I heard you're taking one shot requests so I was wondering if you could do a oneshot of arthur tending to a sick or injured reader.
<3
hi!♥ i hope this is what u wanted.... im not good at writing fluff but i really tried my best!! as always there might be a lot of mistakes oops.
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It was supposed to be a simple job—quick, clean, no trouble. And it was, save for the fever that had clung to you all day before. But you, stubborn little mule that you were, always so damn determined to prove yourself just as useful as the men, had pushed through the blurred, doubled vision and rode out for the robbery.
Everything had gone as planned. You’d played your part, kept your head high and steady, even as that pounding in your skull gnawed at your senses and had your jaw clenching against the pain.
Victory had been within reach.
But you sure as hell hadn’t noticed the storm rolling in, not until the skies cracked open and drowned the plains in a downpour. The dry earth turned slick, treacherous under the weight of the rain, and Dutch had barked the order to split—better scattered than a whole pack of outlaws riding back together after spilling blood across the land.
Instinct, or maybe something deeper, had Arthur riding north with you. He’d noticed the flush on your cheeks, a heat that had nothing to do with excitement, and the way your eyes burned too bright, like fever-lit lanterns flickering against the storm.
The trail had turned to sludge beneath the relentless rain, each step of your horse more uncertain than the last. The path blurred—double, then triple—until, without warning, the world tilted, and you were falling.
Your body hit the ground, swallowed by the mud, clothes clinging heavy and soaked through to the skin. You burned—hot and fast—your breath coming quick and shallow, like a rabbit caught in a snare.
Arthur was off his horse in an instant.
His gut twisted, seized by something raw, something cold, as he dropped to his knees beside you. A thousand terrible things flashed through his mind, each one worse than the last.
"Dammit…" His voice was low, rough, choked by worry.
Your lashes fluttered weakly, the world around you thick and sluggish, spinning in and out of focus. Time had lost all meaning. The only thing you truly felt was the steady, pounding ache in your skull—a cruel, throbbing proof that you were still alive.
Your lips were dry, leeched of colour. Arthur reached out, his touch surprisingly gentle for hands so accustomed to violence, tilting your chin up just enough to see your face, to look into your eyes.
"You with me, woman? Can you hear me?"
His gaze locked onto yours—wild, desperate, like he’d ride through hell itself just to get you right again.
"Arthur..?"
Your voice was nothing more than a whisper—so faint, so fragile, that a deer in the distance would’ve spoken with more conviction.
Even with your blurred vision, you could still make out the face you’d cherished more than some civilizations worship the stars. That three-day beard—rugged, untamed—was closer than ever, the kind of rough silk you’d longed to touch a hundred times over, though that mercy had never been granted to you.
Arthur pressed his lips together, something twisting in his gut, a slow-burning rage born of seeing you like this. It was the kind of anger that could bring a whole army to its knees.
"I’m here, darlin’… What the hell happened to you?"
You tried to speak, but no sound made it past your lips. Before you could even attempt again, you felt a strong arm slide beneath your shoulders, another under your legs. And then—suddenly—you were against him, your head pressing into a broad chest marked by scars you’d never seen before.
He lifted you like you were nothing but a feather in arms that had only ever known how to take, never to give. The only response you could muster was a rough, aching whimper as the motion sent nausea twisting through your stomach.
"I know, girl, I know… Just hold on, alright, darlin’? Ain't lettin’ you die out here. Stay with me, you hear?"
You were still wrapped in his arms, encircled by a kind of gentleness you’d never have imagined from a man like him. He carried you toward his horse, mounting as best he could with you against him, then kicked the beast into motion, shielding you from the rain as much as he was able.
He rode hard, long enough for the muddy roads to turn unfamiliar—or maybe it was just your fevered haze keeping you from recognizing them. After what felt like an eternity, pressed tight against his chest, you felt yourself being lifted again.
Through your hazy vision, you caught sight of a rundown cabin, its wooden frame damp and sagging from years of wear. The scent of dust clung to the air, tickling your nose enough to make you sneeze. Arthur laid you down on a makeshift bed, the sheets rough and questionably clean, though you were too far gone to care.
Minutes passed—maybe more—your eyes fighting to stay open as the flicker of firelight stretched long shadows over the cabin walls. Arthur had gotten a fire going, its glow dancing across his face as he knelt beside you, hesitant fingers brushing against your forehead.
The touch sent you reeling.
"You’re burnin’ up…" he muttered, pulling off your rain-soaked poncho.
Your breath came slow, uneven, and when he started undoing the buttons of your shirt—his movements too careful, too respectful—it made you pause. His blues flickered away, not wanting to make you uneasy, though his fingers struggled with the buttons all the same.
You must’ve drifted, because the next thing you knew, he had a cloth—damp and cool—wiping the sweat from your skin.
"Ain’t much of a doctor," he murmured.
"You're doin’ alright, cowboy." You managed, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips as you watched Arthur turn away to prepare some kind of herbal brew—probably something he’d seen Hosea use before.
Time felt distorted, stretched thin by fever and the sight of Arthur so damn close. He took a step toward you, closing the space between you both, before pressing a cup against your parched lips.
"Drink, woman."
"Ugh." You groaned, taking a sip—and instantly regretted it. A grimace twisted your face as you swallowed. "Arthur, that’s goddamn awful."
"That so?" He raised a brow, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Well, reckon dyin’s worse. ’Specially if I gotta be the one to put you in the ground ’cause you won’t listen. Drink. You need it."
There wasn’t much arguing with that tone, nor the way his voice carried the weight of something final. You took another sip, this time without protest.
The cabin fell into quiet save for the rain hammering against the roof and the soft crackling of the fire. Arthur remained beside you, kneeling close, offering whatever warmth he could. He wiped the sweat from your brow with steady hands, bending to your every need without a single complaint. He held firm, but there was something raw in his silence—an ache he wouldn’t voice, a torment buried deep in the pit of his gut.
"You best pull through, woman," he muttered, voice gruff.
You didn’t answer with words, only squeezed his hand where it still cradled yours. Arthur had let his mind wander to places he never should’ve let it go—to the thought of burying you, of watching the dirt swallow you whole. It drove something sharp into his chest, something real painful, and his fingers ghosted over yours as if you might break right there in his grasp. His face was tight with something unspoken, something he’d never let himself feel before.
"Arthur…" you whispered, shifting slightly beneath the heavy blankets wrapped around you.
"M’right here."
His grip tightened, grounding you.
"You got a hell of a fever, idiot… Why the hell didn’t you stay at camp?"
You coughed, a flush creeping up your cheeks—not from the fever, but from something more shameful. The firelight only deepened the colour.
"I… just wanted to be useful. And… to impress you."
Arthur clicked his tongue, visibly torn between frustration and something else—something softer—before he exhaled long and slow.
"That’s dumb."
That was the last thing you heard before the fever dragged you under again, into a restless sleep.
You tossed and turned, soft whimpers slipping past your lips, every shift of your body a fresh jolt of pain. Once, you stirred just enough to catch a glimpse of Arthur—slumped in a chair, arms crossed, chin dipped forward as sleep caught up with him. And then, just like that, you were gone again.
For once, there were no dreams—only sickness, only survival.
By the time dawn finally crept through the cracks in the cabin walls, it cast the room in pale gold. Soft beams of light stretched across the floor, catching on Arthur’s still form. His hat sat low, covering most of his face, but what little was visible looked almost… peaceful. The sun kissed the hard lines of his features, making him look less like some untouchable legend and more like a man.
With the careful movements of a body still aching, you propped yourself up on your elbows, then dared to try slipping out of bed.
A deep, tired growl cut through the quiet, stopping you in your tracks.
"Wouldn’t do that if I were you."
Arthur’s voice was rough, thick with sleep, but his eyes—half-lidded, sharp—were already locked onto you.
"Did you stay up watcin' over me all night?"
"I wouldn't go makin’ a fuss ‘bout it if I were you." His voice was low, rough, like a man speaking more to himself than to the world.
He stretched, not with grace but with the quiet authority of a man who owned the space he stood in. Then he rose to his feet, his shadow stretching long in the early light.
"You'll be alright, just gotta take it easy these next few days." He leaned down, pressing a calloused palm to your forehead, the heat of your fever pulsing against his touch. "You feelin’ any better?"
"Yeah."
"Good." You swore you felt the ghost of his finger trailing over your skin. "I’d hate to be haulin’ you around all day, dumbass."
"Arthur." You forced the name past the tightness in your throat. You felt a little stronger, but nowhere near free of the sickness that still had its claws in you.
He turned, brow raised, the golden light playing across his face, softening him in a way you’d never imagined.
"I reckon," you swallowed, heart pounding, "a little human warmth's worth more than a pile of blankets."
A flicker of something crossed his eyes—shock, hesitation—before a slow, dangerous smirk curled his lips.
"You’re a damn pain in the ass when you're sick, darling."
"So..?"
He didn’t hesitate this time. With one step, he closed the space between you, lowering himself beside you on the bed. The so-called safe distance shattered as his arm slid around your waist, pulling you to him. Your stomach flipped at the warmth of his touch. He looked away, pretending to take in the room, but suddenly, he felt more fragile, more human, than ever before.
"Arthur," you whispered again, voice weak.
"Mhhm..?" His grip on your waist never loosened.
"Thank you."
You felt his fingers tighten against you. And before you could think, before you could talk yourself out of it, you lifted your face and pressed a small, fleeting kiss to his lips.
Silence.
You had no idea why you did it. But now you both lay there, stiff, unmoving, as Arthur stared at you, eyes wide. A thousand sensations crashed through you, and when he finally broke the quiet, his voice was nothing more than a whisper.
"You goddamn fool."
"I'm sorry," you blurted, regret already sinking its teeth in.
"Christ, don’t be," he muttered.
And in that instant, you saw something rare flicker across his face—something tender, something delicate. The red creeping up his cheeks, painting his ears, his throat. Something had bloomed between you, fragile, waiting to be nurtured by two lost souls who’d only ever known how to take.
He shattered the distance between you again, lips pressing against yours—not rushed, not reckless, but desperate in the way a man starved of something good finally lets himself taste it. You were there, soft and warm, slipping between his fingers like something precious.
"Maybe I’m the fool in all this," he murmured against your lips, his breath mixing with yours, unwilling to pull away.
The fever in your skull felt almost sweet, for just a moment.
"Then that makes two of us."
"No, no, darling, it ain't that."
His gaze flickered away, his large hand scraping over his beard, restless. Then, voice rougher, almost hesitant, he muttered,
"Shit, woman. If I start wantin’ you—wantin’ this—there ain’t no going back."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy with meaning. And then, without a word, you leaned in, pressing a kiss against the heat of his flushed cheek.
"You goddamn fool," you murmured, mimicking him. "I don’t want to go back."
Arthur finally exhaled, a breath that felt like surrender. He leaned in, forehead pressing against yours, the tension in his face easing as though he was tasting freedom for the first time in years. He breathed you in, every soft exhale, like a man starved for something real.
"Good," he murmured, softer now, less rough edges, more warmth.
And there, in that little cabin hidden away from the eyes of the world, two lost souls found something new. They learned tenderness where once was only a trigger pull. They learned how to hold without taking. The scent of gunpowder faded, replaced by a quiet, unspoken promise—to cherish each other, for as long as fate allowed.
