Oh friend... do I have a request for you. Fem!reader x Pining!Micah. He finds her having a complete breakdown (crying, like the kinda crying you'd only do in the shower cause no one's going to interrupt you and the water is so loud... [guess who's still in her depressive state =D]) but anyway angst, fluff, nsft, sft whatever you'd like. Please and thank you. If you don't wanna, as always it's totally okay and I understand.
I’m sorry to hear you’re still in the dumps, but I’m more than happy to try and help! Order up :D
Additionally, I’m making this my celebratory post for 242 of y’all! I thought it only fitting, considering you were one my first friends in this cowboy hell fandom
Word Count: 1,893 (but it seems WAY longer)
An Unwitting Shoulder (fem!Reader)
Clemen’s Point was a good place to be reflective; water lapped at the shore lazily and, on days where one could manage to get away from camp, there was almost a lulling quality to it.
A cigarette landed on the water with a soft ‘plonk’, and Micah watched it bob for a while with a frown. He hated the silence; it made one think, about things what needn’t be thought about. Thoughts, that led to something even more dangerous:
Hope.
Glancing up, the early morning sky had begun to sink from a dusty blue to hazy and grey—the clouds rolling in were heavy with the promise of a downpour, and soon. The soles of his boots crunched against the harder sediment in the wet earth and, unbidden, you came into his thoughts again.
It was fortunate you were away on duties; he was thankful for the wide brim of his hat, ducking his head down to shield himself from the first trickles of raindrops and any wandering eyes that might fall on an uncharacteristically wistful half-smile. Casting a surreptitious glance into your tent, he saw the small gathering of flower’s he’d left—no name, nothing to identify the origin—resting on your pillow, and Micah’s chest tightened happily.
You’d kept them.
The rain began to come down proper, now, blanketing the camp in a gentle, whispering lullaby. Come to think on it, the errands you’d been sent on shouldn’t have taken quite so long as they were. Before he had a chance to continue that line of thought, hooves thundered through the mud as your companions—Arthur and Charles—returned. Your absence was glaring, and defensive concern spurred him towards the hitching posts.
“You’re back late,” he spat, offering his hand to take as though he were actually being helpful in the burden of spoils. On that regard, he was unanswered—instead, Micah was met with a scoff from both men.
“You keepin’ track like some hen?” Arthur quipped. “We’re back, s’what matters.”
The blond man retracted his offered ‘assistance’, the corners of his lips turning down.
“You’re comin’ back a little light, ain’t’cha?” Micah tossed back, looking over them both with smug disapproval. “I seem to remember three of you leavin’.”
At this both Arthur and Charles looked between each other, sharing a look he couldn’t quite decipher.
“Wasn’t our decision,” Charles hummed, shrugging.
“What’chu mean by that?”
Charles shouldered a hefty haversack, ignoring him in favour of wiping hard at the soaking stains melting down his shirt and making off towards the camp’s communal funds. Arthur followed and, huffing at being so quickly dismissed, Micah brought up the rear.
“I don’t like repeatin’ myself, dar—”
“Then don’t—do us all a favour and shut your mouth.” Charles hadn’t stopped moving, but he shot back a look that threatened any further snide commentary to be met with physical rebuttal.
Arthur barked a laugh, catching the brief moment of baffled surprise on Micah’s face before it snapped to his customary scowl.
“What’chu so adamant for, anyhow?” It was Arthur’s turn to be inquisitive. “You think we’d just leave her without a reason, or makin’ sure she’s okay?”
“I think Dutch’ll wanna know why yer leavin’ our womenfolk all around the countryside—” Micah gestured vaguely, swinging his arm wide behind him. “—when there’s work to be done!”
“I ain’t leave nobody,” he reiterated. “And if you’re so worried, be useful for once an’ do it’cherself.”
It was all Arthur offered, throwing a hand towards him that bordered on shooing, as he turned back to catch up with Charles. Micah’s fingers twitched, itching so badly to go to his pistol. Why he was so fired up over you was hardly a question, but he had to remind himself that he weren’t yet your beau—no one knew how much of a weak spot you’d become to him, and no one would for as long as he had say.
To keep suspicions low he had to let the issue drop, and instead circled wide towards their charismatic leader’s tent. Knowing Dutch’s pet, he’d report dutifully and prompt—sure enough you’d been left in the Saint’s Hotel, and Arthur was already slated to ride back out to check on you first thing tomorrow morning.
How fortunate, then, that someone was already making his way to saddle up Baylock.
Before heading out, Micah grabbed a fresh shirt—his union suit was mildly damp, but not unbearable—and ignored any passing inquiries to his destination. Valentine was a quick ride, made infinitely more tolerable by the rainstorm’s passing, and within a few hours the train station bobbed into view. The high noon sun had warmed the dew to an almost strangling degree and, before hitching his horse to the post, Micah tugged a couple buttons free before stepping inside the wooden building.
Asking for a ‘miss Kilgore’, he was directed up to the last room on the right. He’d barely cleared the landing when your choked sobs made it to his ears, and Micah approached his destination gingerly to keep from giving himself away.
The noises you made were strangled, and skipped any time you fought to take in a breath. Your sorrow was wet, deep-bellied and, unthinking, he pressed the flat of his hand against the door. Micah was absolutely, entirely certain he’d never heard anything so harshly guttural from you—he lost track of how long he spent, listening.
A rapid succession of sniffles and coughing brought him back to reality and why he was there at all, and suddenly his throat was gripped by an invisible hand.
Comfort wasn’t his strong suit, unless it erred on the physical side, and he was very much aware that he had no actual plan, here. He pursed and unpursed his lips, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, before placing his hat on his chest and running uncertain fingers through to smooth his hair.
Knuckles rapped against the door, and the hiccuped attempts at muffling the crying inside only twisted his throat harder.
“A-Arthur?”
“No, but it ain’t any less a friendlier a face.”
The doorknob clicked, and you cracked the door open ever so. Bloodshot eyes met his blue ones, and he couldn’t help but reach up towards you. You watched him, studied him with an occasional hitched breath, and under your gaze he faltered—instead, the pads of his fingers fell on the door gingerly, and a hard exhale left his nostrils.
“I, ah, just wanted to check on you,” he murmured slowly, forcing the words out. “You…didn’t come back with the boys, and, ah…”
His mouth was dry, and Micah snapped his lips shut in the hope he could restore some moisture so he wouldn’t look like a damn fool—
Your hand came up to cover his, thumb running gently back and forth across his knuckles, and he found himself mesmerized. Saying nothing, you gestured to invite him in before stepping further back; he followed your lead, walking inside before closing the door behind him with nary a sound.
You had nothing but a chemise and your skirt on—modesty was the furthest thing from your mind, right now, and Micah wasn’t one to object. He hung his hat on the rack nearby before approaching closer; to test the waters, both hands rested on your bare upper arms.
His touch was rough and calloused, but warm, and you heard him take in a breath when you leaned backwards into his embrace. Leaning down, he very nearly pressed his lips against your shoulder, but his proximity ignited a fresh wave of tears—it was alarming, and Micah stiffened as you buried your face in your hands.
When you turned to push yourself into his chest, it took him a few moments before realizing he ought to wrap himself around you. Any time he tightened his arms, you only cried harder, and it was difficult to decide what it was you truly wanted.
“Come on, sugar pie,” he murmured. It was surprisingly tender, to his disgust, but the gravelly rumble of his low voice pushed you further in, so perhaps it wasn’t so bad. “What’s got you all riled up?”
You shook your head, and your shoulders shook harder.
“Did them boys do somethin’ to you?” It was unlikely, he knew, but having a physical target gave Micah enough resolve to lock his arms securely around you. “You can tell me.”
You shook your head again, confirming what he knew to be logically true. A shame, really—he would have loved any excuse to stroll back into camp with the distinct pursuit of decking Arthur or Charles into the dirt. He might still, if he inflated the fact you were bawling your heart out in his arms. The idea drew a wicked grin across his face.
You choked out something indiscernible, and he pressed his lips into your hair. Micah was deeply grateful you were too wrapped up in your sorrow to see him marinating in such cheshire glee.
“Don’t matter now, I’m here. I gotcha.”
Newly inspired with an ulterior motive, and the chance to be the one to soothe the hot tears spilling down your cheeks, he hummed sweet things to you as one of his hands pushed a heavy, soothing trail up and down your back. Truly, what a unique position he found himself in.
It distracted him from the thought he continuously kept shoving backwards—again, those thoughts. He didn’t dare let it take a foothold that being here, alone, with you threatened to encourage something else.
Happiness.
Contentedness.
The thought alone snapped cold in his gullet, and Micah pushed his attention even harder on you. Cradling you close to his own body and setting his feet apart, he began to sway softly at the hip to ease your nerves. It seemed to be working—your sobs had softened back to hiccups and gurgles, and he whispered sweet encouragement. Fingers combed slowly, awkwardly, through your locks, and he breathed you in when you dug your hands into the breast of his shirt.
“My girl, you gonna be alright,” he whispered. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
He kept digging himself deeper and deeper into this rabbit hole of tenderness, but the reactions Micah got out of you made the lurching vulnerability in his throat easier to bear.
“How’s about I get you some more flowers. Would you like that?”
Bleary-eyed you looked up to him, and he did his absolute damnedest to school his expression into what he hoped could be interpreted as a soft smile. He bore himself against every instinct beat into him, claiming ownership of the flowers waiting for you at camp—he locked his legs into place, hoping to stop the trembling that had taken hold in the joints.
Micah pressed a light kiss to your forehead when you said nothing, unwilling to linger on your skin for his sake more than your own. When you nodded, though, he kissed you again.
“Wash your face, doll—let’s get you some fresh air.”
For now, he could show you that he was a stable foundation, that he was reliable. He needed to buy some time to calm the fluttering in his belly, anyhow, as you pressed a kiss to his cheek before he left you to tidy up.
