs to speak with someone, it’ll be you.”
The pen touches the paper.
He signs his name.
It looks wrong next to yours.
Not unfamiliar. Just out of place, like it’s trespassing.
He sets the pen down, but his hand doesn’t move away immediately.
“And if any decisions need to be made,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.
That makes him look up.
“What kind of decisions?”
The question comes out before he can stop it, sharper than he intends.
She pauses, just slightly, like she’s deciding how much to say.
“Medical,” she answers. “If it comes to that.”
If.
The word doesn’t settle.
His jaw shifts, something tightening there, but he doesn’t push further. Not yet.
She takes the clipboard back, scanning it quickly before setting it aside with the others, filing back into the stack next to her.
“Alright,” she says, her inflection smoothing again. “Someone will come get you shortly.”
A beat passes.
Then—
“You can wait just over there,” she adds, gesturing toward a section of chairs off to the side.
He doesn’t move immediately.
“You said they were brought in,” he says instead, his speech lower now, more controlled. “What happened to them?”
There’s a trace of something in her look again—not surprise, not exactly—but acknowledgment.
Like she knew the question was coming.
“They’re being evaluated,” she says carefully, each word placed with intention. “The team is still working to assess everything.”
“That don’t answer it.”
It’s quieter this time, but it carries more weight.
She holds his gaze for a second longer than before, then looks back to the screen, fingers resting on the keyboard without moving.
“They’re stable,” she says.
A pause.
“We’re monitoring them closely.”
The two statements don’t sit together the way they should.
Something flickers behind his eyes, subtle but there, the earlier confusion starting to sharpen into something else.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he asks.
This time, she doesn’t answer right away.
The pause lingers—not long, but enough to feel deliberate.
When she does speak, her delivery sounds even, but more guarded than before.
“You’ll be able to speak with the attending physician,” she says. “They’ll have more detailed information.”
Not won’t tell you.
Someone else will.
It’s a small difference.
She straightens slightly, indicating the end of the exchange without saying it outright, her attention already beginning to shift back toward the screen.
“Please take a seat,” she says, calmer now, but no less firm. “We’ll call you as soon as we can.”
He stands there a moment longer.
Long enough to feel the space closing back in around him.
Long enough for your name to settle again—on the form, in his head, in the way she said we’ll come to you first, like it was already decided.
Then he steps back from the counter.
Not far. Just enough to break contact, as if distance could loosen the noose constricting around all of this.
He doesn’t make it to the chairs.
“Mr. Morgan?”
The voice comes from his right—closer than he expects.
He turns.
A nurse stands there, a tablet tucked against her side, pen clipped neatly to the collar of her uniform. She looks like she’s been watching the exchange longer than he realized, her attention settling on him with a kind of steady confidence that doesn’t leave much room for confusion.
“That’s you, right?” she asks, already moving closer.
He nods once.
Her stare moves over him briefly—not assessing in any obvious way, just taking him in, like she’s confirming something against what she’s already been told.
“I’m going to need to ask you a few questions,” she says, shifting the tablet into her hand. “Just to make certain we have everything we need on file.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Just watches her.
She doesn’t wait for it.
“You’re with them?” she asks, tapping the screen once.
The question sounds casual.
It doesn’t feel that way.
There’s a pause, short.
Long enough to matter.
He could correct it.
Say no.
Put distance where it belongs.
He doesn’t.
“…Yeah,” he says instead.
The word comes out low, rough, carrying more weight than he means it to.
She nods once, like that settles something.
“Alright,” she says, already moving on. “How long have they been unconscious?”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“I don’t know.”
That gives her a brief pause.
“You weren’t with her when it happened?”
“No.”
She studies him for a second longer, something subtle shifting behind her expression, before looking back down at the tablet.
“Okay,” she says, quieter now. “That’s alright. We’ll confirm the rest when she’s able to answer.”
When.
Not if.
It doesn’t help.
She scrolls.
“Any known allergies? Pre-existing conditions? Medications?”
Each question comes clean and quick.
He doesn’t have answers.
“Don’t know.”
Again.
“And current prescriptions?”
“Don’t know.”
“Any history we ought to be aware of?”
“Don’t know.”
Each time, her pen stills just a fraction longer.
Still your emergency contact.
Still the person they called.
But not someone who knows the answers he should.
When she looks up again, there’s something softer there.
More human.
“You must’ve been worried,” she says.
The words land hard.
He says nothing.
Her tone shifts back into something steadier.
“We’re keeping her under observation for now,” she says. “There were a few concerns when she was brought in, but her vitals have been stable.”
His focus sharpens immediately.
“What kind of concerns?”
She stills.
“Nothing we can’t manage.”
“That ain’t an answer.”
A beat passes.
Her look flicks briefly toward the hallway before returning.
“The attending physician will go over everything with you.”
Redirected.
Again.
She adjusts the tablet against her side.
“If she wakes up and asks for you, we’ll come get you right away.”
That catches.
Ask for you.
His jaw tightens.
“Right,” he says.
She nods once.
“For now, just stay nearby.”
Then she turns and walks back toward the desk.
He doesn’t follow right away.
Just stands there a second longer, the words still hanging in the space she left behind—we’ll come to you, we’ll need you, you’re listed—stacking on top of each other until they start to feel less like information and more like something being handed to him without asking.
A chair scrapes somewhere to his left.
Voices shift.
The room keeps moving.
He exhales once, slowly, then turns toward the waiting area she pointed out earlier.
It’s not far—just a section of chairs set against the wall, spaced out in a way that’s meant to feel organized but doesn’t quite manage it. A television hangs in the corner, playing something low and forgettable, the volume just high enough to exist without anyone really listening.
A few people sit scattered across the seats.
None of them looks at the others.
He doesn’t sit.
Not at first.
He stops near the end of the row, one hand coming to rest on the back of a chair, fingers bending gently around the edge like he’s deciding whether or not to stay there.
Then he sits.
Finally.
Not all the way back. Just enough to pretend he belongs here.
Across the room, someone glances in his direction.
Only for a second.
Then looks away.
Like they hadn’t meant to.
His gaze lingers there a moment longer than necessary before shifting back toward the hallway the receptionist looked at earlier.
The one she didn’t explain.
The one no one’s said anything about since.
Your name sits there again.
Different now.
Attached to something he doesn’t fully understand.
Something no one’s saying out loud.
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting against his knees, hands coming together loosely in front of him. It’s not comfortable, not settled—just a position that gives him something to do besides sit still with it.
The television in the corner drones on, cycling through something forgettable, the images shifting without meaning. No one’s really watching it.
He isn’t either.
His attention stays on the hallway.
A set of doors at the far end opens briefly, a hint of movement beyond them—staff passing through, quick, purposeful, gone just as fast. The doors swing shut again with a soft, controlled click.
Too controlled.
Everything here is.
His jaw shifts.
Something’s wrong.
Since the way they said it.
Incident.
The word circles back again, slower this time, heavier.
People don’t hesitate for nothing. Not here.
They don’t dodge questions unless there’s something bad.
A voice breaks through his thoughts.
“…Mr. Morgan?”
He looks up.
A man stands a few feet away, different from the others. Not in scrubs this time, but still part of it, still carrying that same feeling of purpose. A badge clipped to his shirt, a folder tucked under one arm.
“Yeah.”
The man steps closer, not rushed but direct.
“I just wanted to follow up on a few details while we wait for the attending physician,” he says, flipping the folder open. “Make sure everything we have is accurate.”
Arthur nods once.
The man glances down at the page, scanning.
“They were brought in by emergency services,” he says, more to himself than anything else, confirming it as he reads. “No immediate identification on arrival…”
Arthur’s attention sharpens instantly.
“What do you mean?”
The man looks up, like he hadn’t realized he said it out loud.
“They didn’t have identification on them when they were brought in,” he clarifies. “We were able to match them through other means.”
Other means.
The phrasing sticks.
“How’d they get them here?” he asks.
The man hesitates—not as clean as the others. Not as practiced.
“Paramedics responded to a call,” he says. “They were already on site when—”
He stops.
Just for a second.
Then corrects:
“When they arrived.”
Arthur’s eyes narrow.
“That ain’t the same thing.”
The man shifts slightly, changing his grip on the folder.
“They were transported here by ambulance,” he says, more carefully now. “That’s the important part.”
Arthur leans back slightly, just enough to look at him differently now.
“What kind of call?” he asks.
There’s a beat.
The man exhales quietly through his nose, glancing down at the folder again like it might give him an easier version of the answer.
“I don’t have the full report in front of me,” he says. “That’ll be something the physician goes over with you.”
Again, passed off.
Moved.
Not answered. Not even close.
Arthur doesn’t look away from him.
“What kind of call?” he repeats.
This time, there’s no softening in it.
The man meets his gaze for a second longer, then looks past him—toward the desk, toward the hallway—anywhere else.
“It was… reported as an accident,” he says.
Reported.
Not confirmed.
The word sits wrong.
“What kind of accident?” Arthur presses.
Another pause.
This one is heavier.
The man’s jaw tightens slightly before he answers.
“There were signs of—” he starts, then stops himself.
His grip on the folder shifts.
“…of possible complications,” he finishes instead.
That’s a replacement.
Arthur leans forward again, slower this time.
“What kind of complications?” he asks.
The man closes the folder.
Not hard.
Just final.
“As I said,” he replies, his tone firming up now, less open than it was a while ago, “the attending physician will go over everything with you.”
There it is again.
That line.
That wall.
Arthur holds his gaze a second longer.
Then:
“Yeah,” he says.
But there’s nothing in it that agrees.
The man nods once, like the conversation has reached its end, whether Arthur accepts it or not.
“They’ll be with you shortly,” he adds, stepping back.
Then he turns, moving away toward the hallway, disappearing through the same set of doors the others have used.
Arthur watches him go.
Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t look away.
Reported as an accident.
Already on site.
No identification.
The pieces don’t sit together.
They don’t line up clean.
And no one here is going to fix it. Not for him.
His hands come together again, tighter this time, fingers pressing into each other just enough to feel it.
Something’s wrong.
Not just with you.
With what happened.
And whatever it is—
They already know more than they’re saying.
He stays there a second longer after the man disappears through the doors, eyes focused on the spot where he disappeared, like something might come back out if he waits long enough.
Nothing does.
The waiting area settles again around him, quiet in the same uneasy way it’s been since he sat down. The television keeps running. Someone shifts in their seat across the room. A phone rings somewhere behind the desk and gets picked up too quickly.
Everything moves.
Nothing changes.
He leans back slightly, just enough to take the pressure off his hands, his fingers flex once, then still again, resting against his knees like he’s holding himself in place.
Reported as an accident.
The words don’t sit any better the second time.
Neither does already on site.
That one sticks.
Paramedics don’t just wait around. Something put them there. Something ugly.
Across the room, someone gets up, their chair sliding softly upon the floor before they move toward the desk. The receptionist greets them the same way she greeted him—identical tone, same tempo, like none of this is different from any other night.
Like this happens all the time.
Maybe it does.
The doors at the end of the hall open again.
This time, a nurse steps through and doesn’t turn away.
She looks directly at him.
“Mr. Morgan?”
It slices through the noise. Finally.
He’s already on his feet before he answers.
“Yeah.”
His speech is rougher now. He doesn’t fix it.
She gives a small nod, already turning back toward the hallway she came from.
“You can come with me,” she says.
No buildup.
No explanation.
Just that.
He moves without hesitation, falling into step behind her as she pushes through the doors. They swing shut behind him with that same controlled sound, cutting off the waiting room in an instant.
The shift is immediate.
Quieter.
Tighter.
The hallway stretches ahead, lined with closed doors and muted lights that feel dimmer after the brightness out front. The air smells sharper here—cleaner, but not in a way that settles anything.
She walks at a steady pace, not looking back to check if he’s keeping up.
He is.
His boots hit the floor in a measured rhythm behind her, each step ringing just enough to remind him how far they’re going.
Too far.
Not far enough.
His eyes move as they walk, catching small details but without holding onto any of them—open doorways with glimpses of movement inside, equipment pushed against walls, a cart left just slightly out of place like someone meant to come back for it.
No one stops them.
No one asks anything.
They turn a corner.
Another hallway.
Quieter still.
“She’s stable,” the nurse says as they walk, her tone calmer now, less formal than it was before. “The doctor will go over everything with you once you’ve had a chance to see her.”
The words register.
So does the shift.
She.
He doesn’t react to it out loud.
Just keeps walking.
“How long’s she been out?” he asks.
“A few hours,” she says. “She hasn’t regained consciousness yet, but her vitals have been steady.”
Steady.
He’s heard that word too many times. It’s lost all meaning.
“What happened?” he asks.
The question comes the same way it has every time—direct, leaving no space around it.
This time, the nurse hesitates.
Not long.
Just enough to sting.
“We’re still working through the details,” she says.
Same answer.
Different voice.
Still not an answer.
He doesn’t push again.
Not yet.
They pass another set of doors. This one is half open.
Inside, he catches a glimpse—just a second—of someone sitting upright in a bed, talking to someone beside them, voices low but present.
Normal.
Contained.
They keep moving.
The nurse slows as they approach the end of the hall, her steps shortening slightly before she comes to a stop in front of a closed door.
She turns to him then.
For the first time since they started walking.
“This is her room,” she says.
Her tone shifts again—quieter, more careful now.
“She’s still unconscious,” she adds. “So she won’t be able to respond yet.”
A small pause.
“But you can sit with her.”
The words pause between them.
He nods once.
Doesn’t trust his voice. Not now.
Her hand moves to the door, but she doesn’t open it right away.
“If you need anything,” she says, “just let us know.”
Then—
She steps aside.
Gives him space.
The door is right there.
Closer than anything has been since the call.
His hand comes up, hovering just short of the handle.
For a second—
He doesn’t move.
Everything that’s been building—the call, the muteness, the questions that didn’t get answered—sits right there with him.
Then his fingers close around the handle.
And he pushes the door open.
Emergency Contact Masterlist
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
➛ An unexpected phone call pulls Arthur Morgan back into the life of someone he thought he’d left behind. What begins as a search for answers quickly unravels into something far more complicated—forcing old wounds, buried feelings, and long-avoided truths back into the light.
Chapter 1: Unknown Caller :
Months of silence starts to feel like closure if you don’t look at it too hard. Then a stranger says the right name in the wrong context, and suddenly Arthur’s halfway across town with his hands locked white around the steering wheel, trying not to imagine all the reasons a hospital might be calling.
Chapter 2: You're Listed Here :
Arthur comes looking for answers, but the deeper he’s pulled into the situation, the clearer it becomes that no one is telling him the whole truth. With every vague explanation and unanswered question, the night becomes harder to make sense of—and even harder to walk away from.
Chapter 3: You Don't Look Yourself :
Arthur finally comes face to face with the person at the center of the chaos—but what should be relief quickly gives way to something far more unsettling. The closer he looks, the harder it becomes to believe the story he’s been given.
The cruelest part is how naturally he takes his place beside her.
Chapter 2 drops Wednesday.
“You’re with them?”
He could correct it. Say no. Put distance where it belongs.
He doesn’t.
Unknown Caller
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
Summary: Months of silence starts to feel like closure if you don’t look at it too hard. Then a stranger says the right name in the wrong context, and suddenly Arthur’s halfway across town with his hands locked white around the steering wheel, trying not to imagine all the reasons a hospital might be calling.
Rating: 17+
Warnings: hospitalization, medical trauma/injury, emergency situations, unresolved relationship angst, estranged relationship/exes, emotional distress, panic/anxiety, implied past relationship conflict, heavy angst, fear of loss, mentions of accidents/incidents, hospital setting, uncertain outcomes, emotionally intense themes.
Word Count: 3.4k
a/n: this my new Arthur Morgan series, hold y'all come along for the ride, just started playing Detroit Become Human and Connor is so funny I feel an obsession coming on lol
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
The ratchet clicks out a rhythm, metal teeth chewing through resistance, each nip a measured pulse that fences out the rest of the world.
Arthur leans over the open hood, forearm braced against the frame, fingers working by feel more than sight. The engine’s still warm, faint heat rising up in waves that carry the smell of oil and something sharp, chemical. It clings to his hands, settles into his clothes. He doesn’t notice it anymore.
Somewhere behind him, the radio stutters—half-music, half-static, the signal flickering inside and out like it’s got second thoughts about belonging here. He doesn’t look up.
The bolt gives with a short, stubborn creak. Arthur adjusts his grip, turns again—slow, deliberate pressure. No haste. There’s never any rush with this kind of thing. You force it, you strip it. You strip it, you make the whole job worse.
The phone starts ringing. He ignores it.
It’s somewhere off to his left, concealed underneath a pile of rags and loose parts on the workbench. The vibration rattles something small—metal tapping lightly against wood, uneven and persistent. Arthur keeps working.
The ringing stops.
The garage exhales into its low, mechanical hush. Static murmurs from the radio. Metal ticks softly as it cools. His own breath drifts out, steady, barely worth noticing.
The bolt loosens another fraction.
Then—
The phone starts again.
Same number. Or maybe not. He hasn’t checked.
His shoulders tense, then still.
He blows out a breath, sharp—like something slipping. Drops the tool. Lets it crash harder than it needs to. Smears grease down his jeans, grinding it in just to remind himself he’s still here.
The ringing doesn’t stop.
Arthur straightens, reaching back for the bench without looking. His fingers find the edge first, then the mess—rag, wrench, something chilly and flat—until they close around the phone. He glances at the screen.
Unknown number.
For a second, that’s all it is. Just that—another call he doesn’t need.
His thumb floats over the decline button.
The phone vibrates within his palm, insistent—refusing to be dismissed.
Your name flashes in his head before he can stop it— not from now. From before. From a voicemail he never answered.
Still sitting there. Unplayed twice.
He answers.
“Yeah?”
The word comes out flat, automatic. Like it’s been used a hundred times already today.
There’s a pause on the other end. Not silence—breathing. Faint. Controlled.
Then a voice, careful and professional:
“Hi, is this Arthur Morgan?”
Arthur doesn’t respond right away. His eyes fall to the engine, as if the answer might be tangled somewhere in the wires and bolts.
“…Yeah,” he says finally.
Another brief pause.
And then—
“Mr. Morgan, I’m calling from St. Mary’s Medical Center. We have someone here listed under your name as their emergency contact.”
Arthur’s hand clamps down, plastic pressing into his palm. He doesn’t feel it. He could drive it through his skin and still feel nothing.
“Who?” he asks.
It’s a simple question. Comes out steady. Too firm.
There’s the sound of papers moving lightly on the other end. A keyboard, maybe. A breath drawn in, as if the person speaking already knew this part mattered.
Then—
They say your name.
Everything in him goes dead. Not dramatic. Not sharp. Purely a hollow, absolute quiet, like something important’s been cut out.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
The radio spits static behind him, filling the space where his voice ought to be.
On the other end, the voice continues—still talking, explaining something—but the words blur before they can settle.
Your name stays. Clear. Unmistakable. Not left where it should’ve stayed.
Arthur’s mouth opens, nothing but air. Words claw up his throat—and don’t make it out. Nothing comes out.
His gaze drifts, unfocused, slipping past the engine, past the garage walls, settling somewhere far from here.
Then, finally—
“…What?”
The word comes out low, rough around the edges—like it had to be dragged up.
There’s a brief pause on the other end, just long enough to register it.
“I’m calling from St. Mary’s Medical Center,” the voice repeats, steady, practiced. “You’re listed as the emergency contact for—”
They say your name again. Clearer than before. Slower. Like they’re making sure he hears it.
Arthur’s grip tightens, the phone’s edge digging in, threatening to split skin. He doesn’t feel a thing. He could crush it.
His eyes fix on nothing in particular—some point just past the open hood, past the far wall. His focus doesn’t follow it.
“…That ain’t right,” he says, too quickly.
It’s automatic. Quiet. Not even fully formed as a thought before it’s out.
A beat.
“I’m sorry?” the voice replies.
Arthur drags a hand down his face, slow and rough, like he could scrape the feeling off if he tried hard enough.
“That ain’t right,” he repeats, a little firmer this time. “You got the wrong number.”
He doesn’t hang up. Doesn’t move to. Just stands there, cellphone pressed to his ear, waiting for them to agree. For this to correct itself.
On the other end, there’s the low sound of typing. A pause.
Then:
“We have this number listed under your name, Mr. Morgan.”
Arthur exhales, sharp, like he’s trying to spit something out. His free hand slams the bench, digits pressing into old scars in the wood.
“…You sure?” he asks.
It’s not skepticism. Not really. It sounds more like he needs them to repeat it.
“We’re sure,” they answer. “Are you able to come in?”
That question persists there. Heavy in a way the others weren’t.
His eyes drop—at last—to the engine, as if he could just slip back into the work. As if the bolt is still waiting, untouched, as if nothing’s shifted at all.
But the engine doesn’t look the same now.
“…What happened?” he asks.
There’s a slight hesitation this time. Not long—but enough.
“I’m afraid I don’t have full details,” the voice says carefully. “There was an incident. They were brought in a short while ago.”
An incident.
Arthur’s brow knots, the words scraping him raw. They don’t fit. They don’t belong. They rot in his head.
“What kind of incident?” he presses.
Another pause.
“I really think it would be best if you came down in person,” they reply. Still calm. Still measured. “Are you able to do that?”
Arthur doesn’t answer immediately. His thumb slides along the phone’s edge. His other hand taps the bench—once, twice—restless, the motion leaking out before he can stop it.
You. Hospital. Emergency contact.
The pieces refuse to fit. Not clean. Not in any shape that makes sense.
You haven’t spoken. Not since that night in the truck—engine running, both of you pretending not to hear what was actually being said—
Your voice is tight; his hands are locked on the wheel. Neither of you finishes a sentence.
Long enough that your name showing up now feels like an awful prank. Out of place. Doesn’t belong. Should’ve remained concealed.
“…Yeah,” he says finally. It’s quiet. Firm.
“I can be there.”
Relief flickers barely in the voice on the other end. “Alright. When you arrive, check in at the front desk and let them know who you’re here for. They’ll direct you from there.”
Arthur nods once, though they can’t see it. “Yeah.”
Another beat.
“Mr. Morgan—”
He doesn’t wait for the rest. The call ends with a soft, decisive tap of his thumb.
The garage tastes sour now. Like something’s gone bad in the air. Like he’s breathing in rot.
Same space. Same sounds. But none of it settles the way it did before.
The radio hisses, slipping in and out of static. The engine ticks as it cools. Somewhere outside, a car sighs past—low, distant, barely there.
Arthur stands there, phone still in his hand. Not moving.
Your name hangs in the air, heavy, ugly, refusing to move. Like a stain he can’t scrub out.
He hadn’t expected to hear it again like that. Not from a stranger. Not like this.
His grip shifts, thumb ghosting over the black screen as if it might have changed in the last heartbeat. It hasn’t.
The call is still there. Missed first. Then answered. No mistake.
Arthur exhales, slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to pin something down inside him that keeps slipping loose.
Then he moves.
He hurls the phone at the bench. Lets it hit, bounce, crash. Let it shatter. He hopes it does. He hopes it cuts him.
Arthur doesn’t look at it again.
He turns back to the engine like he’s going to finish what he started—hand bracing against the frame, fingers extending automatically for the ratchet where he left it.
He picks it up. Fits it back into place. Holds it there. Doesn’t turn it.
The metal sits still inside his grip.
You haven’t spoken in months. Not a call. Not a message. Nothing that counts.
And yet—
When something goes wrong—
They call him.
Arthur rips the ratchet free and slams it onto the engine. Metal on metal, loud enough to bite, loud enough to bruise.
He scrapes a hand over the back of his neck, fingers burrowing into the muscle until it aches.
You could’ve changed it. Would’ve taken less than a minute.
A form. A setting. A name was swapped out for someone who actually belongs there.
Someone current. Someone who—
His thoughts cut off.
He exhales, slow, controlled. Doesn’t finish that line.
Instead, he reaches for the phone again. Not to call back. Just—
He taps the screen. Bring it to life.
The numbers’ still there. The call duration. Proof it happened.
Arthur stares at it for a second too long, thumb pausing as though he might do something with it—save it, delete it, call it back—
He doesn’t.
The screen goes dark again. He sets it down more carefully this time.
The air tightens, squeezing his chest. Not the room. Just him. Like something’s closing in, slow and deliberate.
Incident rots in his mouth.
Vague on purpose. People don’t say things like that unless there’s something they’re not putting in it.
Arthur’s gaze drifts toward the open garage door.
Daylight spills in from outside, muted and washed out. The street beyond is quiet—nothing out of place, nothing calling attention to itself.
Ordinary.
That somehow makes it worse.
His eyes narrow, suspicion eating away at him. Nothing’s ever normal. Not for him. Not where you’re concerned.
“What kinda incident…” he mutters. The question trails off, unfinished.
There’s a trace of something underneath it now—not confusion. Something keener.
He straightens, slow, shoulders rolling back as though bracing for a weight that’s just found him.
It doesn’t sit right. Not the way they said it. Not the way they didn’t say anything else.
Arthur snatches a rag, scrapes his hands once, twice—just grinding the filth deeper. Doesn’t clean a thing.
There isn’t time for that.
His gaze moves once more over the garage, not really seeing any of it now—the tools, the partially completed job, the small details he’d been focused on minutes ago.
None of it holds. None of it matters.
His hand clamps around the keys, perched at the bench’s edge.
There’s no pause this time. No second thought. Just motion.
The keys scrape as he snatches them up, metal rasping against wood—too sharp, too loud. He doesn’t flinch.
He’s already moving toward the door.
Bootsteps thud onto concrete, quick but leashed—each stride holding something fierce just below the surface.
The radio keeps playing behind him. Static, then a portion of a song, then interference again. It fades as he crosses the space, absorbed by the open air spilling in from outside.
He doesn’t turn it off. Doesn’t shut anything down.
The garage door stays open. The engine stays half-taken apart. Tools lie scattered where he left them.
None of it matters enough to stop for.
He steps into daylight, the shift immediate—cool air, wide space, the whiff of pavement and dust parting through the oil that holds to his skin.
The lot is mostly empty. A couple of cars sit off to the side; nothing was moving. Nothing urgent.
It doesn’t match the feeling in his chest.
His grip strangles the keys as he heads for the truck. Each step is weightier, like the burden of this mess is crawling up his spine, bone by bone.
Emergency contact.
The thought comes back crisper this time—less confusion, more edge. Still there anyway.
He reaches the driver’s side, yanks the door open in one smooth pull. The hinge creaks—a complaint he’s meant to fix, but never does. He doesn’t think about it now.
Climbs in, shuts the door harder than necessary. The sound echoes once inside the cab, then drops off into a softened quiet.
His palms sweat against the wheel.
“…Should’ve changed it,” he mutters, bitter. Should’ve burned it out of his life. Should’ve made it impossible for them to call.
It’s not clear who that’s meant for. You. Him. Both.
The words hang, then sink into the cab, heavy and unmoving.
He exhales, slow, controlled.
Then—
The key turns in the ignition.
The engine coughs to life, rough at first, then settles into a low, steady buzz that fills the cab. The vibration hums through the wheel into his hands, centering him in a way nothing else can.
He grips it tighter than he needs to.
Doesn’t move yet. Just sits there, engine running, looking straight ahead through the windshield.
That moment passes.
His foot presses down. The truck shifts into gear. And then he’s pulling out of the lot.
The tires crunch lightly along gravel before catching pavement. The wheel turns under his hands—familiar, automatic—and the truck eases onto the road like it’s done a hundred times before.
Everything about it is routine.
That’s the curse.
His hand shifts higher on the wheel, thumb tapping once against the aged leather before stilling. The other stays low, steady, keeping the truck straight as the road stretches out ahead—long, empty, ordinary.
Too ordinary.
The engine thrums beneath him, low and unremitting. The sound swells to fill the cab, crowding out any thought of the radio he left silent.
Silence settles in. Not quiet. Heavy. Suffocating. Like it wants to choke him out.
Your name moves through it again—not spoken this time, just there, sitting in the back of his mind where it doesn’t belong anymore.
It doesn’t sound like it used to. Not casual. Not easy. It sounds like something dredged up from the dark, too deep to come easily.
“…An incident,” he mutters, hardly heard over the engine.
The word doesn’t sit right. People don’t end up in a hospital for nothing. And they don’t call him unless there’s no one else left. Unless it’s bad. Real bad.
His grip strangles the wheel, leather squeaking beneath his knuckles. He doesn’t let go.
The thought comes fast. Sharp. Gone just as quickly.
He doesn’t follow it. Doesn’t let it go further than that.
The road bends, and he steers without thought, eyes fastened forward but seeing nothing real.
Instead—
Fragments. Small things. Not the big moments. Not anything clear. Just—
You, in the passenger seat, foot propped on the dash—ignoring him when he said not to.
“Relax,” you’d said, not even looking at him.
Like that settled anything.
His hands twitch, restless, itching to break something.
He exhales through his nose, quicker this time. Shoves it down. Pretends it’s gone.
Focus. The hospital. That’s what matters. Not—
The truck gathers speed beneath him, the needle climbing higher than it ought. The engine answers, voice deepening, getting louder. Still steady. Still controlled. But there’s something under it. A push.
He leans forward slightly, eyes tightening subtly as traffic starts to build the closer he gets to town. Cars pass in the opposite direction, quick flashes of movement that don’t hold his attention for more than a second.
Everything feels too slow.
A red light ahead.
He sees it. Doesn’t like it.
He stomps the brake, too hard. The truck lurches, engine snarling, just as pissed off as he is.
His fingers tap once against the wheel. Twice. Still.
The light doesn’t change.
A car passes through the intersection. Then another.
The seconds last longer than they should.
His gaze flicks to the side, scanning without really looking—storefronts, sidewalks, people moving through their day like nothing’s out of place. Like nothing’s wrong.
His shoulders lock.
“…Move,” he growls, voice scratchy, scraping out of him like crushed rock.
The light stays red.
Your name again. The hospital. The way they said it.
You should come in. Not when you can. Not if you’re available. Just—
Come.
His fingers tighten on the wheel.
The light at last shifts.
Green.
He doesn’t hesitate. The truck moves immediately, rolling forward, then faster—merging through the intersection before the cars behind him have fully started moving.
By the time the hospital finally comes into view, his shoulders ache from how hard he’s been holding himself together.
Tall. Bright. Too clean, glaring against the city’s grime.
Glass and concrete. Sharp edges. Too clean even from here.
His grip tightens again.
He doesn’t slow until he has to.
The entrance comes up faster than it should, and the turn into the lot is tighter than he takes it most days. The truck rolls over the painted lines, tires humming briefly before settling as he straightens out.
Rows of cars. Too many.
People moving in and out through the front doors—some quick, some slow, some standing off to the side like they don’t know where to go next.
The place is busy.
It has no right to feel this ordinary.
His foot presses harder on the brake than necessary as he pulls into the first open spot he sees. The truck stops with a slight jolt, engine still running, low and steady beneath him.
For a second, he just sits there. Hands still on the wheel.
His knuckles blanch, grip refusing to ease.
The hospital looms through the windshield—glass doors swallowing people, spitting them back out in uneven intervals. No pattern. No rhythm. Just constant movement.
The engine idles beneath him, vibration crawling up his arms, grounding and grating, like it’s daring him to move.
He could still leave.
The thought comes in quietly. Not forceful. Just there.
Turn the key. Back out. Drive off. Let it be—
He exhales sharply. Cuts that off before it finishes.
His hand moves at last, reaching for the ignition. The key twists, and the engine dies—a low drop that leaves the cab hollow, too quiet.
No buzz. No buffer. Just him. And the sound of his own breathing.
He sits there a second longer than he should, eyes still on the doors, watching people go in, come out, like it’s nothing. Like it’s just another place.
His fingers slacken on the wheel. Then tighten again.
“…Hell,” he mutters, voice harsh, scraped out. Like he’s already halfway there.
He grabs the keys, shoves them into his pocket, and pushes the door open.
The outside air feels unusual here—cooler, sharper, bearing a faint, clinical smell that leaks out every time those doors slide open.
He steps out, boots hitting pavement, too loud, too final. Like the ground’s daring him to run.
The door shuts behind him with a dull thud.
He doesn’t look back at the truck. Doesn’t give himself time to.
He stalks across the lot, not running, not dragging his feet. Just holding himself together by a thread, and it’s fraying fast.
But there’s a tension in it now. Something tighter. Something is pulling forward.
The closer he gets, the more the world sharpens—voices intermingling, the soft whir of the automatic doors, the low ring of steps on tile inside.
People pass him without a second glance.
A woman is talking too fast into her phone. A man sitting on the curb, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Someone pushing through the doors with a tired kind of urgency.
None of it sticks. None of it matters.
The doors slide open as he approaches. A blast of cold air spills out to meet him, sharp with antiseptic and a metallic hint lurking underneath.
He doesn’t slow. Steps inside.
The noise shifts immediately—more contained, more layered. Voices bounce off walls, shoes scuff against polished floors, something beeps in the distance at a steady, unchanging pace.
Bright fixtures overhead. Too bright.
Everything clean. Too clean.
He halts just past the threshold, just long enough for it to hit—the light, the smell, the noise—
All of it is wrong in the same way.
Just long enough to take it in. To let it settle in his bones.
This is real. No way out. No pretending.
You’re here. Somewhere in this building. Not a thought. Not a memory. Here.
He clears his throat.
And then he moves—straight to the front desk.
Unknown Caller
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
Summary: Months of silence starts to feel like closure if you don’t look at it too hard. Then a stranger says the right name in the wrong context, and suddenly Arthur’s halfway across town with his hands locked white around the steering wheel, trying not to imagine all the reasons a hospital might be calling.
Rating: 17+
Warnings: hospitalization, medical trauma/injury, emergency situations, unresolved relationship angst, estranged relationship/exes, emotional distress, panic/anxiety, implied past relationship conflict, heavy angst, fear of loss, mentions of accidents/incidents, hospital setting, uncertain outcomes, emotionally intense themes.
Word Count: 3.4k
a/n: this my new Arthur Morgan series, hold y'all come along for the ride, just started playing Detroit Become Human and Connor is so funny I feel an obsession coming on lol
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
· · ─ · next · ─ · ·
The ratchet clicks out a rhythm, metal teeth chewing through resistance, each nip a measured pulse that fences out the rest of the world.
Arthur leans over the open hood, forearm braced against the frame, fingers working by feel more than sight. The engine’s still warm, faint heat rising up in waves that carry the smell of oil and something sharp, chemical. It clings to his hands, settles into his clothes. He doesn’t notice it anymore.
Somewhere behind him, the radio stutters—half-music, half-static, the signal flickering inside and out like it’s got second thoughts about belonging here. He doesn’t look up.
The bolt gives with a short, stubborn creak. Arthur adjusts his grip, turns again—slow, deliberate pressure. No haste. There’s never any rush with this kind of thing. You force it, you strip it. You strip it, you make the whole job worse.
The phone starts ringing. He ignores it.
It’s somewhere off to his left, concealed underneath a pile of rags and loose parts on the workbench. The vibration rattles something small—metal tapping lightly against wood, uneven and persistent. Arthur keeps working.
The ringing stops.
The garage exhales into its low, mechanical hush. Static murmurs from the radio. Metal ticks softly as it cools. His own breath drifts out, steady, barely worth noticing.
The bolt loosens another fraction.
Then—
The phone starts again.
Same number. Or maybe not. He hasn’t checked.
His shoulders tense, then still.
He blows out a breath, sharp—like something slipping. Drops the tool. Lets it crash harder than it needs to. Smears grease down his jeans, grinding it in just to remind himself he’s still here.
The ringing doesn’t stop.
Arthur straightens, reaching back for the bench without looking. His fingers find the edge first, then the mess—rag, wrench, something chilly and flat—until they close around the phone. He glances at the screen.
Unknown number.
For a second, that’s all it is. Just that—another call he doesn’t need.
His thumb floats over the decline button.
The phone vibrates within his palm, insistent—refusing to be dismissed.
Your name flashes in his head before he can stop it— not from now. From before. From a voicemail he never answered.
Still sitting there. Unplayed twice.
He answers.
“Yeah?”
The word comes out flat, automatic. Like it’s been used a hundred times already today.
There’s a pause on the other end. Not silence—breathing. Faint. Controlled.
Then a voice, careful and professional:
“Hi, is this Arthur Morgan?”
Arthur doesn’t respond right away. His eyes fall to the engine, as if the answer might be tangled somewhere in the wires and bolts.
“…Yeah,” he says finally.
Another brief pause.
And then—
“Mr. Morgan, I’m calling from St. Mary’s Medical Center. We have someone here listed under your name as their emergency contact.”
Arthur’s hand clamps down, plastic pressing into his palm. He doesn’t feel it. He could drive it through his skin and still feel nothing.
“Who?” he asks.
It’s a simple question. Comes out steady. Too firm.
There’s the sound of papers moving lightly on the other end. A keyboard, maybe. A breath drawn in, as if the person speaking already knew this part mattered.
Then—
They say your name.
Everything in him goes dead. Not dramatic. Not sharp. Purely a hollow, absolute quiet, like something important’s been cut out.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
The radio spits static behind him, filling the space where his voice ought to be.
On the other end, the voice continues—still talking, explaining something—but the words blur before they can settle.
Your name stays. Clear. Unmistakable. Not left where it should’ve stayed.
Arthur’s mouth opens, nothing but air. Words claw up his throat—and don’t make it out. Nothing comes out.
His gaze drifts, unfocused, slipping past the engine, past the garage walls, settling somewhere far from here.
Then, finally—
“…What?”
The word comes out low, rough around the edges—like it had to be dragged up.
There’s a brief pause on the other end, just long enough to register it.
“I’m calling from St. Mary’s Medical Center,” the voice repeats, steady, practiced. “You’re listed as the emergency contact for—”
They say your name again. Clearer than before. Slower. Like they’re making sure he hears it.
Arthur’s grip tightens, the phone’s edge digging in, threatening to split skin. He doesn’t feel a thing. He could crush it.
His eyes fix on nothing in particular—some point just past the open hood, past the far wall. His focus doesn’t follow it.
“…That ain’t right,” he says, too quickly.
It’s automatic. Quiet. Not even fully formed as a thought before it’s out.
A beat.
“I’m sorry?” the voice replies.
Arthur drags a hand down his face, slow and rough, like he could scrape the feeling off if he tried hard enough.
“That ain’t right,” he repeats, a little firmer this time. “You got the wrong number.”
He doesn’t hang up. Doesn’t move to. Just stands there, cellphone pressed to his ear, waiting for them to agree. For this to correct itself.
On the other end, there’s the low sound of typing. A pause.
Then:
“We have this number listed under your name, Mr. Morgan.”
Arthur exhales, sharp, like he’s trying to spit something out. His free hand slams the bench, digits pressing into old scars in the wood.
“…You sure?” he asks.
It’s not skepticism. Not really. It sounds more like he needs them to repeat it.
“We’re sure,” they answer. “Are you able to come in?”
That question persists there. Heavy in a way the others weren’t.
His eyes drop—at last—to the engine, as if he could just slip back into the work. As if the bolt is still waiting, untouched, as if nothing’s shifted at all.
But the engine doesn’t look the same now.
“…What happened?” he asks.
There’s a slight hesitation this time. Not long—but enough.
“I’m afraid I don’t have full details,” the voice says carefully. “There was an incident. They were brought in a short while ago.”
An incident.
Arthur’s brow knots, the words scraping him raw. They don’t fit. They don’t belong. They rot in his head.
“What kind of incident?” he presses.
Another pause.
“I really think it would be best if you came down in person,” they reply. Still calm. Still measured. “Are you able to do that?”
Arthur doesn’t answer immediately. His thumb slides along the phone’s edge. His other hand taps the bench—once, twice—restless, the motion leaking out before he can stop it.
You. Hospital. Emergency contact.
The pieces refuse to fit. Not clean. Not in any shape that makes sense.
You haven’t spoken. Not since that night in the truck—engine running, both of you pretending not to hear what was actually being said—
Your voice is tight; his hands are locked on the wheel. Neither of you finishes a sentence.
Long enough that your name showing up now feels like an awful prank. Out of place. Doesn’t belong. Should’ve remained concealed.
“…Yeah,” he says finally. It’s quiet. Firm.
“I can be there.”
Relief flickers barely in the voice on the other end. “Alright. When you arrive, check in at the front desk and let them know who you’re here for. They’ll direct you from there.”
Arthur nods once, though they can’t see it. “Yeah.”
Another beat.
“Mr. Morgan—”
He doesn’t wait for the rest. The call ends with a soft, decisive tap of his thumb.
The garage tastes sour now. Like something’s gone bad in the air. Like he’s breathing in rot.
Same space. Same sounds. But none of it settles the way it did before.
The radio hisses, slipping in and out of static. The engine ticks as it cools. Somewhere outside, a car sighs past—low, distant, barely there.
Arthur stands there, phone still in his hand. Not moving.
Your name hangs in the air, heavy, ugly, refusing to move. Like a stain he can’t scrub out.
He hadn’t expected to hear it again like that. Not from a stranger. Not like this.
His grip shifts, thumb ghosting over the black screen as if it might have changed in the last heartbeat. It hasn’t.
The call is still there. Missed first. Then answered. No mistake.
Arthur exhales, slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to pin something down inside him that keeps slipping loose.
Then he moves.
He hurls the phone at the bench. Lets it hit, bounce, crash. Let it shatter. He hopes it does. He hopes it cuts him.
Arthur doesn’t look at it again.
He turns back to the engine like he’s going to finish what he started—hand bracing against the frame, fingers extending automatically for the ratchet where he left it.
He picks it up. Fits it back into place. Holds it there. Doesn’t turn it.
The metal sits still inside his grip.
You haven’t spoken in months. Not a call. Not a message. Nothing that counts.
And yet—
When something goes wrong—
They call him.
Arthur rips the ratchet free and slams it onto the engine. Metal on metal, loud enough to bite, loud enough to bruise.
He scrapes a hand over the back of his neck, fingers burrowing into the muscle until it aches.
You could’ve changed it. Would’ve taken less than a minute.
A form. A setting. A name was swapped out for someone who actually belongs there.
Someone current. Someone who—
His thoughts cut off.
He exhales, slow, controlled. Doesn’t finish that line.
Instead, he reaches for the phone again. Not to call back. Just—
He taps the screen. Bring it to life.
The numbers’ still there. The call duration. Proof it happened.
Arthur stares at it for a second too long, thumb pausing as though he might do something with it—save it, delete it, call it back—
He doesn’t.
The screen goes dark again. He sets it down more carefully this time.
The air tightens, squeezing his chest. Not the room. Just him. Like something’s closing in, slow and deliberate.
Incident rots in his mouth.
Vague on purpose. People don’t say things like that unless there’s something they’re not putting in it.
Arthur’s gaze drifts toward the open garage door.
Daylight spills in from outside, muted and washed out. The street beyond is quiet—nothing out of place, nothing calling attention to itself.
Ordinary.
That somehow makes it worse.
His eyes narrow, suspicion eating away at him. Nothing’s ever normal. Not for him. Not where you’re concerned.
“What kinda incident…” he mutters. The question trails off, unfinished.
There’s a trace of something underneath it now—not confusion. Something keener.
He straightens, slow, shoulders rolling back as though bracing for a weight that’s just found him.
It doesn’t sit right. Not the way they said it. Not the way they didn’t say anything else.
Arthur snatches a rag, scrapes his hands once, twice—just grinding the filth deeper. Doesn’t clean a thing.
There isn’t time for that.
His gaze moves once more over the garage, not really seeing any of it now—the tools, the partially completed job, the small details he’d been focused on minutes ago.
None of it holds. None of it matters.
His hand clamps around the keys, perched at the bench’s edge.
There’s no pause this time. No second thought. Just motion.
The keys scrape as he snatches them up, metal rasping against wood—too sharp, too loud. He doesn’t flinch.
He’s already moving toward the door.
Bootsteps thud onto concrete, quick but leashed—each stride holding something fierce just below the surface.
The radio keeps playing behind him. Static, then a portion of a song, then interference again. It fades as he crosses the space, absorbed by the open air spilling in from outside.
He doesn’t turn it off. Doesn’t shut anything down.
The garage door stays open. The engine stays half-taken apart. Tools lie scattered where he left them.
None of it matters enough to stop for.
He steps into daylight, the shift immediate—cool air, wide space, the whiff of pavement and dust parting through the oil that holds to his skin.
The lot is mostly empty. A couple of cars sit off to the side; nothing was moving. Nothing urgent.
It doesn’t match the feeling in his chest.
His grip strangles the keys as he heads for the truck. Each step is weightier, like the burden of this mess is crawling up his spine, bone by bone.
Emergency contact.
The thought comes back crisper this time—less confusion, more edge. Still there anyway.
He reaches the driver’s side, yanks the door open in one smooth pull. The hinge creaks—a complaint he’s meant to fix, but never does. He doesn’t think about it now.
Climbs in, shuts the door harder than necessary. The sound echoes once inside the cab, then drops off into a softened quiet.
His palms sweat against the wheel.
“…Should’ve changed it,” he mutters, bitter. Should’ve burned it out of his life. Should’ve made it impossible for them to call.
It’s not clear who that’s meant for. You. Him. Both.
The words hang, then sink into the cab, heavy and unmoving.
He exhales, slow, controlled.
Then—
The key turns in the ignition.
The engine coughs to life, rough at first, then settles into a low, steady buzz that fills the cab. The vibration hums through the wheel into his hands, centering him in a way nothing else can.
He grips it tighter than he needs to.
Doesn’t move yet. Just sits there, engine running, looking straight ahead through the windshield.
That moment passes.
His foot presses down. The truck shifts into gear. And then he’s pulling out of the lot.
The tires crunch lightly along gravel before catching pavement. The wheel turns under his hands—familiar, automatic—and the truck eases onto the road like it’s done a hundred times before.
Everything about it is routine.
That’s the curse.
His hand shifts higher on the wheel, thumb tapping once against the aged leather before stilling. The other stays low, steady, keeping the truck straight as the road stretches out ahead—long, empty, ordinary.
Too ordinary.
The engine thrums beneath him, low and unremitting. The sound swells to fill the cab, crowding out any thought of the radio he left silent.
Silence settles in. Not quiet. Heavy. Suffocating. Like it wants to choke him out.
Your name moves through it again—not spoken this time, just there, sitting in the back of his mind where it doesn’t belong anymore.
It doesn’t sound like it used to. Not casual. Not easy. It sounds like something dredged up from the dark, too deep to come easily.
“…An incident,” he mutters, hardly heard over the engine.
The word doesn’t sit right. People don’t end up in a hospital for nothing. And they don’t call him unless there’s no one else left. Unless it’s bad. Real bad.
His grip strangles the wheel, leather squeaking beneath his knuckles. He doesn’t let go.
The thought comes fast. Sharp. Gone just as quickly.
He doesn’t follow it. Doesn’t let it go further than that.
The road bends, and he steers without thought, eyes fastened forward but seeing nothing real.
Instead—
Fragments. Small things. Not the big moments. Not anything clear. Just—
You, in the passenger seat, foot propped on the dash—ignoring him when he said not to.
“Relax,” you’d said, not even looking at him.
Like that settled anything.
His hands twitch, restless, itching to break something.
He exhales through his nose, quicker this time. Shoves it down. Pretends it’s gone.
Focus. The hospital. That’s what matters. Not—
The truck gathers speed beneath him, the needle climbing higher than it ought. The engine answers, voice deepening, getting louder. Still steady. Still controlled. But there’s something under it. A push.
He leans forward slightly, eyes tightening subtly as traffic starts to build the closer he gets to town. Cars pass in the opposite direction, quick flashes of movement that don’t hold his attention for more than a second.
Everything feels too slow.
A red light ahead.
He sees it. Doesn’t like it.
He stomps the brake, too hard. The truck lurches, engine snarling, just as pissed off as he is.
His fingers tap once against the wheel. Twice. Still.
The light doesn’t change.
A car passes through the intersection. Then another.
The seconds last longer than they should.
His gaze flicks to the side, scanning without really looking—storefronts, sidewalks, people moving through their day like nothing’s out of place. Like nothing’s wrong.
His shoulders lock.
“…Move,” he growls, voice scratchy, scraping out of him like crushed rock.
The light stays red.
Your name again. The hospital. The way they said it.
You should come in. Not when you can. Not if you’re available. Just—
Come.
His fingers tighten on the wheel.
The light at last shifts.
Green.
He doesn’t hesitate. The truck moves immediately, rolling forward, then faster—merging through the intersection before the cars behind him have fully started moving.
By the time the hospital finally comes into view, his shoulders ache from how hard he’s been holding himself together.
Tall. Bright. Too clean, glaring against the city’s grime.
Glass and concrete. Sharp edges. Too clean even from here.
His grip tightens again.
He doesn’t slow until he has to.
The entrance comes up faster than it should, and the turn into the lot is tighter than he takes it most days. The truck rolls over the painted lines, tires humming briefly before settling as he straightens out.
Rows of cars. Too many.
People moving in and out through the front doors—some quick, some slow, some standing off to the side like they don’t know where to go next.
The place is busy.
It has no right to feel this ordinary.
His foot presses harder on the brake than necessary as he pulls into the first open spot he sees. The truck stops with a slight jolt, engine still running, low and steady beneath him.
For a second, he just sits there. Hands still on the wheel.
His knuckles blanch, grip refusing to ease.
The hospital looms through the windshield—glass doors swallowing people, spitting them back out in uneven intervals. No pattern. No rhythm. Just constant movement.
The engine idles beneath him, vibration crawling up his arms, grounding and grating, like it’s daring him to move.
He could still leave.
The thought comes in quietly. Not forceful. Just there.
Turn the key. Back out. Drive off. Let it be—
He exhales sharply. Cuts that off before it finishes.
His hand moves at last, reaching for the ignition. The key twists, and the engine dies—a low drop that leaves the cab hollow, too quiet.
No buzz. No buffer. Just him. And the sound of his own breathing.
He sits there a second longer than he should, eyes still on the doors, watching people go in, come out, like it’s nothing. Like it’s just another place.
His fingers slacken on the wheel. Then tighten again.
“…Hell,” he mutters, voice harsh, scraped out. Like he’s already halfway there.
He grabs the keys, shoves them into his pocket, and pushes the door open.
The outside air feels unusual here—cooler, sharper, bearing a faint, clinical smell that leaks out every time those doors slide open.
He steps out, boots hitting pavement, too loud, too final. Like the ground’s daring him to run.
The door shuts behind him with a dull thud.
He doesn’t look back at the truck. Doesn’t give himself time to.
He stalks across the lot, not running, not dragging his feet. Just holding himself together by a thread, and it’s fraying fast.
But there’s a tension in it now. Something tighter. Something is pulling forward.
The closer he gets, the more the world sharpens—voices intermingling, the soft whir of the automatic doors, the low ring of steps on tile inside.
People pass him without a second glance.
A woman is talking too fast into her phone. A man sitting on the curb, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Someone pushing through the doors with a tired kind of urgency.
None of it sticks. None of it matters.
The doors slide open as he approaches. A blast of cold air spills out to meet him, sharp with antiseptic and a metallic hint lurking underneath.
He doesn’t slow. Steps inside.
The noise shifts immediately—more contained, more layered. Voices bounce off walls, shoes scuff against polished floors, something beeps in the distance at a steady, unchanging pace.
Bright fixtures overhead. Too bright.
Everything clean. Too clean.
He halts just past the threshold, just long enough for it to hit—the light, the smell, the noise—
All of it is wrong in the same way.
Just long enough to take it in. To let it settle in his bones.
This is real. No way out. No pretending.
You’re here. Somewhere in this building. Not a thought. Not a memory. Here.
He clears his throat.
And then he moves—straight to the front desk.
After all the things left unsaid...they still called him.
Arthur Morgan returns Wednesday!
“Mr. Morgan?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m calling from St. Mary’s Medical Center. You’re listed as someone’s emergency contact.”
“Who?”
They say your name.
Everything in him goes dead.
You Still Oughta Be Mad at Me
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
Summary: It almost happens once, and neither of you says anything about it. The next time comes closer—close enough that it would’ve taken nothing to tip it into something neither of you could take back—and after that, it doesn’t feel like something either of you has any real control over.
Rating: 17+
Warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, unresolved tension, jealousy, possessiveness, emotional repression, yearning, almost-kisses, forbidden feelings, campfire intimacy, physical touch, hand holding, rough language, arguments, emotional confrontation, implied violence, blood/injury mention, knife injury, toxic dynamics, possessive behavior, public confrontation, heated kissing, love confession, angst with payoff, canon-typical violence, emotional vulnerability, hurt/comfort undertones, complicated relationships, tension-filled dialogue, emotionally constipated men, reader insert, Arthur Morgan x reader, Red Dead Redemption setting
Word Count: 3.4k
a/n: woohoo first Arthur Morgan fic to cleanse everyones palate and my first fic on this blog not in the MCU! I don't plan on stopping just wanted expand, if you know me irl you'd know this was a long time coming hahah
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ✧ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ*`
The fire has burned low. Not dead—just banked low, the fire’s heart beating slow and orange against the black. Most of the camp has surrendered to sleep, voices softened to a calm, a cough here, the shifting of limbs burrowing into blankets, the world shrinking to embers and breath. Crickets drone in the dark beyond the wagons, their song a thin silver strand twisting through the hush.
The night feels still. You weren’t planning on staying up—but you are.
You prod the fire with a stick, gently moving a log until it shifts, and a scatter of sparks leaps skyward—brief, wild things, engulfed entirely by the night.
“Careful,” Arthur’s voice comes from just beside you, low and rough with sleep that hasn’t quite come yet. “You keep doin’ that, you’re gonna set the whole place on fire.”
You glance over at him. He’s close—so close you never caught his arrival, as if he stepped out of the night alone. Hat tipped back, sleeves shoved to his elbows, hands sprawled lazy and loose across his knees. Relaxed—or trying to be.
“You say that like it wouldn’t help,” you toss back lightly.
He huffs a quiet breath—almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m sure Dutch would appreciate that.”
You nudge your elbow into his side—gentle, insistent, as if testing the shell of something delicate and dangerous. “Please. You just don’t wanna be the one explainin’ it.”
Arthur shifts, feigning annoyance, but the corner of his mouth betrays him—twitching upward, a half-hearted smile fighting through. “I ain’t explainin’ nothin’,” he says. “You started it.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault?”
“Seems that way.”
You shake your head, a smile curling despite yourself. “Unbelievable.”
He glances at you again—quicker, sharper. This time his eyes hold an unaccustomed warmth, a glimpse of desire slipping past the careful mask, his guard tumbling away like a cast-off coat. “Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I keep sayin’.”
You let the stick drop, brushing your palms together, gritty ash clinging to your skin like a memory that won’t quite let go. Silence settles again—easier now, looser, the fire muttering between you, shadows painting his face—catching on the hard cut of his jaw, the stubborn crease between his eyes which never quite smooths out.
“You always sit out here this late?” you ask.
“Sometimes.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re gettin’.”
You blink your eyes slightly. “Alright then. Keep your secrets.”
Arthur glances at you then—quick, but not quick enough to miss. “Ain’t much of a secret,” he mutters. “Just quieter out here.”
You murmur, “It is.”
Another pause, the kind that stretches just a little longer than it needs to. You shift, reaching for the battered tin by the fire—coffee inside, gone tepid and bitter, the fragrance curling up with the smoke.
Arthur reaches for it at the same time.
Your hands meet—not hand to palm, the backs of them, a light, unexpected contact.
You both stop.
Your breath snags, nerves coiling hot and electric in your chest, heat blooming sharp and wild beneath your skin. Arthur’s hand stills against yours. Neither of you pulls away.
You glance up. He’s already looking at you.
And there’s something different in it now. Not guarded. Not distant. Just… there.
Your lips part slightly, like you’re about to say something—but nothing comes out.
Arthur doesn’t move his hand. Instead, his fingers shift—careful, testing. His fingers graze yours, gliding along the edge of your hand—hesitant, like he’s daring to touch something forbidden, sacred, the contact eliciting a tremble straight through you.
Your pulse kicks, wild and frantic, pounding beneath your skin, every throb a rush of heat that leaves you dizzy. You feel it in your fingertips, in your chest, everywhere.
You swallow. “Arthur, I—”
He leans in—not fast, not sudden, slow enough that you feel every inch of the space closing between you.
Your words disappear before they can form. Your breath falters as his face draws near, close enough to see the rough stubble shadowing his jaw, the flicker of his eyes dropping—hungry, fleeting—to your mouth, then back up.
Your heart stutters, an ache blooming sharp in your chest. You don’t move. You don’t stop him.
The fire crackles softly alongside you, the sole sound in the space as the moment stretches—and stretches—and—
“Arthur!”
The voice breaks through it. Sharp. Unmistakable.
You both pull back slightly as the spell breaks all at once.
John stands a few steps off, one hand half-raised like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve called out or not. “Hey, Arthur, do you—” he stops, looking between the two of you, something clicking into place. “Oh.”
A beat. “Uh… sorry.”
Arthur leans back, clearing his throat. His hand drops from yours, abrupt—a cold, stinging loss. “What do you need?” he asks.
His voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it—not sharp, not hostile, just… tight. Annoyed.
John shifts slightly, scratching at the back of his neck. “Dutch was askin’ if you’d seen the map from earlier,” he says. “Said he left it near your things.”
Arthur exhales through his nose. “Yeah. I’ll find it.”
John nods quickly. “Right. Yeah. I’ll—uh—leave you to it.” He turns and walks off, a little faster than necessary.
Silence settles again, but now a sharp tension hums between you, the quietness itself too loud.
Arthur doesn’t look at you. After a moment, he stands. “I should go see about that,” he mutters.
“Yeah.”
He hesitates—then leaves.
You watch him go. The dark devours him, quick and merciless. The fire crackles behind you.
Your hand is still where it was. You can still feel it—the brush of his fingers.
You don’t move.
After a moment, your hand falls, thumb drawing slow circles over your fingers, chasing the ghost of his touch.
The feeling fades.
The night settles back in.
Normal.
Except it isn’t.
The camp doesn’t feel much different in the daylight. But you notice him. Or the lack of him.
He’s there—just not near you. Every look is shorter. Every movement takes him away.
Once—just once—his hand brushes yours when you pass him something. Barely there, but it’s enough. Enough to feel it again—and just as quick—he pulls back. Like it meant nothing.
You watch him. Then look away.
By the time you find him alone, you’re done pretending.
The camp has quieted some. Not silent—but softer.
Voices drop, footsteps drag, and the dusk air feels dense, humid, clinging to your skin like sweat. Smoke twists sharp and bitter, mixed with the musk of leather, oil, and the grit of dust that coats everything. The camp presses close, every sound and scent engulfing you, impossible to escape.
You weren’t looking for him. That’s what you tell yourself. But you find him anyway.
Arthur stands just past the wagons, half-drowned in shadow, sleeves shoved up, hands gliding slowly and deliberately over a knife. The blade snags what little light remains, dull flashes of light shining as he drags a rag along its edge.
Steady. Grounded. Like he’s trying to stay that way.
You hesitate—then step closer. Your boots press soft into the dirt, but he notices anyway.
He always does.
“Thought you were helpin’ Pearson,” he says, not raising his eyes.
“I was. He didn’t need me anymore.”
“Mm.”
That’s all.
You move closer anyway.
“Been busy, usually am.”
Still not looking at you.
The space between you aches—raw, electric, every inch radiating with want and everything you’re not saying.
“You’ve been avoidin’ me.”
That does it.
His hands pause—just a second—before continuing.
“Ain’t avoidin’ you.”
“You are.”
Arthur exhales through his nose.
“You keep lookin’ at me like I’m the one who broke something,” you add, voice coarse with accusation.
That gets his eyes on you. Brief.
“You didn’t.”
“Then what is it?”
He looks back down at the knife. That’s worse.
Stillness spreads. Tight.
“You don’t get to just shut me out like that,” you say.
His hand stills. The knife rests within his palm, unmoving.
And when he looks at you this time, he doesn’t look away.
“You oughta stop.”
Your chest knots, full of hurt and want. Heat stings behind your eyes, and you swallow hard, fighting the urge to break open right there.
“Stop what?”
“This.”
You hold his gaze.
“Be more specific.”
His jaw shifts.
He steps closer. Not enough to crowd. Enough to change the air.
“You comin’ over here,” he says quietly. “Lookin’ at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He doesn’t answer.
His eyes flick over your face—and linger.
You glance down at the knife still in his hand.
“Then maybe stop givin’ me a reason to,” you mutter, reaching for it—
The blade shifts. Sharp. A quick sting—
“—shit.”
You pull your hand back. A thin line of red wells across your finger.
Arthur moves immediately.
“Hold on.”
His hand catches yours before you can pull away, turning it toward the light.
It’s small. But he treats it like it isn’t.
“Damn it,” he mutters, thumb resting just below the cut.
“It’s fine.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t let go.
He presses the cloth to your finger, movements unhurried and careful—almost reverent, as if you might break beneath his hands.
His hands are rough. Warm.
Your eyes lift.
He’s not looking at the cut anymore. He’s looking at you.
And something has changed.
“Arthur…”
His jaw tightens at his name. But he doesn’t let go.
His thumb shifts—absent. Lingering.
Your pulse leaps beneath his hand, hot and wild.
He feels it.
His gaze drops—to your mouth. Then back up. Slower.
Something slips.
His hand shifts from your palm towards your wrist. Closer.
You step in. Now there’s no space.
Your breath catches.
“Don’t,” he says.
But he doesn’t move.
“What?” you ask, softer.
He doesn’t answer.
He leans in. Slow. Giving you time.
You don’t stop him.
Your breath stutters as the distance closes—and then—
He stops.
Right there. Just before.
Close enough that it would take nothing. Nothing at all.
And that’s when it changes.
You see it.
That hesitation is hardening.
Arthur pulls back. Firm.
It costs him.
His hand drops.
The space floods back, a raw gulf that leaves your skin aching, hollowed out, and wanting.
Too much.
“You should go.” Rough. Final.
“Arthur—”
“Go.” Sharper.
You search his face—but he’s already gone.
You step back. “Fine.”
He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t look at you again.
Just picks the knife back up.
Like nothing happened.
Like it almost didn’t.
You turn. Walk away.
And you don’t look back—not even when your chest aches with what almost was.
“You should go.”
The words don’t follow you.
They stay behind.
But they don’t feel far.
You don’t go far either.
Just enough distance to breathe without every inhale scraping your chest raw, every breath burning like tiny rocks.
Camp life churns on nearby—familiar voices, the shuffle of boots, the rattle of tin—but everything feels off-kilter.
You try to keep busy. It doesn’t help. Because every time you stop, it’s there again.
You exhale sharply through your nose, shaking it off like that might be enough. It isn’t.
Across camp, you see him—not looking at you. You look away first this time.
A shift in movement in your peripheral. The sound of the man's voice is somewhere behind you.
Once, you glance up. And there it is.
His eyes are on you. Not soft. Not distant. Something else. Something tighter.
Then—gone.
He turns away. Like he wasn’t looking at all.
Your chest squeezes.
And that irritation finally settles in. Slow. Sharp.
If he’s going to pretend nothing happened, then fine. You can do that too. Better, even.
You straighten, brushing your hands off.
Someone calls your name. You turn toward it without thinking. You don’t hesitate.
The rag in your hand comes away blackened, glazed with oil, heat biting into your palm, akin to a warning.
“Hell,” you mutter. “You even own a clean cloth, or is filth just part of your personality?”
Micah chuckles beside you. “Careful now. Keep talkin’ like that, folks might think you mean it.”
You don’t look at him.
“Folks already got plenty of wrong ideas.”
“Mm.” He shifts closer. “Wonder where they get ‘em from.”
The afternoon presses heavily. Dust. Heat. Horses are shifting nearby.
And that stare—heavy, scorching, impossible to shake, a brand searing between your shoulder blades.
You feel it again.
You don’t look. Not right away.
Micah nudges your boot.
“Missed a spot.”
“Then clean it yourself.”
“Why would I,” he murmurs, “when I got such proficient hands right here?”
You glance up.
Arthur.
Across camp.
Watching.
Still.
You look away first.
“Careful,” Micah says. “You keep lookin’ at him like that, he might start thinkin’ you’re waitin’ on him.”
“I ain’t waitin’ on anyone.”
“Sure you ain’t.”
The revolver slips slightly—
Micah’s hand closes over yours. Warm. Rough. Too familiar.
“Easy now,” he says, closing his hand over yours like he’s got every right to.
Your breath catches—Arthur doesn’t move.
That’s worse.
He sees it.
You pull away.
“I got it.”
Micah lets you go slow.
You reach for the oil—
He steps closer. Too close.
“You get like this every time he looks your way?” he murmurs.
“That ain’t your concern.”
“Oh, I think it is.”
You don’t answer.
Then—
His hand settles at your waist—slow, deliberate—like he’s staking a claim.
Your breath snags.
And across camp—
Arthur moves.
Immediate.
A chair scrapes. Boots hit dirt. Fast.
You turn—he’s already coming.
Micah doesn’t move.
“Take your hand off me,” you say.
Too late.
Arthur is there.
“Micah.” Low. Flat.
Micah smiles. “Arthur. Didn’t know you were takin’ an interest.”
Arthur’s gaze drops to the hand at your waist.
“Take your hand off her.”
Micah presses slightly.
“Or what?”
Arthur steps forward. Fast.
His hand fists into Micah’s collar, dragging him forward hard enough that the post rattles.
The oil bottle hits the ground.
Micah stumbles—then grins.
“There it is,” he mutters. “Knew you had it in you.”
Arthur jerks him closer. “Try me.”
“Careful,” Micah murmurs, smiling like it’s a joke. “Might start lookin’ like you care.”
Micah grabs his coat, leaning in like he’s enjoying this more than he should.
“Thought you didn’t want her around,” he drawls, smirk spreading. “Or that just when someone else does?”
Arthur shoves him back. Hard.
Wood cracks behind him.
“Arthur—”
Micah laughs, breath knocked slightly from him, but not enough to dull it.
“Man tells her to walk away,” he says, voice lower now, sharper, “then comes runnin’ the second someone else don’t.”
Arthur’s fist pulls back—
You step in.
“Enough!”
Both your hands hit his chest.
He stops. Barely.
You snap, voice marked with incredulity and pain, "Why are you acting like this?"
“He don’t get to—” he says, eyes shooting daggers at Micah.
“You don’t get to,” you bark.
Behind you, Micah lets out a low whistle.
“Damn,” he mutters. “Ain’t even me she’s mad at.”
“Shut up, Micah.”
“Oh, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” he replies.
You don’t turn.
“You told me to go.”
“That ain’t the same,” Arthur snaps.
“It is.”
“That don’t mean you gotta let him touch you.”
“I didn’t let anything,” you fire back. “And even if I did—what would it matter to you?”
“It matters.”
“You don’t get to care!”
“You think that just stops?”
“Yes!” you snap. “That’s what happens when you push someone away!”
Micah shifts behind you, slow, deliberate.
“Sounds like you made that real clear,” he says. “Told her to walk—now you mad she listened?”
“Ain’t her fault you don’t know what you want,” he adds.
Arthur’s gaze cuts toward him.
“Stay out of it.”
“Just sayin’,” Micah mutters.
Your chest contracts.
“You don’t get to be jealous—”
“I ain’t—”
Arthur’s eyes snap back to yours.
“Then why does it matter?” you press, advancing closer to him now, forcing the space closed. “Why do you care so much?”
Arthur exhales sharply, shaking his head once.
“It just does.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one I got.”
“Then get a better one,” you shoot back. “Because you can’t stand there and act like this without tellin’ me why.”
Arthur runs a palm through his hair, pacing half a step, then stopping again like he can’t get away from you even if he tried.
“Because I—”
He stops. Hard.
The word hangs there.
You don’t let it go.
“Because what?” you press.
Arthur looks away. Just for a second.
That’s all it takes.
“Arthur,” you say, keener now. “Say it.”
He exhales, frustrated.
“It ain’t—”
“Then what is it?” you fire back. “You don’t get to look at me like that, act like this, and then just—stop!”
Micah lets out a quiet breath behind you.
“Go on,” he mutters. “Say it.”
Arthur ignores him. Or tries to.
“Because—”
He stops again.
You step closer. Right into him.
You say, quieter now but more resolute: “No. You don’t get to stop there.”
Arthur’s jaw tightens.
“Because I—”
“Say it,” you demand.
“Say it, Arthur.”
That’s it—that’s the break.
His hands come up in frustration—
“Because I love you, damn it. I can’t seem to help it—even when it would be easier if I could.”
Silence.
Micah lets out a quiet chuckle.
“Took you long enough.”
It hits hard. Heavy. Final.
You don’t move.
Your breath catches, chest tight, the words still settling between you like they’ve got weight to them.
Arthur stands there, breath uneven, like he’s ripped something open that can’t be stitched shut again.
And he doesn’t try to.
He just looks at you.
And that—
That’s what it does.
You step forward. Close the distance.
Your hand slides to his neck, fingers plunging into the heat of his skin, feeling the tension wound tight beneath, his pulse fluttering wild and frantic under your touch.
And then you kiss him.
This time, it’s not hesitant. Not unsure.
It’s everything that’s been building, everything that’s been held back, breaking loose all at once.
His breath catches against yours as he responds immediately, like there was never a question of whether he would. His hand comes to your waist again, firm—pulling you closer, closing whatever space was left like he’s done pretending it should be there.
Your fingers knot at the back of his neck, dragging him in, holding him close as the kiss deepens—slow, heavy, saturated with everything unsaid, like it’s being burned within your bones.
There’s heat in it. Not rushed—just… full.
His grip tightens at your side, thumb digging in—grounding, claiming, like he needs to feel you tangible beneath his hands. Your other hand fists in his shirt, dragging him closer, hungry and reckless.
He exhales against you—low, uneven—and it sends something sharp down your spine.
The world doesn’t disappear. You can still hear the camp. Still feel the ground under your feet.
But it all fades to the edges.
Because this—
This is louder. Closer. Real.
When he pulls back, it’s not far. Not enough.
Your breath tangles with his, foreheads pressed close, his heat rolling off him—steady, anchoring, inescapable.
His hand hasn’t moved from your waist.
If anything, his grip tightens slightly—like he’s aware of it now, aware of what he’s doing, and choosing not to let go anyway.
Your fingers are softly curled at the back of his neck.
You don’t move them.
Neither does he.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
The world creeps back in slowly. The distant buzz of voices. The shift of boots against dirt. A horse snorting somewhere off to the side.
Normal. Too normal.
Arthur exhales slowly, the sound rough, uneven—like he’s still catching up to what just happened, to what he said.
His gaze flickers over your face. Not searching this time. Not guarded.
Just… drinking you in, like he’s parched for it.
Like he’s trying to understand how you’re still standing there.
How did you not walk away?
Your thumb drifts along his neck, stroking the soft skin beneath his jaw—gentle, claiming.
Small. Absent. But it’s enough.
His breath catches again—quieter this time.
And for a second—
There’s something on his face that wasn’t there before.
Not anger. Not restraint.
Something closer to uncertainty.
That’s new.
You feel it.
The burden of everything between you now—more than the kiss, more than the fight—but the words.
Arthur swallows, jaw tensing slightly.
His thumb grazes once against your side. Slow. Grounding.
He looks at you. Really looks.
He says, voice husky and rough, “You still oughta be mad at me.” The words hang between you, heavy as iron, refusing to dissolve.