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crsssie · 1 day ago

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I am a collapsing star with tunnel vision (but only for you)

word count: 18.9k || tags: smut (at the end), hurt/comfort, fluff

summary: "Stay." He whispers. Like a prayer. He hopes you do.

When Arthur first opens his eyes, he notices that he's in a cabin.

It's a disorienting feeling. There's something put in his nose, and he tries to move, finding that his body's too exhausted to do anything. It's an uncomfortable feeling. There's something tightly wrapped around the injuries from the fight before his death, and a figure in the corner of the room. His arm moves a little, only to find a needle pushed into his arm, and he panics, groaning when his body tenses suddenly.

"I wouldn't do that if I were ya." The figure speaks up, clicking their tongue as Arthur blinks at them.

"an' who're you?" He swallows uncomfortably, and the figure adjusts the bag attached to the needle.

First, it's a look at your face.

You look young. Definitely younger than him, but not distinct in what age. You look phenomenally young for someone who supposedly hauled him from where he had been bruised and battered from his fight with Micah. Young, young, soul. Not a wrinkle on your face, and you are yet to show any signs of maturity. Strange, strange being.

Arthur squints at your face, observing the lines and lack of lines. He takes in what you're dressed as — just any other lady, really. He squints at your face and looks for the familiar glint of a hidden agenda, but you seem to present yourself as is to him. Only then does he relax his shoulders a little, staring at you. You seem harmless enough, though he's still not sure what's in his arm, but you don't seem to be trying to kill him.

Then, he takes a look inside the cabin.

Outside of the bed he's rested on, the needle in his system and the tube stuck in his nose, there's nothing else out of the ordinary. You have a fireplace, a stack of wood on the side, and you almost seem to be living in the forest. Quite nice, honestly. The cabin feels nice and homey, but you have the unfortunate situation of him in what he assumes is the only bed from what he can see. He keeps his eyes trained on your face, watching your every expression. Just in case you're hiding something.

"Call me sunshine f'r now." You hum, lips curled upwards sweetly. "Yer still not well, so I'd lie back and rest for the time being. Let me take care of the injuries."

"How'd y'know— ugh.. huh?" The grogginess overtakes him again, and it reminds him of when he was younger and used to get sick all over again.

"Oh, look. It's kicking in." You beam, waving at him as he feels his consciousness slip from his mind. "No worries. It's just…"

Arthur Morgan falls asleep, eyes closed, body lax as he drifts in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he hears you talk to yourself, muttering quiet words, assumed to be narrating your own life, talking out loud. Perhaps you're used to staying alone. It seems like there's only you in the cabin, since there's never any other voice. The door creaks sometimes, and when he's conscious for the few seconds in between his sleep, he catches you around the home doing something.

He thinks he caught you doing something with the food once.

He's still mildly disoriented from waking up. The grogginess never fully escapes him. He stays awake for longer periods in between sometimes and eats what you have for him, but quite frankly, the needle in his arm terrifies him, and he's not too good at using his left hand for eating all that much. You help as much as you can, feeding him before eating yourself, and he's forced to rely on you. He thanks you after you do, and you give him a gentle wipe of his lips like he's some baby.

He sleeps again shortly after those periods, drifting off sometimes to a melody you hum, sometimes to the sound of the wind rustling the trees outside.

When he's awake at night, he stares out the window, watching the leaves and the flicker of the fireplace, wondering what came of everyone else after his tussle with Micah. He'd ask you, but he doesn't know how much you know. For all he knows, you could have just been some poor lady who found him bruised and battered on the ground. He doesn't know much about you, still, but he has no choice. His gun isn't with him, and quite frankly, you seem to be taking care of him rather than trying to kill him. He'd be dead if you wanted him dead. He'd be dead if you just left him there to rot.

He usually sleeps a while after that.

But he starts staying awake for longer periods of time in between his rest, sometimes getting to watch you toss out the fireplace ash, sometimes watching you sit on the day bed by the fireplace on a journal of your own. When he asks for water, you lift the glass to his lips, and when it's dinner, he lets you feed him whatever you can. He tries using his left hand to eat, getting better by the day, but some days he coughs too hard, and you have to feed him again.

"Thank you." He mumbles.

"Always." You nod.

Eventually he falls back onto a proper sleep schedule, waking when the sun does in the morning, sleeping when the moon rises at night.

You look older now.

You don't feed him as often now. You offer him a bowl, and he'll be able to scoop it up with his spoon, and he doesn't need to rely on you to feed him.

"Dinner." You hand him a bowl.

Arthur takes it, eating slowly, making sure not to move the arm with the needle in it.

He learns to trust what you have to offer him. You seem harmless enough, smile on your face, no bad intentions behind it. He's lived a long life, he thinks. He did plenty of good in his final moments. He can tell the good from the bad, and he thinks you're a good person. Much better than he is, after all. He has no reason to be so on edge around you.

"Alright." You hum. "How's the throat feelin'?"

"Alright." He mumbles. "Why?"

"Y'er gonna start treatment for the tb."

Arthur raises a brow.

"The doctor said there's no cure."

"Well, I say we ought to try new methods anyway." You point a finger at him, and you shrug. "My ma survived it just fine with what I'll give ya, so I figured it might be worth a try, mister…"

"Morgan." He nods. "Arthur Morgan."

"Mister Morgan." You hum, lips curled upwards sweetly. "Don't worry. I won't hurt ya. Found y' near dead by a cliff, and by god, how scary."

"Yer a good person, sun…shine." He hums. "Sunshine? Yer parents name y' that?"

"Called me that while growin' up."

Arthur doesn't doubt it. You look like you'd grown up with enough love in the world. There's a smile on your face that isn't quite as deep as he ought to believe it to be. It's alright to be fine and peaceful. You seem like a respectable person, after all. Much more respectable than him.

"How y' feeling?"

"Sick." He hums. "Does the… treatment really work?"

"Worth a try." You hum. "Just gotta promise me to listen and trust me."

"It ain't that hard to trust you."

"It will be when you start it."

Arthur spends his days resting and listening to you. It's quite easy to listen to you, after all. You give him instructions, give him little pellets to swallow with water, but the pills make him feel sick. You have a bucket by the side of his bed for him to vomit into when the nausea gets bad, but there's not much else you can make for him. His food is soft compared to yours, and you make sure he's able to digest everything. He still gets meat in the stew — softened, but still edible.

He also has his own set of utensils. It's because you tell him he's contagious. He makes note of that to himself.

It feels uncomfortable being taken care of like this. He's not quite sure what to make of the fact that you're fixing him up. The nausea hurts, but you're there every step of the way. It's strange to think that he's never heard of you despite being so well known in the East. Maybe you moved from the West over. He heard some of them natives have cures for illnesses unlike western medicine.

It's still disorienting, though. He's still not too sure what's quite going on some days. It makes him confused. The mild paranoia still sits in his skin. He watches everything you do when you're around him and he's conscious, and though he takes the pills and trusts you to some extent, some days it's hard. Some days he feels so nauseous before eating that he doesn't have the stomach to even eat. He's curled over the side of the bed or hugs the bucket. His head spins and his lungs heave, struggling to breathe like he remembers before his death. Oh, the cough was not kind to his lungs.

"Oh, okay, Come on. It's fine." You hold the bucket as Arthur coughs, lungs hurting and chest burning, blood spilling past his lips.

"'s that supposed t' happen?" Arthur blinks, and you shrug.

"Happened to my ma." You hum. "At least the blood's comin' up. Won't kill y'a no more."

"Doesn't feel good."

"Feels better than collapsin' a lung, I can tell y' that." You grimace.

"Collapsin' a what?"

You blink at him twice, tilting your head with an innocent smile as you pretend to not remember.

"Hm?"

"Yer gonna be the death of me, sunshine."

"Well, it's the pellets or the tuberculosis, so have y' pick." You shrug. "Maybe next time I ought to ask first before bringing y' back from the dead. How as it anyway?"

"The dead? I was dead?"

"F'r a bit. Did y' know it's new? The machine I used to save ya. Founded in Switzerland or sum." You tap your chin. "Brings the dead back t' life for long enough to save em. Had to figure out how to work the one my pa was given as a gift."

"Say, y' some kind of rich kid?"

"Nope." You smile at him.

You look only a little younger than him now. He doesn't doubt that you'd be around his age if he hadn't grown up as an outlaw. You have that look to you. Someone who's lived their life moving around. Feels strange for you to be around his age and so knowledgeable. Maybe you went to university like the fancy folk up north do. You seem to be well presented. He doesn't see people like you often. They don't usually come down to the south. Most of the Northeners prefer sticking to their own kind. The civilized kind.

He wonders why him. Why now.

He complies with treatment, swallowing pills and eyes closed when he feels the sickness crawling up his throat. You tell him it's called phlegm, and he curses whatever god there is out there during the initial stages of treatment, but the food becomes easier to eat, and his body learns quickly how to adapt. It overcomes as it does. When the bruises heal, his body focuses on the tuberculosis. The medication proves to be useful. He stops throwing up after a week or so.

You have a little calendar on the wall to mark the passage of time. You have a clock on the wall and the calendar underneath, Arthur keeping his eyes trained on you when you do things around the house. He itches to help, but you keep him stuck on the bed with the needle in his arm. He can't bear to look at it longer than a few seconds. The sensation is long gone, but on occasion when he shifts, he can still feel the needle in his arm, and it irks him.

He longs for the day you'll be able to detach it from his poor arm.

"You know, Arthur. Tuberculosis can be cured. Just takes time." You laugh. "Some people live by nothing. Seems your lungs were in humidity for too long. Always better to stay in dry land when sick."

"I didn't know." He mumbles, watching as you peel an apple next to his bed. "Thought it was just a cold."

"I don't blame you." You cut a piece of the apple off, holding it to Arthur's mouth.

"What's this?"

"Just eat the damn apple."

He opens his mouth to bite down on it, chewing slowly as you continue cutting up the fruit to place it on a plate.

Old habits die hard.

"You'll be fine. Seems t' be much better." You hum. "You're throwin' up less these days."

"Yes, I s'ppose."

Arthur watches as you clean off your hands at the sink, watching as you mumble to yourself, quiet mumbles. You did that a lot. You tended to mumble to yourself to remind yourself of something, and Arthur wonders if it's because of him. It bothers him to no end, he supposes. He went to collect the debt from the sick man, only for it to come back and kill him. Almost, kill him. There's much to be lost in thought of in his own mind. In a way he believes perhaps he deserved the death. He was no good man, Arthur Morgan. He had made right what was dong wrong by him before his death, so he thought perhaps he would die with some more semblance of peace, but even in his final moments, his breath labored and he yearned to see the sun rise one last time. What a foolish man, he is.

"… wish I got to stop you before you caught it."

Your words break him from his thought, lifting from his head as he looks at you.

"What's that?"

You fluctuate between ages. Like some witch, perhaps. You look younger on some days than others, and sometimes when he wakes, you look younger than some of those girls working at the saloons, but you also look older some days. He wonders what kind of nonsense it's got to be for you to be looking so young some days and older on others, but he doesn't pry. He tries not to. You're allowed to keep your own secrets, after all.

"Don't worry about it." You smile, lips curling upwards sweetly as he nods.

"Sunshine."

"Yeah?"

"You ever gonna pull the needle out'a me?"

You tap your chin, wiping your hand off from the water as you think about it.

"Ever thought about going to a sanitarium?" You reach for something in a box — gloves. Arthur finds them to be strangely colored, but they are gloves nonetheless.

"No. Needed by the gang back then. 'm a wanted man."

"Mm. I see." You hum, moving over. "I'll take the needle out if that's what you want, Arthur. You'd have to start getting up and moving, though… Namely a bath."

Arthur looks away when you instruct him to keep his arm still, and he winces as you slide the needle out of his arm, clinkering of the needle in the box catching his attention.

"Did you just…"

"Yeah." You hum, wrapping a bandage over the hole left by the needle. "Tossed it into the bin. Can't touch the rest of the trash. It'd be horrible if an animal got their grubby little fingers onto it. It's a biohazard."

"A bio what?"

"Danger." You pause to wonder when the word had first been coined. 1973? God, that's a whole century later. Whoops.

Arthur squints at you, and he watches as you tilt your head at him, raising a brow.

"Yer full of surprises, sunshine."

"I take pride in that." You hum, pulling off the gloves to dispose them in the same bin.

Arthur moves his arms around. He's not completely muscle-less despite it all. He moves both his arms, staring at his softening hands. Strange to him, despite it all. It seems foreign that his hands would ever soften. He's unused to not having to do labor. His hands have gotten softer.

"Come on. You need to wash up." You grimace. "Yer stinking up the whole place."

"Oh, sunshine." He raises a brow at you. "Don't be so brash."

"Can't." You scrunch your nose. "Nose keeps clogging because you stink."

Arthur knows that feigned annoyance on your face is just a facade. You had been wiping him down when he was asleep. He'd wake up to it sometimes. Never anywhere inappropriate, no. Just his arms and legs. On occasion, he'd feel you wiping his neck and face, quiet melody hummed on your lips, too foreign to his ears. But he understands. He's unused to being taken care of, after all. He's gotten used to lifting his weight around the camp and helping when he could. It only worked him further to the bone when he found out he was to die. He had gotten so used to taking care of others he forgot what it was like to be taken care of. He almost likes it.

"Say, Mister Morgan, how'd you like to get up and walk a little? You up f'r it?" You tilt your head. "I can support ya."

"Y' seem smaller than me, sunshine." He hums. "Also, Arthur, please."

"Won't know til y' try." You step next to the bed, holding an arm out for Arthur as he shifts down. He wasn't quite convinced that you could support someone of his build, but you seemed insistent enough..

"Mister Morgan."

"Arthur." He insists.

"Arthur." You fold your arms, tapping your arm. "Won't you take a bath? We even have warm water."

"Warm water, y' say?"

"Mhm." You grin at him, tilting your head coyly as he laughs.

"Alright. I'll go wash up. Where's the bath?"

"Come on down and I'll help you get over there." You offer a hand as he turns from the bed with his arms, supporting himself as he gets down.

"It's been a couple weeks since you've walked." You catch him as he stumbles, and he groans.

"'m a grown man an' I can't even walk on my own."

"You're a patient, Arthur." You hum. "A sick man before a grown one."

"Don't like dependin' on you like this." He mumbles, almost embarrassed.

"I know." You hum. "But it's alright. You'll get your chance to pay me back."

"Then I might as well rack up more debt to you. Would you help me wash up?"

"My, Arthur, I didn't know you were a man like that." You laugh, helping him walk as he laughs, rumble in his chest traveling to your arm around him. "But I s'ppose it goes with what I've been hearin' 'bout you around town."

"They speak of me?"

"When I ask who Arthur Morgan is, they tell me all about'cha." You help him into the bath, ditching the jacket to free your arms. "Y' still wan' me to help?"

"If y' don't mind."

You help him clean, sleeves rolled terribly far up your arms so you can get further down into the tub. He notices that you try not to look him in the eye, making sure to avoid areas too close to where you shouldn't touch, and hands hesitant the closer you get to his pelvis.

He understands. You're not a bath girl after all.

But it's so strange that he's still alive. He was so certain that the sun would be his final sight, look at the buck staring him in the eye as he died after saving John. It would have been a good way to pass even if he didn't want to. The sun brought comfort to his lungs. That was plenty more than he'd needed. His last breath filled his lungs with more air than he had breathed in the past months.

Yet he breathes normal now. Lungs restored, presumably. He can't quite see into his own chest, so he doesn't know how they look. They feel healthier now. All that matters is he's not coughing as much and isn't as sick. It's a blessing, he supposes. He worked himself to the bone to try to do better, be better, send everyone that matters off to where they belong. The sickness should have taken him. It would have been a good ending.

It would've fit a man like him.

But it's also not enough. It's part of the human body to want to fight until their last breath. He's alive but isn't quite sure what he's going to do after this. It's part of why he watches you. He has until you inevitably get tired and abandon him like the gang did. Like Dutch did. Soon, you will start expecting he pays you back. He has no money. He left all of that for John.

Maybe he can pay you back with labor. With his body.

"Y'know, Arthur."

"Hm?"

"I really do think that it's incredible that you wanted to live so bad." You squeeze off the rag you were using to clean him and take a step back. "You were still sorta breathin' when I found ya."

"I wasn't dead?"

"Short, shallow breaths." You hum. "'s why I had something plugged to yer nose when you first woke up."

"An' what was it for?"

"Air, Arthur. It was to send your body some more air since y' lungs weren't workin'."

Arthur blinks at you, mind turning slowly, but ultimately deciding that he didn't understand it anyway, so there was no point. Medicine really did seem to improve, huh? The state of the world was moving quickly, and everything was moving too fast. Too quickly. He's unused to it all. He's unused to how you are. It's just a mess of jumbled science that he isn't smart enough to know. That's not his world. It's never been his world. Perhaps it would be if he hadn't joined the gang, but there's no point in mulling over that anymore.

It's not like he can redeem himself anymore.

"Oh, right. Might be best for you to avoid goin' out for a while." You wipe your hands with a separate towel.

"Hm?"

"Finished settin' up yer grave." You hum. "A dead wanted man is much better than a missing one."

"A grave?"

"Where y' almost died." You hum, wiping your hands down on your dress. "Where I found you."

"I see."

"We'll see if any of your old friends come visit the grave." You hum. "I'll bring in anything they place as offering. Who knows. Maybe a couple of your friends might leave new things. You had a handful of things on you when y' passed too. Was the letter from someone?"

Arthur freezes at the mention of the letter.

"Was from a woman. We used t' be engaged."

"Huh."

Arthur doesn't know why his heart clenches at the mention, but he supposes it's not much to think of. Gentle, soft. Soft for her, still. He's spent his whole life taking care of her when he could. It'd be hard to let go of affections so easily. He must look solemn to you, 'cause you clap your hands to snap him out of his thoughts.

"Water's gettin' cold. Better chop chop, cowboy."

"Cowboy?"

"Mhm." You hand him a towel as he gets up, getting used to walking again. His skin's all wrinkly from the water. "Y'had a cowboy hat by you when I found y'. It's on the table with the rest of y' stuff."

"Alright." He mumbles.

"No use mopin' over people you can't— well, can't see yet. You can save the mournin' for when yer all good. Who knows, maybe you'll be able to get her back."

"And when will that be?"

"Mm… couple months?" You tap your chin. "The TB takes a long time t' get better with pills. Not much else you can do to treat it."

He sighs.

"Y' sure I'll get better?"

"Yer a strong man, Arthur Morgan. 'm sure it will."

"And if i don't deserve it?"

You tap your chin, pondering over it.

"What is there to deserve and not deserve? The universe doesn't balance on what good and bad we do. There are far more important people than you 'n I."

You don't speak for the rest of the night, Arthur eventually drifting off and you retiring to your room. He gets a better look at the inside of the cabin. A bathroom to the right, and your room on the left. He rests in what he assumes is the drawing room. He has his own bed. A big bed. He can't help but wonder if you'd ever catch the illness from him. You might find out too late like him. It would be horrible if he got you sick. He'd never let himself live if he did get you sick.

He finds his stuff in the cabinet next to his bed, reaching for a pencil and his untouched journal.

He starts writing. Sketching, perhaps. A picture of you he remembers from the bath. Alongside notes about late.

Woke up in an unfamiliar cabin. Felt strange. The TB felt horrible at first, then the pills the woman fed me started making me throw up. Thought I was going to die. But lived. I don't cough as much, but she insists I have to take another five months of the medicine. What a woman.

Asked me about the letter I had with me. Told her it was from someone I used to be engaged to. Mary. I miss her. I wonder how she's doing. I'm glad I handed John the ring.

A sketch of you sits on the other side of the paper. Far more detailed than he was expecting it to be. You must be asleep in the next room over, yet here he was, trying to remember what you look like from his memory. Last he had drawn a woman so detailed was when he saw Mary. It makes his heart clench, perhaps. He loves Mary. He'd love her for as long as he could breathe, maybe. But there is affection that hurts painfully in his chest, fighting the giant to love you too. His heart is not that big. He does not know how to love someone unfamiliar to him.

But he knows the feeling — the bubbling nonsense that he remembers from when he first fell for Mary. The awful feeling of hope in his chest that he had tried suppressing for so long. He can only do so much to stop himself. He can't control his heart, after all. He wonders if this is just a cruel twist of fate or if this is just god being horrible to him. He's never been a religious man, but those moments of darkness were strange to him. Felt too foreign to be good.

He wakes in the morning, greeted by you making breakfast. You cook around the house, hunt, take care of the home. You do everything by yourself and it confuses him to no end. He's seen capable women, but it just seems you just keep on impressing him more and more.

Even when he insists on helping out in the house, you wave him off and tell him to focus on recovering. He can sketch things he finds around the house if he really needs something to do.

So that's what he does. He sketches the couch until he's got the fabric memorized, sketch the sight of you from the back in the kitchen until his fingers are tinted from the lead — until he has the sight of you memorized and fluttering in his mind over and over again. It's horrible, horrible, horrible of him, but he cannot help it. There is the illusion of domesticity before his eyes, something he never knew he could crave this hard, and you are his savior, so it only seems fitting that he would fall for you the way that he has.

But he also believes he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve the domesticity that comes off in waves from you — the care, the heart, the comfort. None of it is something he believes he deserves after his past as an outlaw. He's a dead man, given the chance to start over, yet he's chained by the actions of his past. He can't right every wrong like he wants to. He's died once, which should have relieved him of his sins, but the memory haunts him.

He doesn't believe that he deserves the life that you're giving him, so he settles with helping out with what he can get away with.

"Arthur, you— stop! Not now!" You stop him from fixing up the fireplace, pushing him off as you sigh. "The smoke isn't good for your lungs. You have to let me clear out the ash from the fireplace."

"j's wanted to help."

"I know." You hum, reaching for your handkerchief to wipe his face of the soot. "But y' can't do much right now. Just focus on recovering. If you're bored I can find you something to do."

"Which would be?" He leans into your touch.

"I'm not sure. Painting? You sketch a lot." You tilt your head. "Surely you can find your way around the colors."

"If that's better."

"Got a preference? Watercolor, oil, gouache… acrylic?"

Arthur doesn't recognize the last one.

"I'm not offering you pastels or charcoal. They include some dust, and I'd rather die than let you breathe in something foreign into the lungs and undo all of the progress we've made concerning your lungs."

Arthur blinks again.

"Regular pencil?"

"You sure you don't want anything else?" You frown.

Arthur shakes his head.

"Just a pencil's fine, sunshine."

"Alright. I'll find you a sketchbook somewhere. Surely it's in one of my boxes."

You find it by the end of the day. You hand him a box of different pencils and the biggest sketchbook he's ever seen and tell him to "go ham". He does not know what that means. If anything, he assumes it means to go… he doesn't know. He won't bother trying to figure it out either. He spends his days curled up on the concerningly comfortable day bed you have, sketching down whatever stands out for the day. You let him go out with a bandana around his nose and mouth and sketch the plants if he wants to.

Arthur's not quite sure how to thank you.

"Focus on recovering." You tell him. "You can pay me back that way."

So Arthur sketches. He carries the heavy things when he notices you struggling — not that you ever do — and he tries his best with helping around the house. He picks up washing the dishes when you finish, grateful that he gets to eat what you do now. Roasted chicken, freshly baked bread, and beans with enough flavor to stand on their own. Bowls of rice alongside grilled pork, baked pies with berries fresh from your garden. He eats horrendously well, food flavored the way he could only assume was brought from somewhere that wasn't America. He doubts he'd ever had anything so good while camping.

"God." He mumbles. "Feels good t'be havin' proper food again."

"Oh, I bet." You hum. "Sure that porridge was driving you insane."

"Half the stuff y'feed me is new to me."

"Just trust that I won't poison you. I'm tryna speed up your recovery." You point a butter knife at him, and he hums.

"Can I have a slice of pie?"

"Thought you were gonna open your mouth and ask for a second slice."

"What berry's it today?"

"Boysen— raspberry."

"Boysen what now?"

"Boysenberry." You pause.

"'s that from where y'r from too?"

"Something like that." You huff. "Want a slice or not?"

"I'd like y'to shoot me if I ever say no."

"Well, can't be shooting a patient of mine." You hand him his plate, and he sighs.

"Heaven."

Arthur cleans the plates afterwards. He tries, at least. You tell him it's much easier if he just drops a couple of dollops of the liquid soap you have into the big pot you used to stew dinner and let the dishes sit inside with hot water for a couple minutes, but he insists on being the one to rinse them off after, even if it means he's still doing less work than you. He really wishes you'd let him cut up the animals for you so you don't need to be using that big cleaver of yours all the time, but you refuse to let him touch it.

He settles with letting his stomach rumble while he sketches on the cushions instead.

Some days he chooses to abandon the eraser and go in with his hands the way he used to smear the lead with his fingers to shade, but other days he feels bad for leaving silver imprints on the cushions, so he settles with the pencils, switching between them and using so much without sharpening the tips that everything looks softer on paper.

He frowns at it sometimes, but you always tell him you like the way they turn out, so he sticks with what he does.

Sometimes he shows you his sketches like a child showing their mother — apprehensively, asking if you like it. (He doesn't know why he does it) But you always do, a quick nod and grin enough for him to sit back into the cushion. He writes about it the same way he used to write about himself making a fool of himself in front of Mary.

Can't stop making a fool of myself in front of her. Really concerning. Don't think I've liked someone and acted this stupid in a while. But she makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I know this feeling, I just don't believe it.

But he tries. He really does try. He takes his medication you hand him an hour before dinner and sketches until he's certain he's drawn everything that he's allowed to look at in the house enough times to memorize. He wonders if he should ask if he's allowed in the rooms, but he'll save that for when you air out the house in a week or so. You air out the rooms when the wind isn't as strong and the autumn air brings only breeze, not heat.

You make him wear the bandana around his nose when you do. Tell him it's so none of the dust gets into his lungs during early treatment.

Some days he wonders if you're doing too much.

But other days, most days, the uncomfortable voice in his head curls around his throat and tells him that he enjoys it. That he deserves to be treated like this after trying to redeem himself. Isn't it just a showing of redemption? Isn't it the universe paying him back for the good deeds he did before he died? Isn't that just how it is? It's not true, he tells himself that. There is no paying back from the universe.

He suppresses the thoughts with each scratch of the pencil on paper, opting to watch you crack your neck before the stove instead. There's this churning affection for you that brews in his heart, rumbles in his soul. Like a pot threatening to spill over. It's hard to remember to keep everything in check. He doesn't deserve to love you, he doesn't think. There is no such thing as deserving or undeserving.

Still, he thinks over his time with Mary. They loved each other. He just didn't have the heart to settle down and roll over. Too young. Too brash. Too headstrong. He enjoyed the life of being an outlaw. Relished in the fear that some people would show whenever he towered over them. It's a life he was proud of in his youth, but now ashamed of. He would have done it different now that he's getting to the age.

"Say, Arthur." You support a basket of laundry on your hip, raising a brow at him. "You got any other clothes to change into?"

"Haven't had the time, I suppose." He glances at the clothes. "Why? They seem dirty to you?"

"Thought you might like changing clothes every now and then." You tilt your head. "What're your measurements? I can get you something when I'm in town."

"'m not sure, sunshine. I used t' just go in and try stuff on."

"Mm." You huff. "I could measure you?"

Arthur doesn't like the way that his blood runs south when you say that so casually.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You nod. "Well, not today. I'd have to measure you a little after a meal so your clothes aren't too tight. I could also just sew you some clothes myself and get that old sewing machine in my room running, but I don't know how good my clothes would be in comparison to an actual tailor."

"'m sure it'll be all fine." He hums. "Why not now?"

You point at the basket on your hip. "Taking this to the river to wash."

"Why t' the river?"

You frown at him. "Didn't wanna wash it over here. There's a river nearby… don't y' wash yer clothes in the river?"

He gives you an unimpressed look, and you frown.

"Can you take m' shirt while you're at it?"

"Yeah." You hold your hand out for it, and he unbuttons the shirt to hand to you.

He doesn't know what possesses him to do that.

The embarrassment comes immediately when you leave the house, and he hides his face in the cushion to breathe for a moment. Damn idiot making a fool of himself. He's nearing his forties and here he is, losing his damn mind over a caretaker. He really ought to get himself together once the TB's gone.

So he settles with writing in his journal. Sketches of you folded out of the sketchbook and into his journal. Tucked into the fraying leather.

Fool. A damn fool he is.

But the truth bleeds from deeper than his heart.

It's around four months into taking medication that he starts noticing that you stare into nothing a lot more often. You lose yourself in your mind, staring out the window when he washes dishes into the abyss. Some nights if he sleeps late enough he'll catch you on the porch, rocking slowly, staring out into the trees, over the horizon. It makes him wonder what's wrong.

You don't seem to want to stay.

Sometimes he catches you holed up in your room for so long that you forget about dinner.

He knocks on those nights, and you come out, telling him sorry, eyes puffy from crying, something simple made. You don't bother hiding the way the furniture changes slightly and the fireplace where you cook food isn't actually a fireplace. Arthur learns not to question it. There was a word he heard for it a long time ago. Melancholy.

It's in the tired eyes and exhausted soul.

You throw food into the oven and light it with a match, letting the food sit and lay on the day bed across from the one he sketches on, staring at the ceiling.

Some days you fall asleep and he takes out the food from the oven. He saves a slice of dinner for you, always.

Some days you eat it, some days you don't.

He learns to navigate the days when you're so deep in melancholy that you forget to eat. Some days you take a bite or two before you slip it into a cabinet that blows cool air on the food. Before you settle on the couch to watch Arthur sketch in his sketchbook.

Some days he wonders if home being far away means death.

How terrifying for his savior to yearn for something he wanted to flee.

But you never forget to portion his medication. You tell him what time of day to take the medication. Always on an empty stomach. You try staying conscious enough to make sure he's taken his medication, but other days you sit on the couch and stare into nothing. Then, you'll return to your old self, asking if he needs anything from town when you head down, asking if there's anything he wants to eat before you start preparing food.

He learns the cycle.

It doesn't have anything to do with when you bleed, he finds. Some days you're just more melancholic than others. On days that you are, he does the cutting and preparing of food, keeping an eye on the clock for when food would finish stewing. He learns to live with stews or pies on those days — no complaints. He makes use of the cabinet you have full of different spices. Doesn't taste as good as when you make it, but it still tastes better than the camp food he'd grown used to having.

Eventually you work out a spice measurement for him to use when you don't feel good enough to cook.

But you always make sure he has something to eat.

He asks you about it once.

"Y'wanna tell me what's goin' on with the melancholia?"

"Just melancholy." You hum. "Don't do well with it."

"Y'need sun or air? I can—"

"No, no, Mister Morgan. Don't you go out doin' nothin' necessary now." You sit up, thanking him as you take your plate. "It'll grow out once the weather passes."

It's almost always sunny when you're melancholic beyond saving.

Yet, you push on. You have to nurse him back to health, after all, you tell him.

He recognizes the look in your eye. He's seen it in people he knows. In people who are filled with so much melancholy that they can't breathe. That smoke themselves to their funeral. In the eyes of an artist who paints and paints until the melancholy takes their life. He wonders what's caused it in you, but he doesn't pry. He learns to fill in the parts that you need help with. He learns to watch you cook so he can make something that would have the same effect on you. If he cannot cure it, then he will try to help it.

Sometimes, in the gaps of the darkness, you talk to him.

"Arthur."

"Hm?"

"Y'ever loved someone?"

He pauses.

"Have."

"Will you tell me about her?"

"We were engaged." He thinks over his next words very carefully, but to no avail. "I loved her."

"'m sure you did. You wouldn't have gotten engaged otherwise." You stare out the window. "What was she like?"

Arthur joins you in staring out into the darkness this time.

"She… was everything."

You hum, going back to staring out into the abyss again.

The gloom does eventually leave bit by bit as the season comes to an end. You pick up cooking again and shoo Arthur out, replacing his pencils with a pack of optional charcoal, an easel brought in with huge canvases of paper. You tell him you're sorry that he had to see and take care of you during the melancholy when it should've been him being taken care of, so you pay him back with a small gift.

Your definition of small surprises Arthur.

But he still learns to read your moves. Sometimes, you still for a little longer than you ought to, and he takes over the cutting in the kitchen. You bring him the clothes you talked about a season ago, cheering when they all fit him perfectly. You never got his measurements. He supposes you just ended up guessing and got it all right. Yet, he still finds himself doing what he can to lighten the load off of you. He feels like you ought to have someone help you out as much as you can. The home only has the two of you, after all.

You call him pretty once.

He thinks you lied.

But he understands that feeling of helplessness. His death made it perfectly clear to him that it'd be impossible for him to ever redeem himself. That he was a helpless man, but oh, did seeing you struggle with even wanting to be alive strike him different. So similar yet so different from him. So, so similar yet different. You craved what he feared, and he feared what you craved.

Sometimes you let loose and bring back booze for the two of you to share.

You hold yourself well, but then the night gets too quiet and you hic and laugh.

Arthur thinks you sound like wind chimes when you laugh.

"Mister Morgan, you sure are a pretty old man." You hum, cheek pressed to your palm across the dinner table.

"Is that so?"

"Mhm."

"I never quite believe you, sunshine, but I thank y' anyway."

"Y' should learn to take a compliment. Won't hurt y' to." You hum, eyes closing and dozing off.

He carries you to the day bed, scared of entering your room, sliding off your shoes before he pulls a blanket over you.

Some nights he sits at the end to look at you a little longer — observe the way your hair falls over your face and the way you breathe. Like he has to remind himself that you're still alive. LIke he has to remind himself that you're still here. That the melancholy hasn't taken your life alongside your soul.

Taking care of you takes up so much of his mind that he stops wondering about himself. Always a good thing not to think too much about himself. He's getting to the age where he should be sure of things — not questioning them. Yet, he still questions himself. He's fond of you, besotted, even (read that somewhere in one of your books when he got bored), but he doesn't think he's the best for you. Maybe better to hurt both of you in the present rather than somewhere down the line. It would do him much better to do that than give you both false hope.

You deserve someone better than him, and he deserves… he deserves to suffer for the weight of his actions.

But it doesn't stop him from taking care of you. He presses calm hands to your shoulders to have you sit when you look visibly tired, and he eventually learns to settle you in bed because you sleep bad. It's visible in the bags under your eyes. Some nights you stay up staring out the window until you inevitably fall asleep again, head slamming into the wood, Arthur's hand meeting your skull halfway to stop your head from slamming into the table.

Some nights, you chat. Some nights, you don't.

He learns to understand it. Understand you.

You don't owe him anything, after all. His lungs feel much better with each passing day. You're a blessing even if you have your moments.

Arthur finds you standing out on the porch late in the night one evening. It's two past twelve, which means you probably couldn't sleep. You always struggle to sleep on some nights more than others. Maybe you're brooding again. You always have something to think about late at night. Strange, strange woman. Yet, he loves you— oh. He likes you. He loves you. How expected of an answer for him. He thinks he was trying to run from the answer too. Dishonest man. Horrible, horrible man, yet he loves you so.

You deserve better, though. So he opts for pretending he doesn't.

"Thinkin'?"

"You really ought t' stop filling in the gaps in my soul, Mister Morgan." You don't turn to look at him, staring out at the forest as Arthur steps next to you in the darkness.

"'m only tryin' to take care of y' the way you do me." He dips his hat gently, and you turn to look at him.

"'s easy for poor ol' weak-hearted me to think that you're only doing it out of love." You hum. "And that's not good for me."

"And why not?"

"'cause I'm falling for you."

There's a silence that Arthur isn't quite too sure how to fill in. His soul is too murky for him to tell you the truth. He likes you. Loves you, maybe. But he can't and shouldn't. There's nothing good that would come out of him telling you anything about his feelings. He shouldn't pay back the care you've given him with the truth that he had loved you probably longer than you've ever been falling for him. But you deserve someone better than him. You deserve a man who's good. A good, honest man. A man that Arthur isn't.

"Arthur. I know you love Mary, still." You seem to choose your words carefully, pinching your fingertips as Arthur frowns. "But I need you to understand that I cannot control my affections."

"Sunshine, I—"

"You don't need to feel bad for me." You hum. "I never expected reciprocation. I just wanted to tell you so you'd stop being so kind. I can take care of myself plenty fine, Mister Morgan. Just focus on taking the pills and getting better, hm? I'll send you off with enough money to purchase land in California or more North where no one can find you. You don't need to worry about me."

Arthur doesn't like how your words hurt him.

"Y'keep talkin' like y' don't plan on staying."

"Oh, well. I wasn't meant to stay this long, after all. I only stayed 'cause of you, Arthur. I ought to make sure my patients recover before I leave anyway."

The admittance of the truth seems to hurt him more.

"Sunshine."

"Don't go feelin' bad now, Mister Morgan. You're still plenty of a good man to me."

"And where you goin' back to?"

"…home, maybe."

"And where's home?'

"Somewhere no one else can go."

He doesn't like the distant look on your face.

He always thought you weren't from around. Frankly, he thought you were escaping from a life somewhere he didn't know. Always thought you were someone like him. Maybe he ought to get better at reading people again. You were never escaping anything. You had just settled down for a change of pace, maybe. Who knows. It could be a dead husband or wife. But it becomes apparent that you were never supposed to stay for as long as you are now. Sometimes he wonders if home is in the darkness you look into so often. He wonders if you mean darkness as home or someplace he really can't go as home.

"If that's… what you want."

"You ought to go find Mary once you recover. I'm sure she'll accept you with open arms, even if it takes a little warming up." You hum, dusting off your skirt. "Well, Mister Morgan. Quite the productive conversation we had there. I ought to rest for the night before the melancholy gets any louder."

You turn around, ready to retreat to bed, and Arthur moves before he can think of what to say to get you to stay.

"Look, sunshine. I ain't no good man, but somethin's tellin' me I shouldn't let y' walk away like this."

You look at him, tilting your head.

"If you feel bad, Mister, you really ought not to." You try to pry his hand from your wrist, frowning slightly when it stays. "You aren't obliged to love me back nor pay me. I'm the one who chose to save a dead man, after all."

"You've just done so much f'r me. I can't let you just leave without it. Listen to me talk, sunshine, won't you?"

"Was there somethin' you didn't tell me, Mister Morgan?"

"Just Arthur, please." He mumbles. "I will work through—"

"Oh, heavens. No, Arthur. I don't expect you to love me back one bit." You hum. "Might be easier for you to never develop affections for me at all."

He raises a brow at your words.

"Wh—"

"I'll send you off to where you'd like, get a nice plot of land for y' and then I can be off on my way home."

"Sun—"

"No need to fret, Arthur. 'm not a girl, y'know? I'm plenty older than I look." You laugh the same laugh you always do. "Who knows. Maybe you'll see Mary agai—"

Arthur can't help his next moves.

He has a hand holding your jaw, the frustration evident as he huffs.

"F'rgive me for what's next, sunshine."

And he kisses you.

Bastard move if he's one to be familiar with. He's surprised you don't bother pushing him off. If anything, you stay perfectly still, almost as though you were waiting for him to finish. Frustrates him to no end. Playing him like a fiddle. You woman. What a horrible, horrible man's hands you've fallen into.

His lips rest against the skin of your neck, careful to remember that he can't kiss you on the lips until he's all better. He'd do anything to make sure you don't get sick. Surely the saliva would be better than the blood, but he's still weary to make sure you are fine.

His stubble brushes against your skin when he rests his face in the crook of your neck, and he's scared to look at you. What kind of a face you are making, he wonders. He's so in love with you he could burst at the seams yet you never quite seem to believe that he's moved on. Oh, what does it take to convince you that he's not the same man he was when he died?

He does eventually pull away, eyes more sad than he cares to admit. You seem tired, now that he looks at you.

How stupid of him to think that he could ever deserve a second chance at love.

"I would've preferred y' just slapped me than looked at me like that."

"I just don't believe you love me, Arthur." You hum. "You clearly haven't moved on from Mary."

His heart hurts.

"I really have."

"But your heart wants something else." You turn from him, and Arthur stares as you disappear into your room.

He had a heart, because it was broken — but he still has his heart, because he just heard it crack with the thud of your door closing.

He doesn't know how to love properly. Too haunted by the people of his past. Too haunted by someone he knows has tried to move on from him. Even in his last moments, he hoped that Mary would be happy. Just plain happy. He wonders if he's happy now. He sure doesn't feel happy from the way his heart cracks in his chest. A broken heart twice. What a fool he is.

But he tries. He takes his meds like you instruct him to and he cleans the dishes even though it takes a while for him to learn how to get them all the way clean with the liquid soap. He tries and tries, filling his pages with things you did during the day and reminding himself of when you look most happy. There are enough sketches of you to fill a library, he thinks.

He hunts half past dawn and brings home the food, skinning and cleaning the animals, watching you cook them afterwards, heavy clang of your knife against the bones of his spoils. He learns to understand when you want something. Shift of weight from one foot to the other, pinch of fingers when you're scared to say something. Look on your face when you're alright with him showing any affection to you.

But you're also never scared.

You keep a gun on you when you go to town, haul back the supplies like they weigh nothing, and scold Arthur like he isn't taller than you and a bulk of muscle that would a send a man twice your size running off. It's awfully homey of you. Makes him remember his earlier entries about how he caught himself dreaming of retiring someplace nice with a wife. He's sure he wouldn't have believed himself a year ago if he had known it. Oh, he doesn't deserve you one bit.

He takes over the heavy labor bit by bit, fixing anything you needed fixed, hands returning to the rough state he was so used to. But you peel open. his hands at the end of the day, soak them in warm water, spread lotion on them like he's made of glass. Gentle, gentle touches for a man who hasn't known it since childhood. Tears and pulls out memories he didn't realize he had. It makes him soft on the inside — tears his heart out whilst healing it all the same.

But you grow warm towards him. You start kicking your legs over his in the comfort of a couch while the two of you watch the fireplace to wind down. He starts noticing the ax sharpened for use and his portions up to himself for deciding. You still feed him his medicine and make him rest in the living room, but you're softer around the edges. You're less tense around him. You look at him more fondly. He feels undeserving of it.

But he listens to what he wants. Learns the way you like things.

"Made y' tea." He sits down next to you on the couch, placing your mug on the table in the center as you scribble in your journal.

He unwinds with you after dinner with both of your journals, never asking the other what they're writing unless they bring it up.

Some nights he sketches you. Some nights he writes about how he feels and what he did.

Chopped up more firewood today. Takes quite a bit to heat the cabin, and Sunshine doesn't seem very concerned about us running out, but it's the least I could do. I've been getting softer these days. She feeds me too well, but also my heart. She makes me want a live I have no business trying to live, but I also cannot go back to my old life. This is a second chance, I am just scare to take it. Maybe I make myself a fool all the time. Can't remember the last time I did that over a woman that wasn't Mary.

There's a sketch of the fireplace next to his entry. Brick upon brick, sketched out gently with the pencil he uses and sharpens with his blade. You had gone ahead and fixed up his things when he got them back — specifically his knife.

It's been over half a year. By technicality, he shouldn't need to take anymore meds, but he's only a few days away from the end of his cycle, apparently. You had told him he needs to take more since the TB hadn't gone away completely, and some days he really ought to ask you how you'd be able to see it, but he learns not to ask. Better not to know sometimes. Probably better that he doesn't know.

"The new meds are working." You hum. "Checked last night when you fell asleep. They're mostly fixed. They don't seem to be fighting the meds either."

"And how long until I can stop taking them?"

"Gonna be a while." You hum. "Another three months?"

He grimaces.

"The disease needs to be completely eradicated before you can stop taking the meds. You're just lucky it isn't antibiotic resistant." You hand him two pills.

"Anti what resistant?" He takes them, taking the water that follows to swallow them.

Arthur watches you purse your lips to think over how exactly to explain it to him, trying to ignore the nasty taste of the pills left in his mouth.

"The pills fight the TB. The pills are called antibiotics." You pause. "New medical research. Kind of risky, but a lot let risky than when my ma had to take them."

"Kills the TB?"

"Kills. Well, kind of. You've been taking two different kinds of pills to kill the TB." You pause to think. "The TB is strong, so it actually takes the two different medication to kill it off cleanly. It's a little weird since it actually has this layer over the disease itself, so in order to kill the disease you have to chip off the outer later."

"Sunshine yer talkin' a lot of big words right now."

"You need to continue treatment because it's not dead." You conclude. "None of those were big words."

"I know." He grins, lips curling upwards on one end coyly as you sigh.

"Look at you learnin' jokes now."

Arthur laughs when you turn around, and you huff.

"I really ought to give you a lil more space for all the art, huh?" You glance at his little corner — stained sheets and wood. You probably hadn't expected Arthur to pick up charcoal as fast as he did.

Well, he didn't have much else to do. You let him out to wander but not do too much strenuous activity, and you only let him do the heavy labor if you're watching. He wonders if he ought to do it shirtless so he'd elicit a reaction out of you. You seem to be a little more cautious around him since confessing that you weren't very fond of him treating you so kindly. He didn't think he had been doing anything different, but maybe you just operated on a different level of expectation from people you don't know.

Not that he hadn't had any strange intentions towards you, but he keeps them to himself for the most part because of the TB. Can't go infecting you with the disease. He wouldn't know how to fix you. At least you know how to fix him.

Still undeserving of it, but he has no choice. There isn't anything else he can do. He has to learn to accept it, he supposes. You've done so much for him anyway. He feels like he really ought to pay you back somehow. He's been painting scenes that he can still recall from the sketches of his journal, and he's been hiding a painting of you behind the other two paintings out of embarrassment. Sometimes the lead gets a little stuck between his fingerprints, so he wipes them off on one of the cloths you'd given him.

There is a lot of darkness in his paintings. The forest outside your home is shaded with plenty of black thanks to the winter. Most of the trees have lost their leaves, which leaves him with an immense need for more charcoal. He wonders if you ever tire of bringing him materials back from the store. He can't quite pay you like he ought to, but he doesn't want to take your generosity for granted either.

He wonders if he should find a library to learn how to find lead naturally. Surely the rocks outside could create some sort of pigment. Maybe even the clay. It bothers him a little, but he doesn't ask you for more lead when he finishes. He just mixes some dirt on some days to create pigment.

As a result, his drawings don't exactly color match when he tries, but he makes do with what he can.

You frame some of the sketches around the house. Some go into the study you have — books that Arthur won't touch unless you say he can. But he also dusts the house when you're not home. You trust that he'll listen well enough, the coughing much better now, though you insist on him finishing the final round of medicine. He wonders if you'll leave after the three months. You're always talking about moving. He wonders if he'd be able to go with you, but from the way you talk about it, he feels like he has no space in it.

He doesn't quite want you to leave.

He doesn't think he does, at least. He knows he doesn't want you to leave. If anything, he's certain that he'd like you to stay. You've given him a slight glimpse of a life he used to crave the older he got, only to consider moving away. He's not allowed nice things, but he can dream.

And you're just so patient with him he feels unworthy.

"You're a good man, Arthur Morgan." You hum, kicking your legs from the dinner table as he washes the dishes.

"I can hardly believe that, sunshine."

"Then you don't have to. Let me do all the believing for you."

"Hard to believe you when I don't even know y'r name." He looks over at you again, and you hum, laughing.

"Alright."

Your name tastes sweet against his tongue, clinging to his heart and seeping into his soul even when you go to bed and he lays awake in his. Oh, your name. He knows your name now. It fills his heart with warmth and rushes his cheeks with red, embarrassment horrible for his poor heart. He's acting such a fool over you that you could probably ask him for his life and he'd offer it to you.

Old good for nothing man and here he is, fighting for his life because of you.

But his heart warms and he calls you by name when he remembers too. Feels too intimate some days. It's like you're doing it on purpose to bait him into intimacy. The illusion of a good life eludes him. He doesn't deserve it with so much blood on his hands. He knows he never would've changed if he hadn't been diagnosed with TB. The acknowledgement is enough to kill him.

He's not a good man, despite it all.

He takes his medication when you tell him to, when the clock tells him to, and when he naps, he wakes up and you tell him how his lungs are recovering. His lungs are better, you tell him. It's almost gone. The medication is just killing the final bits of his illness. You show him photos sometimes. Black and white, of the way his lungs look. Holes in his lungs, but they're regenerating, you tell him. You show him older photos you had taken.

On those days, he wonders if you're a witch of some kind.

But no point in wondering you are. He's grateful for you. He hunts and brings back food now that you let him and skins the animals, learning from you how to dry age them so that they last longer.

The deer he hunts lasts the two of you two weeks.

"God I'm sick of chewing on that meat, bro." You grumble, stabbing at the deer on your plate. "I need chili oil."

Arthur isn't quite sure what that is, but when you come back with enough spices to fry the whole room into hot tears, he thinks he kind of understands. You abandon the oven in the house to start a fire outside, bricks set up and a giant fire set under a large… pot? It resembles a bowl more, but he doesn't ask when you ask him to hand you a bunch of the ingredients.

The steam it emits causes a raised brow from him, but you push on, coming out with a jar of red oil.

"This is chili oil." You point at Arthur. "Wait, can you even handle spice?"

Arthur tries, pursing his lips and deciding that he wouldn't risk his system losing it over the oil.

"Y'can have it with y'r meat. I'll lay off on it f'r the time being."

The snicker you try to hide doesn't escape him, and you mumble something under your breath about cowboys and no spice tolerance.

He doesn't get that luxury when he's constantly on the run. He's gotten so used to bland food that eating what you were serving him started feeling like a luxury. He's getting used to it, which he isn't too fond of, but he enjoys it. He's just much more apprehensive about everything else. But it's easy with you. You make it easy for him. So, so kind. So sweet.

Sunshine made chili oil today. Too spicy for me. Tongue is still a little numb. She seemed to like it, though. Wonder if I should try it again.

But he learns to hunt slightly smaller animals after that. You tell him what days you're going to the butcher for a slab of beef so he doesn't go out, and on other days you tell him to hunt small. You're still mildly traumatized from having the same animal for two weeks straight, but you don't bring it up anymore. Arthur learns to avoid hunting deer after that. You're not fond of it very much. You think the meat is too tough to chew on. He sees it in the way you grimace when the meat makes way past your throat.

Arthur's still a guest at the end of the day, really. So you clear out the study and make space for his bed, letting him rest in the room now that he's better and his tuberculosis isn't threatening to kill him at every cough. It's been a while since then, but he gets to read all of the literature you have hiding in the room. There's lots and lots to uncover, and he finds himself very quickly entertained and mildly concerned for the books that sit in your library. Most of them are hand bound — seen in the way they don't sit perfect, but he reads them nonetheless. Fishes out one of your dictionaries when he finds words that don't exist.

He wonders if that's what you're into, but it helps him pass time alongside the sketching with charcoal. He starts sketching some of the characters in your books, finding ones that share his name, staring at the quickly filling book of charcoal and imagination. Your portrait remains half finished, though, tucked behind his other portraits. He shades old friends into existence sometimes. The one of John haunts him the most. He wonders if he ever did right with the ring he gave him.

Three weeks after he starts reading, he finds books with dates in them.

Dates from the future — couple hundred years into the future. He wonders if they're any different, but he reads them. He had suspected it already, and it seems that you've stopped bothering to hide it. Maybe you feel safe enough to no longer need to hide it. Or, maybe you don't care if he finds it anymore. Maybe you trust him enough to learn it and not tell anyone. Maybe no one would believe him if you really do leave anyway. Maybe you just don't care anymore.

But he reads through your books, learning new words, finding his own way with words. The education that escaped him comes back at his old age. Yet, he finds maybe it isn't too late anyway. There's no harm in wanting to read the books you read and the literature you've saved. There's no harm in learning now that he has the time to sit down and really read.

He learns to ask the question "when" instead of "where" when you bring up home after reading some of your books.

"When? Oh, heavens. God knows when." You huff. "I don't like what the answer's supposed to be, but I sure do like the traveling."

Arthur nods, going back to his book on the day bed, kicking his feet over the other.

"What year, then?"

You tap your chin. "Whatever year the machine takes me."

He wonders if the home is an extension of the building he's staying in. Maybe that's why you're so desperate to chase him off the lawn of your home. Maybe you want to go home... wherever that is.

Two months after that, you show him a photo of healthy lungs. He doesn't understand it, but he keeps the photo to sketch into his canvas. A large pair of lungs with slight scars, but healed all the way. Healed like the bullet in his shoulder and scars from his youth. You tell him he's healthy now. He exhales and thanks you for your effort. You tell him it's all thanks to his listening.

"You did good." You beam at him. "You're all free to go out and wander at night now."

He's just glad he doesn't need to take medication anymore.

Arthur steps out for the night air. He's all better now. The air is crisp in his lungs. Packs a nice chill to it, and he glances around the cabin he'd been getting taken care of in. It's just a cabin. Something else is happening in it, in your room, but he wasn't the type of guest to try and pry something you didn't want to share out of you. So simple. So easy. You're so simple and easy. One hell of a woman when it came to it, but you stood by your word and kept on it.

He felt like he was pushing on you half the time that you'd lie across him in the drawing room, but you never spoke up. You seemed to speak up when you minded. You'd never backed down from putting him in his place when he'd step out of line. Sometimes he likes the feeling of your weight on top of him in the daybed by the fireplace. Sometimes he enjoys the company. He's grown a little more honest with himself. It's easier to be honest in the dark at night.

He wanders through the forest. It's quite silent, but it doesn't scare him. You'd handed him his gun in case he wanted to take a wander. He could always play off the fact that he was a ghost if he were dead. Just wander around and take a look around town. He doubts anyone should remember his face too hard unless they knew him. His wanted posters always featured a little beard or stubble. He's completely growing a beard these days — much to your woe. You seemed to like him when he has a little texture and not a full beard.

Besides, some of the wrinkles on his face have lightened up because you keep smearing all sorts of oils and lotions on him. He does admit, he looks less roughed up than when you first found him. He ought to thank you for it.

So he sets out to take a look. The nearest town wasn't too far of a walk, and he's sure to stop at his grave before he passes. The number of flowers on it surprises him. He never thought himself to be a particularly good man, yet so many people seem to think him that way. It warms the soul. It reminds him that he had tried when he found out he was sick. In a way it was punishment — to beat a sick man to death. Retribution — if it ever did exist. But he's alive. Saved, and alive. Makes him wonder what he ought to do next.

Maybe if he begs you hard enough, you'll stay and not leave.

He stops at the edge of town, looking through the trees as he watches the people run up and about. It feels strange to see everything when he's supposed to be dead. He was supposed to die on that cliff. He wasn't supposed to be saved by the likes of you. Mary's words ring in his head often. There's a good man inside of him, but he's wrestling with a giant. The giant wins too much. He tries to take care of you. He wonders if he's only hurting you some days.

Some days you have this distant look in your eyes again like you're gonna slip through his fingers and he won't be able to save you.

Like you're not really anchored in the sea, just drifting here and there.

An unanchored soul that drives him insane.

He gets ready to leave when he spots her.

Head of dark hair, orbs of black for eyes.

Mary.

His heart stumbles in his chest when she turns around and spots him, and time stills. He stops. As beautiful as the day he lost her, he thinks. He never showed up, so he has no right to be staring at her like this, and his heart cries. His heart begs and begs, a reminder that there is someone who he loves and loves him back up at the top of the mountain, but he cannot help himself. He stares at her, eyes tired, and she looks at him, eyes wide with tears of fright or joy, he cannot tell. He knows that his heart races out of habit, not affection. That much, he is sure of. He wants to reach out and comfort her out of habit, not love. He's moved on.

But he cannot cut her off cleanly. Oh, he knows. Even now, he wants to help her carry her luggage and tell her he's sorry for abandoning her where he promised he'd show up. There is a good man in him, but the giant is no longer there, so he has no more need to fight. It is so heartbreaking, he thinks. But it is alright. This would be more than enough for him to move on. Just to see that she was alright. He wonders what she's in town for.

"Arthur? Oh, Arthur!"

And Arthur turns around, walks off and then runs off, boots sinking into soft dirt, his name lost in the forest when he finally makes his way back to the cabin. She wouldn't chase him, no. He would have chased her, but she's no longer his. He's no longer hers either. He hasn't been for a long time. Maybe he's clean.

For the first time in a while, Arthur's chest feels lighter.

"Oh, you're back." You look up from dinner, and he glances at the plate you grabbed but didn't fill. "I was expecting you to stay longer."

"No, no." He hums. "Just went to get a glimpse of town."

"Well, how was it?"

"Feels weird bein' dead." He hums, portioning his own plate. "But was the same. Feels strange not bein' on edge anymore."

"See anyone you know? The flowers at your grave have been replaced as of late."

He thinks of Mary, but he doesn't talk of her. He doesn't want to hurt you. Besides, he didn't do anything.

"No. Just ordinary folk livin' an ordinary life."

"That's good." You hum, lips curling into a small smile. "I ought to go down sometime. We need some supplies."

"Y'need me to go with?'

"Oh, no. I'm plenty fine on my own." You hum. "Better if you keep guard. What if we get robbed?"

"I don't think anyone's robbin' you all the way up at the peak of the mountain, sunshine."

"Yeah, yeah. Stay back. I'll handle going to town. I don't know how many people still remember you. It's a problem." You hum. "Oh, and stay home during the day. Don't want your visitors to know you're still alive."

"Yes, Miss." He nods.

"Gotten real polite now, huh?"

"Maybe." He hums, smug like a cat, even.

You laugh, smile unable to be fought off of your face. There's an acceptance on your face, like you've accepted that this is how you ought to live for the next few months of your life, even if he's all better and you seem to be spending more time in your room than you typically do. Well, he won't be one to pry. You're up to whatever you're up to, after all. As long as you'll stay. As long as he has you.

But he's grown fonder of you. Always has been. He's sure it isn't just the gratefulness of being saved anymore. Everything about you has become habit to him. His soul aches for yours when you're out for too long in the day and when you're holed up in your room and only come out to cook for the two of you. Oh, he's beyond redemption, he fears. This is beyond redemption.

You head down to town the next day, instructing him on where the guns are and what to do in case there's an intruder.

"No pulling the trigger unless they pull first." You pause to tap your chin. "And, well. Let's try to avoid killing a man in the house. At least I don't have to see blood if it's on the porch."

"Any other instructions?"

"I take the shotgun with me to town." You hum. "So I sure hope you have good aim, Mister Morgan."

He nods.

"Best in town."

"Best in the East, even?"

"No one's better." He tips his hat.

You set down to town by foot. He wonders if he should find a horse for the two of you to head down to town with, but that would come once you're back. He might have to teach you how to ride a horse. For the time being, he sits with the canvases and charcoal, thumb smeared with black as he keeps the gun close. He isn't paranoid about intruders, no. He's had his fair share of gunfights before his death. No, he's more concerned that either of you would actually have to scrub out blood if he really does shoot off an intruder's head.

You've probably got things that could sell a fortune around in the home.

Reminds him of Marko Dragic.

Oh, right. The man's dead.

It's half past dawn, past noon, when he hears the sound of three horses outside the door. The sun's starting to set, and it's a good time to try to grasp the chance to rob someone. He knows that. It's better in the saloons at night, but it's better at sunset for the homes. It's usually when people are the least armed. Though, he's got more experience than them, so he rises from his seat, portrait of you half-finished as he stalks to the door with the revolver in his hand.

The men fire two bullets into the air, and Arthur doesn't move from his spot, instead, staying at the door.

Arthur holds the gun in his hand, hand on the door as he watches for the shadows through the cracks.

It'd be much easier to subdue the men if they were off the porch. You hate cleaning that rotten thing, and more blood would kill him. He's not against cleaning off the blood. He's used to it, but he'd also rather not blow someone's head off and leave you with a dead body at the door to greet you instead of him. You might scream. You haven't ever said anything about dead people, so he'd rather not take the risk. You said no blood in the house. He'll just clean the blood if he has to.

The sound of a shotgun has him pulling open the door, and he finds you and two dead men, the third falling to his ass while backing up into the door, falling onto Arthur's legs instead.

"Oh, there you are!" You pipe up. "I was worried you'd gotten yourself shot another time. You alright, dear?"

Arthur doesn't quite think he's gotten shot during the time that the two of you have been living together, but he doesn't say anything.

"Yes." He hums, glancing down at the man.

"I'm sure gonna have a swell time cleaning the porch." You huff, pointing the gun at the third. "I'm wondering if I should let this one run away to warn everyone else. A maniac lives in the woods with a ghost."

The man looks up at Arthur and near shits himself.

"A-Arthur M-M—"

"Hm, I get that a lot." He scratches his chin. "But that man's dead, y'know? A dead man can't be all the way up 'ere catchin' y' stumble."

The man scrambles the second you lower your shotgun, fleeing down the hills as you whistle.

"Man's got less balls than I thought he would."

Arthur can kind of guess what that means.

"Y'alright?" He raises a brow at you, and you tilt your head at him.

"Ah, yeah." You hum. "Not my first roadkill."

Arthur furrows his brows at the word. No clue.

"I can clean the porch."

"Oh, don't worry about it." You push him back inside, shotgun slung on your back again. "I'll get it cleaned right now. I have the supplies. Can you chop up dinner for us? I bought you a razor blade, by the way. As nice as a beard would look on you, I think I'd shit myself if I saw you in the dark with a full beard and a hat on one more time."

He takes the paper bag from your hand and settles with listening to you.

He doesn't hear much rustling outside, but the sound a whirl, and then the sound of metal, and when you're back in the room and he's finished cutting everything up, you look like you barely broke a sweat. Probably one of those strange moments of yours. He's never quite sure why you don't look tired after cleaning or anything else.

He tries not to think too hard about what you do. He's more focused on trying to convince you that he's not leaving.

"You know. I heard from one of the folks down in town that someone's selling land in California." You hum, starting the fire for the oven.

"'s that so?"

"Could get you that land, help y' settle in, and then I'll be off on my way."

"Sunshine."

He's starting to believe that you're ignoring his pleads on purpose.

"Unless y'want land in the new plot the country stole from Mexico." You hum. "Nah, too much law enforcement. California's nice this time of year."

"Sunshine." He tries again.

"We can ride on west? Oh, well we'd need horses, but we could just—"

"Sunshine." He grabs your shoulders to turn you around, frustration evident in his voice. "Listen t'me."

"Hm?"

"As long as y'r here, I am not going anywhere." He deadpans. "'m yours."

"Oh, that's mighty flattering, Arthur, but—"

"No, no." He cuts you off. "'m a wanted and dead man. My bounty's more than anythin' else in the area. I have nowhere else. I'm not escapin' to California if y' don't go with me."

"Arthur, I'm hardly necessary."

"No. Non-negotiable. If y'r gonna throw me som'where new, y'r comin' with me." He squeezes your hand. "None of that "off on my way" if I can help it."

You blink at him, looking away.

"That'd be funny." You glance at the fire. "You should shave after dinner. The beard is really botherin' me."

"Y'need me to get water?"

"No, no. The bath is full." You hum. "Got one of those fancy heaters they sell in Pennsylvania too, so take all your time."

You're still not entirely sure how they somehow invented hot water heaters before running water, but you don't ask. You are in the land of cowboys and outlaws, after all. The period will fall soon. That much you know. Soon, the lifestyle will fade and towns will start popping up more as people settle down. Well, not that you'll witness it.

Arthur helps you lift dinner to the table, portioning both of your plates as the two of you sit down.

He wonders if you've made up your heart.

"Why're you so set on goin' home anyway?"

"Well, Mister Morgan. Some of us crave the predictability of the same life over and over again." You hum, stabbing into the chicken. "Some of us crave instability that is predictable."

Arthur frowns.

But he understands. He understands what you mean. The outlaw life was glittering to him at first because it was never the same. Never the same trick. Never the same heist. The unpredictability meant everything to his young outlaw mind. So, so much. Everything meant so much to him until it killed him.

"Don't wan' t' settle down?" He raises a brow.

"Mm, it'd be nice, but I don't know how. I don't know who either, haha." You scoop at the rice. "Who'd I even settle down with?"

Arthur wants to say him. He craves it, bones rumbling gently in his skin, soul heavy with an exhaustion only settling down could fix. Wants you real bad. Wants you horribly bad. The same kind of ache that he felt when he received the letter from Mary before he died. Oh, Mary. Oh, Arthur. Long gone are the days of marrying her. Now he dreams of living the rest of his days with you like this — small cabin, comfortable days. This is all his soul yearns for now.

He's still not quite sure where you're getting the money to sustain everything, but he learns not to ask.

Arthur shaves in the bath, glancing at himself in the mirror as he feels at his skin, staring quietly. He looks younger.

He writes in his journal that night.

Miss keeps talking about going home these days. Like she wants me to settle down and then she can be on her merry way off to God knows where. Don't know where she wants to go. Still don't know where her home is, but I've started calling the cabin home. This is home to me. It's a real shame she doesn't quite want to stay as much as I do. I wonder if I'll be less of a burden and take her up on the offer to move to California. She mentioned Marston might be there.

But it's real scary. I don't want her to leave. Like her too much. Acting like too much of a fool around her. She's just wonderful. I think. I like her more than I should. Love her, even. But she doesn't want to stay, and I'm just a rotten old man beyond saving, so it's not like I can keep her.

Saw Mary in town two nights ago. She called my name. I didn't look back. Maybe I did love her, but not anymore. Sunshine takes up all of my mind. Too much of my mind. Oh, what a man I am.

He resists the urge to write your initial next to his in a heart, but ultimately gives in. He whispers your name like it's forbidden. Like there's so much yet so little. He falls asleep to the thought of your name next to his, to the thought of his last name clicked to yours like an extension of his love. Not as an extension of him this time. If anything, he'd want to be an extension of you.

The first of the month comes, and you tell Arthur you're going to check out his grave and see if the flowers need any watering since it was dry season. You take a basket with you, stepping through the dirt and mud as Arthur lets you know he might wander in the woods to hunt for the day.

"Just don't get any blood on my porch." You hum. "I put the shotgun back. I doubt I'll need a gun when visiting a grave."

He sends you off with the revolver anyway.

The animals in the woods are scarcely hunted, now that he thinks about it. You seem to always come back with a cut of pork or beef when there weren't many ranches in the area. He wonders if it has to do with the butcher down in town, but you don't go to town as much anyway. Either way, he decides to hunt. You don't like deer meat, and there aren't many bears to hunt in the time being, so he wonders if he should go and find some rabbits to trap.

You might wince and make him skin the rabbit, though.

He wonders if you'll find anything at his grave. You mentioned that you found ruined letters when you first set up the grave, but the rain from the night had ruined the paper. He wonders who they were from. Well, not that it matters. He's dead, and he ought to stay that way. The ghost of his past shouldn't be let to haunt him since, well, anyway. A dead man is a dead man. What is there to let haunt him when the dead man is living?

He brings home three rabbits. He eats more than you, but it's enough to feed both of you til you both are full. He skins it so you don't need to. He wonders if you're uncomfortable with skinning a rabbit like you are with any other younger animal. It's like you can tell or know. It's always like you know.

When it strikes noon, he decides that he'll just roast the dinner over the fire today.

There's a glow coming from behind your door, but he ignores it. You'll probably take care of it when you return.

But you're missing for a while today. You return four past noon, basket full of flowers, berries, and a couple letters, setting them on the table in the drawing room, humming to yourself gently as you glance at the lunch Arthur cooked, nodding.

"Let me wash up first." You smile. "I'll heat up the food in the oven when I come out."

Arthur nods, settling on the chaise longue and opening his journal to write, humming to himself as he tries to sketch the rabbit he saw from memory. The sun is half down and starting to set, now that he notices. He wonders if you were cleaning his grave, even. Maybe you were. Or maybe you bumped into someone you knew on your way down. Some of the villagers would hike up to hunt every now and then. He had to avoid a few when out today.

"Hey." You scrunch your hair with the towel, sun half set as you hum. "Oh, you didn't touch the basket."

He looks up from his journal. "Wasn't sure if that was from my grave or not."

"Well, the basket is used for the stuff around your grave, so." You rummage through it, fishing out a letter. "See anything fun in the woods today?"

"No."

"I saw quite a couple of visitors. Everyone seems to visit you on the first." You head over to wash the bowl of berries you picked, rinsing them with the water from the bucket. "You sure you didn't see anyone?"

"Well, avoided some villagers, but nothin' else."

"There was a woman with a letter." You hum quietly, towel sitting around your neck. "Left where your grave was set up."

"From who?"

You feed him a berry and hand the letter to him, lips curled into a tight smile, nodding as he looks at its sender.

"You still have the chance to chase after her, you know? Your lungs are all healed now an' stuff. If she's still writing to you after all this time she must really be struggling with letting go." You pinch at your fingers again. "She's staying nearby in the town for a month or so. Asked her where she was staying. I told her I may visit her with a friend, but not to get her hopes up. I don't think she ever moved on."

Arthur notes the worried look in your eye. Your door glows too. Like a reminder. It glows like the campfire in the old camp, slow shimmering around the metal when he stares too hard. But he knows it's not something that you could explain without showing him. It's something part of your world — something that he wasn't a part of.

You make the indication of moving, and his hand finds your wrist instinctively.

But by god does he want to be part of that too.

"I won't." He croaks, reading through her letter to him, thumb brushing over your wrist as he does, squeezing once he finishes, putting the letter down. "It's been over for a long time. She wrote to me so she would feel better. She is mourning a dead man. I've been dead, sweet'eart."

You look tired against the glow of the fireplace.

"I'm yours." He squeezes your wrist as he says it, heart shaking in his chest. "As long as you'll have me. I ain't touchin' anyone from my past as long as you'll have me."

"I don't know if I should."

"Oh, darlin'." He mumbles, staring up at you. "There's never any pressure. 'm yours even if y' leave me. But just know that 'm only ever gon' be yours."

"I don't think that's a healthy way to love, Mister Morgan." You hum. "Heavens knows if you're over Mary."

"I am." He whispers, pressing your hand to his forehead. "Oh, believe me, sweet'eart, I am. I'd be a dead man if I wasn't. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

"She told me she saw you in town a few days back when she first arrived. She needed to check to see if your grave was still here." You hum. "Asked who I was. Told her I'm the one who found you. It wasn't really a lie. I am the one who found you, after all."

"I saw her in town when I went out couple nights ago." He whispers. "Was looking in the woods and saw her. She saw me too. Called my name, and I had to pretend I didn't know it."

"You should've run to her." You whisper. "You're not sick anymore."

"Oh, sunshine. I couldn't." His voice shakes. He can feel his heart rattle in his chest. He knows the painful tug of his heart when you came back with a letter in your hand and a pained look on your face was not over whatever he thought it was. He just didn't like seeing that pained look on your face. He never wants to see it again. Oh, his poor neglected heart. "This poor bastard of a man couldn't leave you. 'm so in love with you I don't recognize myself."

"That's not good."

Arthur watches the upset smile on your face spread.

"It would've done you good. I may return home soon."

"'s that what's of the glowin' from your room? And the books fr'm a year I don't know?"

You hesitate, furrowing your brows and closing your eyes, shaking lightly.

"I s'ppose it's got to do with how y' don't talk like the folks around here." His voice is softer now. He doesn't want to scare you too much. He can't force you to stay, but you have to go knowing that he loves you. Not loved.

"Ah. You…"

"'s hard not to." He hums. "Y' stopped after the first han'ful of weeks."

"It's hard to remember to need to do that." You sit down next to Arthur, resting your head on his shoulder as he puts the letter to the side.

"So y' gonna tell me?"

"Will you be mad if I don't?"

"No." Arthur hums. "You're entitled to your secrets."

"It won't matter anymore in the future anyway. I'm considering what to do with it." You squeeze his hand. "It's to help me get home, but considering I have a liability now, I can't quite return like this."

"Home where?"

"Home somewhere you can't go."

Arthur knows there's more that you won't tell him, but he doesn't pry.

He spreads his legs a little so you can kick both of yours over one of his thighs, and he lets you make yourself comfy against him as he gives you his hand to play with.

"'m not from this time." You mumble quietly. "But 's alright. I don't know if I wanna go back anyway. But I just think you'll go—"

"No, no, sweetheart." He rasps, squeezing your hand. "God, 'm a no good for nothin' but by god do I want you to stay."

"I just. Don't know." You whisper. "I'm scared."

"I'll be here always. Won't die on you again. Even if I do, you'd find a way to fix me right up." He lowers his head to meet your eye, and he whispers the last part. "Love you. I love you. I've been loving you."

It feels like a confession of sin, the way it breaks past his lips, but oh, he doesn't care anymore.

"You really do?"

"I do." He presses his forehead to yours. "And if people come lookin' for you from that universe f'r you, I'll shoot them all dead. 'm an old man with bloody hands. A little more red on stained hands means nothin' to me."

You crack a smile at his words, humming. "They can't find me here."

"Yeah?"

"Not in my universe. They lose people when they leave their universe." You squeeze his hand, eyes tired as he tilts his head to get a better look at you. "So technically I'm not retrievable. I get to stay if I want."

"Then please stay. Please, please stay." He begs you like a prayer, and he thinks this is the closest he'll ever get to understanding why religious men beg to god. He's never needed you to stay so bad. "Keep this old bastard of a man. Please."

"We're similar ages, Arthur." You laugh. "I only look younger because of the technology we have. You'd look like me if you were using half of the stuff I was."

"'s have to do with all the fancy liquids in the bath?"

"Yeah." You rest your head on his chest, closing your eyes as you hum. "I'll see. I always knew I would. I didn't get why everyone else wanted to, but I suppose it kind of makes sense."

"So you'll stay?"

"Of course." You whisper, eyes closed. "Always. Always and always."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

And Arthur stares. Stares real hard at the way your lashes flutter and you stare at the fireplace. So, so much. Maps out the way your nose sits on your face and the color of your eyes. Stares hard and tries to remember. No doubt he'd been sketching pages upon pages of just you, but you look wonderful all the same. He's had plenty of time to take in how you look and how you act. A wonderful bundle of sun placed in a cabin he couldn't ever dream of calling home. Makes him want to settle down with you. A long died out fire rekindling because he loves someone again. You look the same as he knows you do. You stopped fluctuating between youth and maturity forever ago, but he loves you regardless of how you look.

The question comes out before he can rationalize or think it through.

"Shall I get you a ring? Or are we t'be companions 'stead of lovers?"

You gasp, horrified. "Arthur Morgan, is that any way t' propose to a woman?"

"Suppose not." He laughs when you puff your cheeks and feign annoyance. "'m yours whether or not you'll have me. This big, ol' bad man."

"Well, I do believe that I ought to accept your proposal, Mister Morgan. You seemed to have redeemed yourself in my eyes at the very least. It'll take a while to convince me you really do love me, but I suppose I shouldn't hold it over your head. However, that really isn't any way to propose to a lady."

"'f course. Though, I ought to do the theatrics of it all."

He lifts your legs off of his, and he presses a knee to the ground.

"I'll bring you a ring once the sun rises. This poor ol' bastard of a man is all yours, sunshine. 'm yours to use until 'm no longer useful." He mumbles, taking your hand and rubbing circles into your ring finger. "'ll spend the rest of my life convincin' you that I love you, even if y' never believe me."

"Oh, you awful old man." You huff, resting your forehead against his. "I don't need to use you, Arthur. My body works just fine."

"I'll do it so y'don't have to." He mumbles. "Let me. Need to show you I love you."

"Then please let me take care of you too." You push his head up and tilt your head, body relaxing as he meets you halfway for a kiss.

"Of course." He mumbles back, lips finding yours again to press his hands down on your waist, skin soft against his hand as he sighs into the kiss, melting into you. It's safe in your arms, and your skin is soft against his hands. He's safe now. Long gone are the days of living to help someone else. He has you to help just as much as he'll help you.

When he parts from your lips, he can't help the laugh that tumbles from his lips, rumbling in his chest as you huff.

"What?"

"Don't know how I got so damn lucky."

"Well don't you go thinkin' that now." You huff. "You ought to spoil me rotten after all the heartbreak you put me through."

"Mm, whatever the missus wants." He hums. "Whatev'r y'want."

"Just want you." You mumble. "'s all."

"Oh, silly woman. You already have me."

"Then that's enough."

"y'sure you don't want anythin' else?"

"'m happy with just you."

"So simple."

"'s why you should spoil me more." He watches you fight the coy smile that makes way on your face, and he shakes his head.

"Anythin' for m' girl." He mumbles, brushing his nose along your jaw. "m' pretty, pretty girl."

"Oh, Arthur, you flirt." You huff, warm to the tips of your ears.

"If it helps me get what I wan'"

"Which would be?"

"The missus all happy." He hums, resting his face on your chest as he looks up at you. "All pretty no matter what. Even in such a scandalous chemise fresh out the bath."

He laughs when you close your eyes in embarrassment.

"Yer a grown ass man nearin' his forties and you're here playin' coy like you're 17." You pinch the bridge of your nose, and Arthur laughs.

"'s long as it keeps you entertained."

You give in, looking down at Arthur as you brush your thumb against the stubble on his chin.

"You're an awful, awful man, Mister Morgan."

"Your awful, awful husband, Missus Morgan."

"Oh, you sly bastard—"

but you don't complain when Arthur slides up to kiss you again, body pressed to yours as he angles your face to fit his perfectly.

Arthur's perfectly content where he is now.

Maybe the universe abandoned him so he could find you.

He doesn't know.

He finds your hand to slide his fingers through yours, and he opens his mouth to look at your ring finger.

"What are you doing?"

He slides the finger past his teeth, biting down hard, earning a jolt from you, but he keeps your finger between his teeth, only letting go when he's sure the marks will stay.

"Oh, you horrible, horrible—"

Arthur's never been a religious man.

He doesn't speak, biting down on his own ring finger instead, letting go once the mark will stay.

But by god, is he a lucky man to have you after so long.

"But I'm your horrible, horrible husband now, darlin'." He shows you the teeth marks on his finger, and you huff, pulling him in for a kiss.

He fights himself through the kisses with you, tongue licking a stripe up your neck, nipping gently at your jaw and listening to the way your breath catches in your chest. His, all his now. All better so he can show you just how much his soul bleeds for yours, all better so he can press pretty kisses to your lips and leave them puffy and wet with both your spit.

He trails down eventually, knees hitting the rug beneath the couches as he looks up at you, lovesick with an emotion he didn't think his head could spin with.

"What a goddamn fool I am." He grunts, holding you close as you shake in his arms, one hand sprawled on your stomach while the other holds your thigh up. "Runnin' in my mind when I could've been here lovin' you. Oh, you angel."

And he bites, nips, marks, teeth pressing into the plush of your thigh as he gets higher and higher, eventually finding his breath painfully close to where his mouth is practically watering to be.

"Seems awfully modern." He hooks a finger under the fabric of your panties to pull.

"Ah, the 80s? 90s? 's not from—" You're not quite sure anymore.

Arthur pulls them off of one leg, letting the other dangle off of as he presses his tongue flat against your pussy, low hum of content rattling through his throat.

Your legs struggle around him, but he forces them open with his hands, nose brushing against your clit as he eats you out, spit and slick smearing over his chin as he relishes in the way you squirm. Sends his head spinning. He can't remember the last time he had gone down on a woman with a heart so full. Oh, the gentle glow of your skin from the fireplace. He could stop to immortalize you forever in pencil, but he'd be much more content in the present.

"Ah, Arthur. 'm so— so—" You gasp, curling forward and digging your fingers into his hair. The sting only serves to drive him further, if anything.

So he continues, freeing a hand to thumb at your clit, letting your heel dig into the back of his shoulder as you finally cum, head thrown back and voice breaking mid-moan. He doesn't stop, continuing to work at you with his tongue, thumb still circling your clit as you cry, leg going straight and then giving out over his shoulder, dangling as he wipes at the cum on his chin with his fingers, licking his fingers clean afterwards.

"Y're so, lovely, sweet'eart." He groans, removing himself from between your thighs to press a gentle kiss to your ankle as he cages over you. "Y'want the bed?"

"Oh, Mister Morgan, if you don't fuck me proper in the next minute—"

He presses a thumb to your clit once more, earning a break in your voice and a smug smile on his lips, and you gasp.

"You awful man."

"Your awful husband, Missus Morgan." He calls with all too much affection, sliding himself along you to help with lubrication, equal mirth and affection in his eyes as he pushes himself in gently.

"Ugh, awful, awful—" You throw your head back, gasping as Arthur nudges a particular spot inside of you.

"What was that?"

You whimper as he pushes further into you, exhaling when he finally bottoms out.

"I s'ppose you're not a big man for nothing." You heave.

"You always this vocal during intercourse?" He raises a brow as he pants, holding your hips down as you squirm.

"Only when the man won't stop being an ass—"

Arthur moves, slowly, like he's relishing in the way you squirm and whimper under him, head thrown back and hands reaching for his forearms, nails digging in as the sting of it goes to his head. Oh, you wonderful, wonderful woman. How awfully lucky of a man he's got to be to get to hold you like this. He whispers your name into the night air like it's a prayer — chanting, singing, begging. You've got him wrapped around your finger without ever trying.

You pant under him, arms reaching to hide your face as he pries them from your face, one hand holding your wrists in place as the other presses down on where he is inside, and your body tenses as you gush around him, no previous warning, your breathing labored as you close your eyes, mouth open to try and catch your breath. He guides you through the orgasm, thumb circling on your clit and body stilling as you clench around him.

"Ah, Arthur. Can't— can't no— no more." You heave.

"Oh, darlin'… let me do all the work." He whispers, pulling your arms over his shoulder.

Arthur drinks up every sound that you let escape, quiet gasps and pants filling the empty air whenever he thrusts particularly hard. It's music to his ears if he's ever heard anything. The sound of the squelch from thrusting drives him insane — goes straight down, and he presses open mouthed kisses to the plush of your skin, sucking and nipping until he can feel himself growing out of breath. You clench around him like a vice, hot and tight around him. He's so lost in you he fears he's never going to quite love like this ever again.

When you cum, you gush around him with a broken moan, nails digging into his shoulders as he curses, spilling his load into you without a second thought. God. He presses his forehead to yours as he rides out both of your highs, lips pressed to yours gently, sweat and saliva tasted all at once, flavor of the berries from earlier tangy on his tongue. Oh, how he loves you so. It makes him stupid with something. Dumb until he can't think no more.

A foolish, foolish man, is Arthur.

And the way you shake fills his chest with something unfamiliar to his heart.

"Stay." He whispers.

For what? He does not know.

But he hopes you do.

He's sure you do.

"For you? Always." You press a kiss to the crinkle in the corner of his eye, and his heart is full.

"Always." He whispers it back like a promise.

and this promise, he keeps.

#hi... here's my offering to the fandom after falling in love with arthur...#also shout out to ink for beta reading this ♡(˃͈ દ ˂͈ ༶ )!!#arthur morgan x reader #☾.fics #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 #reader insert #arthur morgan #rdr2 #god i sure hope this doesn't flop

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crsssie · 11 days ago

Text

break the sky (let the water fall)

word count: 12k || banner art by xyzkissu

summary: PR stunt be dammed, you two sure can drive || F1 AU

No one prepares you for what to do when your childhood friend suddenly comes back from racing and winning his fourth world driver's championship.

For starters, you kick Caleb in the back of his knees so that he kneels for losing contact with you when he promised he wouldn't, and he's stuck tailing behind you like a poor lost puppy the entire time he's back to celebrate the new year with the family. You don't care if he's a world-renowned F1 driver, this man was still the bane of your existence and the punk who used to place your plates in the highest cabinet so you'd call him to help.

Your families get a good laugh out of it, but you shoot them an unhappy frown whenever grandma laughs a little too hard for your likeness.

You've grown disdainful for her over the years, but you suppose that's also from Caleb's influence. She had only come back because it was the new year and you insisted that Caleb at least say hi to her. Saying hi did not entail bringing her home, but you suppose that's one way to celebrate. You would've done fine with Caleb video calling in from his nice apartment in Skyhaven, but you can't really be picky. At least not when Caleb had the decency to take a train down to Linkon for you both.

But that makes no sense out of context, you think. Nothing does, after all.

You have Caleb kneel on a keyboard as he whines about it, and you huff at him.

"Bad."

"It was two months…"

"Who's the freak who said it wouldn't be out any longer than necessary?!"

"Hey, you were busy with F2 anyway! Oh, congrats on the new contract, by the way." Caleb reaches for you, to which you dodge, and he lands on his palms as he groans.

"You're awful. My knees hurt. Pips, won't you let me up?"

You grimace at him, and he shuts up, pouting as he kneels.

Grandma had been kind — to you, at least. She'd been cruel to Caleb to have him race in extreme situations since he was young, which was why he had adapted so well and flown all the way up to F1 from F4 while you had to progress slowly one by one. Grandma had been one hell of a driver herself, so it's no surprise that she would end up forcing you both — excuse you, you meant coerce the two of you into F1 as well. Caleb had flown through karting while you had followed closely behind, and ultimately, the only change in your relationship had been when Caleb had been offered an immediate seat to DAA in F1 as a main driver while you had trailed shortly behind.

Your new contract came from UNI-CORN. Not as great of a team, but still capable of placing well if you were good enough of a driver. Xavier, their other driver, was an example, after all — called Lumiere because he seemed to fly fast like light. If you remember right, Zayne was in Akso as an engineer, so at least it wasn't a completely foreign ground. Besides, you had raced alongside the majority of the current team, so it was only sooner or later that you'd find yourself on the grid. You really want to kick Rafayel's ass, now that you think of it. You miss going neck to neck with him in F3. He'd joined F2 faster than you did, and by the time you caught up, he was already in F1. You don't want to know if the rest of the flying would kill you, but you're not too keen on it either.

"Pips, can I—"

"Have you learned your lesson?"

"I'm sorry for going no contact.."

"And?"

"I'll introduce you to my friends on the grid?"

"I feel like I should be surprised that not all of you are super close."

"A handful of us are, but not really otherwise. We're all respectful of one another." Caleb mumbles, blinking up at you through his lashes as he manages his best pout.

"Anyways, did you bring—"

"Yes, yes. I did. I'm hurt you'd use me to get Sylus' signature, but nonetheless—"

You snag the signed photocard from Caleb, and you screech. Caleb makes the dramatics of covering his ears and craning his neck while you cheer, and you think you hear Josephine yell for you to quiet down on the other side, but you don't care. Oh, you're in heaven. You're never peaking like this— well, incorrect. You'll peak like this in less than two months. You'd probably get to see Sylus all the time on the grid since he was in charge of the Onychinus team. His two drivers were quite the troublesome pair on the grid, but you wouldn't know. You'd only hear. You raced them for a brief period in time in F2, but they'd been picked up and signed before you were. You don't know. It's hard to understand these days. You just hope no one chooses violence against you.

But that's not a problem you really need to deal with, so you settle with making dumplings with Caleb while Josephine watches Caleb's previous races and tells him if he's made any mistakes. You block out her voice, only listening when your name is called. F2 doesn't look as nice on the cameras, after all.

Josephine's never had anything to say about your races because both you and Caleb know that she can think of you in no wrong light. You could do no wrong ever in her eyes. Though, the realization of the favoritism is enough to keep you tied to Caleb rather than her. You're glad you're self-aware enough about your circumstances to not be swayed easily.

Caleb places down the plate of dumplings as he heads over to wheel Josephine to the table, and you finish setting the chopsticks down.

At least you'd get to fly in with Caleb.

Caleb flies in with you to the UK and sends you off to the drivers who come to escort you before leaving with his own team, and as much as you hate it when he babies you, you're not exactly known to say no to him. So, you bump fists with him really quickly before letting him head off on the train.

You learn a handful of things in pre-season testing — for one, you find out that as much as you hated it when Josephine would make you train with Caleb in the rain, it's a miracle you're able to drive somewhat smoothly. You don't fear for your life since accidents are so much rarer, but you still try to stay on the conservative side for your first handful of races. For starters, you meet your race engineer, Jenna, and your strategy engineer, Nero. You also meet Tara, who's your performance engineer. Your entire team is a little on the newer side outside of Jenna, so you learn to get along with everyone.

"I've studied up on how you drive." Jenna's the first to speak when you're left with your new team, and you nod slowly as she coughs. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. You drive in line with what we're used to, so don't worry all that much. Though, we will admit that your races back in F4 when you were alongside your… Caleb, were a little bit foreign to us. Do you always drive recklessly with him around?"

"No. We were both pretty young back then." You pause slowly. "I can drive safely and let Lu— Xavier, pass if needed. Just let me know. I need to get used to the car before i drive it around too much."

"Yes. It'd be best if we don't try anything too reckless. You need to show results and stay on the grid. For the time being, it's best to just get points for UNI-CORN."

You nod slowly. "How about once my contract is permanent?"

"Then you can drive however you'd like then."

"And if I place?"

"In the rare case that you do, then you'll be fine. Your contract states that you need to land podium once in order to be permanent."

You nod slowly.

You give UNI-CORN one race. You race moderately well in the first race, placing seventh in total, beaming when you end up praised at the next engineer meeting. It's all you really need. You need to start tame enough — paint the illusion that you're a somewhat safe driver. Sure, you aren't as reckless as Caleb, but you're also Josephine's student, so your driving really can't be that safe. It's annoying, if anything.

"You did good for your first race. I'm impressed that you held onto P7 the whole time." Xavier offers.

"Thank you! It was alright." You laugh, scratching your cheek as he nods.

"But it seems slightly different from how you usually race."

"I was told to lay low for the first race." You pause. "First couple of races. Jenna says she sees potential, but she doesn't want to burn me out too fast in the first handful of races."

"Understandable." He pauses. "Though, I'd argue you could aim to try to climb."

"Yeah?"

"Senior's instinct."

"Yes, old man."

Xavier pretends to be hurt, only turning when his race engineer calls for him.

"If you place higher than me in Linkon, I'll treat you to dinner."

"What if I don't want dinner?"

"Then what would you want?"

"Introduce me to the rest of the grid?"

"I'll host a small dinner with Caleb if you win… as rare as that is. As incentive."

You nod enthusiastically, beaming as he waves.

You tell Jenna you're going to try to aim higher in the next race, and when the big boss gives the green to go, you're brimming with excitement at quali. You're bustling with energy as you start Q1, stepping on the gas as you swing through the circuit you spent the vast majority of your life racing on, stealing fastest lap out of all the rookies. You wonder if it'll work the same, and you tell the engineers if there are any problems with the car — you find none, but you'd like for the water to be removed to have a little less weight. You insist you won't drink it, and you lighten your weight as much as you can before a race as a result.

In Q3, you step on the gas as you have Jenna keep tabs on your fastest time, and only when you end up in P5 do you even consider getting off the track. You'd like to place higher, but considering that Xavier was Q4, the team had you retire a little earlier. Despite your protests, they had you off the circuit before you could even think too hard. Xavier is their main driver, after all.

You spent the night sulking in your hotel and scribbling at the circuit, trying to write down everything you remember from when Josephine would take you to the track on rainy days so you would be able to learn at least one track that feels embedded into your soul. It's your chance to prove yourself right, but you're also not fortunate when it comes to things the team wants. You're obviously someone who's only here to provide points for the team so that Xavier can focus on racing a little more recklessly, but that's not really his style from what you've learned from rewatching races. He's more for bursts of energy, and while you chew at your bottom lip in the room, the knock on the door doesn't go unnoticed.

"Who is it?"

"Just me."

You open the door as you yank Caleb in, and he takes a look at the mess of your room, closing his eyes.

"Sorry. Haven't had time to clean yet. I wanted to go home, but they insisted that I keep my body on edge. I get to stay for a handful of days, though."

"I know." Caleb hums. "Mind if I crash for a bit? They gave me two days. We're debriefing here and they're giving me a handful of extra days since our next race in is in Japan."

"Yeah. My apartment, though."

"Are you watching Xavier's races?"

"Yeah. Shouldn't you not be fraternizing with the enemy right now?"

"No enemy or such. You're my pips for the time being. So? What have you learned?"

"I've learned that Xavier is highly unpredictable and I don't want to break my car."

"Drive a little more recklessly." Caleb hums. "I heard you bet with him."

"How'd you find out?"

"Word gets around fast with four of us on the grid." He pauses. "You know how there's a F1 big five?"

"Yeah. What was it? You, Xavier, Rafayel, Sylus, and Zayne. I'm still surprised Sylus hasn't sent the twins after you so fast."

"He considered it, but he wanted to observe how you race in case you were a threat."

"I'm not that, well known." You huff.

"But you've been highly anticipated. Rafayel insists that you're a scary racer when you lock in."

You laugh at the use of the word, noting the time as you choke.

"OUt, Out, out! Caleb, I need to sleep well tonight."

"Alright, alright." He hums. "Would you be down for our pre-race ritual?"

"Would they let me?"

"I'll go find your car before I get in." He nods. "Sleep well."

You admit that it is the only part of your pre-race ritual that hasn't been done in some time.

You brief with the team in the morning about the car and the race, and you offer input from your previous times on the track. Jenna understands, and she lets you know she'll handle the rest as you're sent to the car to stretch and get the installation lap in, getting used to driving. You like the car without the water tank a lot better, and you're almost glad UNI-CORN listened to your request.

You're wheeled out to the grid, and you hop out of the car as you check the car with your engineers, helmet in your hand as you breathe slowly to try and calm yourself down.

When you're done making sure the car is alright with your team, you step back onto the grid to stretch your fingers some more and get your legs stretched out. You kick twice on the right, twice on the left, and you shake out the nerves with an easy jump. You listen to the weather and decide that you'd start on mediums and then change to hards if you needed to, and when it's nearing the end, you notice a new shadow by you.

"Hey."

"Caleb." You breathe, exhaling as you notice him.

He tilts his head to the side, and you take a quick walk with Caleb around the cars as the two of you stay in silence.

"Nervous?"

"A little. But it's also Linkon, so not really. "

"Our home base, really."

"Yeah."

"You wanna bet?"

"I can't be running two at the same time."

"This one's a personal one."

"Alright. What's the bet?"

"I'll pay for dinner and all the takeout this week that we're here if you overtake me once in the race."

"You'll pay for takeout anyway."

"I'll take you out for a day."

"You'll do that anyway."

"I do everything for you, huh?"

"Yeah. It's kind of your thing, gege."

"Hm… I'll cook the entire time that we're in your apartment."

"Oh, fuck, say less." You gawk at him, stopping in your tracks as he hums.

"I'll pay for groceries too."

"Oh, you want me to overtake you so bad."

"I do. I like seeing you succeed, pips." He hums, holding his helmet out.

You grin, wiggling your brows at him as you bump helmets with him before you both go your own ways to clip the helmets over your heads. Also, the grid clears as you throw your head back to stare at the clouds, only looking when you hear the sound of the countdown. You keep an eye on the five red lights, counting to start, stepping on the gas as you notice the black.

Jenna's voice is smooth in your ear as you swing as in as you can for the corner, overtaking Xavier as you try and squeeze past Rafayel. You fail, though forced to brake when he forces you to. You're certain it's the decade-long beef for the two of you, but you don't pry too hard and try not to think about it as you keep ahead of Xavier. On lap twenty-nine, Jenna's voice rings back on the radio.

"Team wants you behind Xavier."

"Not happening."

You tune out Jenna for the rest of the lap, squeezing past Rafayel on the third turn as you chase after Caleb by the tail. You think he notices in the way that he speeds up, but you follow him on his tail as you grumble. You don't think too hard when you're fighting Caleb for his position, and you think you're mildly aware of what's going on when Rafayel's closer behind you according to Jenna, but you're still stubborn and bitter over childhood issues. You think Rafayel would implode if he knew that you had two bets on the track, so you would actually go tooth and nail with him, but it's fine. It's fine.

You squeeze past Caleb with an inch of your life to spare, and you take the chance to fly forward.

"Jenna, what lap am I on?"

"Lap forty six. Ten more laps. P1."

"Thanks."

You step on the gas as you focus on gaining speed in front of the other two cars, and you leave Rafayel to fight Caleb for P2, letting Jenna count you down to the finale, and you grimace at the mirrors as Caleb catches up. You try to swing him off on a turn but he bites on, gritting your teeth as you try to gain more speed. By technicality, you should be lighter than him, but he's also a driver with more years of experience than you can count on one hand, so maybe you're a little ambitious for trying to place first and keep him behind you.

You end up on your final lap as you stick right next to, listening to Jenna as you ask if you can push the car. It doesn't matter, though. You think it'd be much easier if you could just see all the statistics, but you're not lucky to that extent. Whatever. You'll focus on trying to stay ahead instead.

Stupid of you, to be honest, but you're also known for being stupidly ambitious, so when you drive parallel to him on the final straight in the stretch, Caleb somehow manages to go side to side with you, holding your breath as the announcers discuss who had won, taking your cooldown lap as you drive your car in for inspections, holding your breath as you get off, staring at Jenna as she shrugs.

A perfect tie.

Which, you realize in retrospect sounds as impossible as it probably is, so you wait as they discuss who finished first.

Caleb steps next to you as he bumps helmets with you to finish the race, and the two of you wait for the results.

Caleb beat you by a thousandth of a second.

You throw your hands into your face as you groan, and you're mildly aware of Caleb laughing on the side, and you sink to the ground to sulk for a moment. It doesn't last, though, the realization of placing P2 settling in as you break into a laugh that hurts your chest from the adrenaline. Unfortunate for you, but a testament to your ability. Second race of your first season in F1, and you're placing P2 alongside the best drivers in the world. You're sure most of the better drivers are warming up and didn't expect you to be able to give chase as well as you did in the final ten laps of the race.

Rafayel places P3, joining the two of you after hopping off the car for a quick chat before podium.

"You're still as scary as always." He huffs. "I didn't feel like chasing as much today, but man, are you both scary. Thomas kept telling me to push, but Caleb looked like he was ready to knock your wing off."

"I wouldn't do that to her."

"Close enough." You mumble, shuddering. "I really thought I was going to bump tires at him on that final straight. I can't believe it was a thousandth of a second. I'm making you kneel on the keyboard when we get home."

"Pips."

"I'd pay money for a video of that." Rafayel snickers, dodging as Caleb raises a hand to hit him.

"Hey, don't hit him."

"Yeah, Caleb!"

"Don't push your luck." Caleb huffs, holding his helmet out. "I might just throw some extra peppercorn in your bowl later."

"HEY!"

You bump helmets with Caleb to seal the end of the race, and you turn find the media and go to the interview.

"Congrats." Xavier manages a final word before you're whisked off to the conference, and you breathe slowly again to try and calm the racing heart. "Not easy."

"Yeah. At least I'm permanent now."

"Of course."

There isn't much to talk about when the media swarms you, but there is to some extent. You're swarmed with questions about your relationship with Caleb, to which Caleb takes over and reminds the reporters to stay on track. You didn't need him to do it for you, but you also appreciate that it means you don't need to ruin your decent PR run so far. You need to be wonderful — perfectly mild and likable like Xavier. Your team isn't exactly known for something too much or too violent, so maybe it was a bad move on your part to not listen to Jenna. At least you didn't eat shit.

You play with your fingers under the table, and at one point the questions become less about the race and more about your personal life. They seem much more interested in you as a person rather than Caleb's win. Like a fresh piece of meat dangled in a well of lions. Unfortunate for you, you suppose, but it's not the point.

"We hear you and Caleb have a pre-race ritual. Would you—"

"I fail to see how this is relevant to the discussion about the race." You offer a smile, shutting down all other questions regarding your personal life. It's not new, you'd faced it multiple times in F2, but they just get worse and worse as you climb higher and higher. People want to know about your relationship with Caleb. They want to know your relationship with everyone on the grid. It's still rare enough that you're on the grid as a woman. Maybe you'll end up dating someone — that made you throw up in your mouth a little. Sure, the grid has the most lethal face cards you've seen in a hot minute, but you think you'd have to settle down a little before you can consider dating anyone. Besides, you think Caleb would throw you off a cliff for it. Well. Not you. He'd probably kill whoever you were dating.

Xavier owes you a dinner, though.

Caleb offers up your apartment, and six of you skip the afterparty in favor of sitting in your apartment as Caleb cooks dinner.

"You're really mean, you know? Overtaking me and forcing me to brake." Rafayel huffs, kicking your leg as you pout.

"Shouldn't have braked then."

"Tsk. All of you rookies and not fearing death."

"You sound like an old man."

"Mm. You would have been able to overtake here, but you were too wide." Zayne pauses the replay as you stare with Rafayel, and Rafayel throws his hands up in resignation.

"Zayne, how much do I have to pay you to get you to UNI-CORN?"

"Too much. Akso pays me well."

"Akso treats their drivers well too." Caleb calls from the kitchen island. "They're the most human of the bunch."

"I can't believe they made you sign a contract that forces you to stay with DAA for like four years." You groan.

"Not much they can do without it. They dragged him out of F4, after all. They'd like to think that Caleb's in debt to them." Sylus pauses the TV and nods at Caleb. "Let's go eat."

"What's for dinner?" Xavier mumbles, tossing your blanket to the side as Zayne folds it.

"Hot pot. One spicy one non-spicy." Caleb nods. "No serving chopsticks. This apartment isn't equipped for it. It's only ever me or her here."

"Can I get a spare key—"

"No." Caleb shoos. "Come on. We can chat while we eat."

"Rafayel, you did disappointing."

"All I do is get bullied. God forbid I be everyone's favorite and the grid's favorite."

"Oh, the struggle." You feign a faint, back of your hand pressed to your forehead as Caleb gives you a look.

"Alright, little miss dramatic. Let's get you your food." He sets down your rice first, handing you your chopsticks as you flip the thicker end to start putting the food in the pot.

"Dietary restrictions, anyone?"

"No. Put whatever you want." Sylus takes the rice next, and Caleb places everyone else's rice down.

"Can we put on music?"

"Xiao Mi! Music, please."

"I can't imagine having to clean up."

"It's fine. They'll clean up after themselves." Caleb waves his hand. "I promise."

"You give me the impression that this isn't your first time eating as a group."

"It used to be the two of us." Zayne checks the meat, pulling it out and placing a piece on your rice. "And then Caleb made friends, and it expanded."

"Is this what you used to send me photos of?"

"Yeah." Caleb grins. "Now you're part of it."

"What if I just exploded."

"That's my thing."

"You know, I'm surprised your car hasn't blown up yet."

"Hey, not nice."

"I can't believe you got your ass kicked by a rookie."

"Hey."

"Kind of deserved."

"My fault for offering to cook for the week that we'd be here."

"Listen, I'd overtake you in the race any day for a home cooked meal."

"I mean, surely one of us has got to take home a WDC this year."

"I want one."

"Better start grinding."

"On—"

"Don't finish that sentence."

"As long as it's not Caleb."

"Hey, I think I deserve another one, thank you very much."

"I want one…"

"As long as it isn't Sylus. I think seven is more than enough."

"Lucky for you guys, I'm not on the grid this year."

"But the twins are here to terrorize us on the tracks? I think not."

"You'll do fine against them."

You make dessert after, bringing out a plate of egg tarts as everyone digs in, back to debriefing on the race. Zayne breaks down everyone's driving according to the video, and you can't help but wonder if he's even allowed to do this. Sure, he's close with you all, but you can't help but think that there's got to be some kind of a rule against this. Well, nothing that the team knows. What they don't know can't hurt them. You're just glad you're not racing against whoever Sylus was up against in his earlier years. It's a miracle that he was as good as he was.

You're given input from Zayne as you note that down for the morning debrief, and Caleb shoos everyone out of the door when it hits eleven.

"'m not sharing a bed tonight."

"You'll end up in mine anyway." Caleb tilts his head with a grin, and you grumble.

"Or you'll end up in mine." You yawn, shaking your head. "Sleep well."

"You too."

You think you sleep too well, waking up to a mess of limbs and Caleb's alarm, his arm thrown around your waist with a confused look on your face as you wake up, tucking yourself into Caleb's chest with a grumble as he reaches to the bedstand to check the time.

You think maybe you should be questioning what in God's name you are when it comes to Caleb, but you're also stubborn as hell, so you'd rather he say it than you. You don't mind not knowing. If anything, you find it infinitely hilarious that Caleb's just doing this with you as if the two of you aren't grown ass humans. As long as he doesn't mind being stuck with you for the rest of his life, you suppose. The amount of blackmail you have on him should be studied — although you'd argue that he probably has the same amount if not more. Awful for you, truly, but you really couldn't argue against it.

Caleb eventually peels you off of him as you groan, hanging off the edge of the bed as he nudges your wrist with his foot, earning a squeal from you and eventually getting you to sit up.

"I'll make congee for breakfast. Be sure to hop on your zoom call on time."

"Oh, fuck." You groan. "My head hurts."

"You barely drank last night."

"I'm kidding." You frown. "Water—"

"Nightstand. Your laptop's set up on your desk. I'll bring breakfast when I finish making it. For the time being, there's some apples on your desk." Caleb counts on his fingers. "Anything else, pips?"

"Caleb, I am never letting you get married."

"Not even to you?"

You pause, blinking slowly. "Okay, well. We'll cross that bridge when we get there."

He shrugs, letting you freshen up in the bathroom as he goes to make breakfast. You think you could get used to it on the one hand, but on the other you wonder just how much longer this arrangement is going to work. Surely you shouldn't be sleeping with the… well, Caleb isn't an enemy, but you are fraternizing with the freak who insists to take care of everything for you, so you can't help but wonder if this is going to come back to bite you in the ass eventually.

Hopefully it doesn't. You quite like being pampered like a spoiled brat.

You debrief with your team on the zoom call, taking the bowl of congee from Caleb when he places it down, and he shuts his door to get to his own debrief. You understand not to bother him when he debriefs with his team, so when your painstakingly long meeting finally ends, you find yourself in the kitchen rummaging through the shelves to see if you have any leftover instant noodles from the last time you were in the house. Sometimes Caleb eats it, though, so you pray the one you had taken the time to hide in the lowest corner of the house is still there.

You don't notice Caleb walk up behind you.

"What'cha digging for?"

You ignore him, pulling out a pack of ramen from the back.

"This."

"I was wondering where the last two packs went last time I was here." He fishes them from your hands, and you make a sound of protest. "I'll make it."

"I wanted instant noodles…"

"I won't add veggies. I didn't have time to buy any yesterday anyway. Those punks ate everything. Even the veggies. I'm honestly impressed." Caleb checks the fridge as you settle on one of the high chairs. "They never finish the veggies. One pretty girl and suddenly they know how to behave."

You pout at him, and he ruffles your hair as he pops open the water jug.

"What do you mean?"

"Staking my claim."

"On me?"

"Who else?"

"Um, I don't know. I never thought you'd be the type to think about that."

"'m still a man, pips." Caleb puts the pot over the fire, covered as he starts on the ramen.

"I want an egg."

"I know." He hums. "Two eggs sound good?"

"One egg…"

"You'll end up stealing mine anyway."

You look away while whistling, scratching your cheek as Caleb shakes his head.

"You want spam?"

"Oh, my god. You're letting me have spam?"

"Josephine isn't around."

You nod. "And I want the peanut butter base."

"That I can't work with. Your sauces are mostly expired."

You groan, resting your head in your hands. "I'm just like grandma."

"Mhm." He checks and takes the jars out, scraping them clean as he rinses. "And I still save the glass jars for something we'll never need."

"Put a matcha in the lao gan ma." You point. "Post it on pinterest."

"You have a vision I'm not willing to execute. You also don't have matcha. Or milk. I didn't buy milk yesterday after the race. Too tired."

"We were both stuck at the interviews, huh?"

"Yeah." Caleb hums. "You be down for shopping for groceries later?"

"Yeah. Isn't there a Lianhua downstairs?"

"Hm. Yeah. I was going to haggle at the market."

"Oh… I want to watch you charm all the old ladies."

"Sounds good." Caleb checks the time, turning off the fire as he tilts his head at you. "Change. Let's go right now."

"It's so early."

"Exactly why we should go right now." Caleb checks his phone. "Come on. Let's not keep all of those aunties waiting."

Caleb pulls up to the farmers market in a tank and shorts, looking as local as he can manage — which, in retrospect isn't super hard to do, and he charms his way around the aunties with that smile and a promise to visit their granddaughters, eventually collecting enough food for the rest of the three days. Enough for seven meals. He has to account for the fact that you'll inevitably beg him to have kfc at one point and maybe even drag him for more milk tea than he can count on one hand. You are not kind to your salary. At least you make enough for it now. Well, not that he'd let you pay.

"Oh, your meimei is so cute! Is she single? I'm looking for someone for my son."

You laugh, shaking your head.

"Nooo, auntie." Caleb feigns a pout, and you watch as his arms tighten up and veins start showing. "I have to hand pick my meimei's husband. I couldn't possibly let her be set up by anyone except for me."

"Oh, you'd love him. He races, you know?" She winks.

"Ooh, F1? Or does he drive cars?"

"F1!" She beams. "Big boy. Silver hair. Used to race but owns a team now. You know? Like a F1 team CEO."

You meet eyes with Caleb as he nods slowly.

"Sylus?"

"Sh! I told him I wouldn't sit here and try to get him a girlfriend anymore, but you know." She waves. "You're a real pretty girl. He's been single for so long…"

You laugh, pinching Caleb where she can't see as his shoulders sink. Too hostile.

A familiar tuft of silver appears from behind her, and Caleb purses his lips in amusement.

"Ma. I told you—"

You meet eyes with Sylus while trying to hold back a laugh, and he pauses.

"Ah. Pleased to see you again."

"I'm glad we're all on the same page." You laugh. "Thank you, auntie, but I think I'd get fired if I tried to date someone on the track."

She shakes her head. "Keep him in mind, though."

"A yi, are you going to keep us here and try to whisk my beloved meimei away, or are we going to get veggies?"

Sylus steps in, flashing his phone at Caleb before speaking up. "I'll make them free if you host me for dinner."

"Oh—"

"No." Caleb flashes a smile with too much teeth, and you laugh on the side, sinking into a squat as Caleb scans the wechat qr. "No more home cooked meals for you this season."

"Oh, that's just mean." Sylus rolls his eyes. "I thought you loved me."

Caleb squats down to throw you over his shoulder, and he walks off as you laugh, whole body shaking.

Sylus manages a wave with a smirk before Caleb's setting you down in the car, and you meet eyes with him.

"What?"

You burst into laughter, kicking as Caleb sets the groceries down in the backseat.

"You're so funny when you're jealous."

"I don't like it when they try to sell their sons to you. He's got to at least be better than me."

"Isn't Sylus great?"

"Don't."

You press a hand to his forearm, and he turns to look at you.

"You're still the best."

"Damn right I am."

You go back to laughing, ignoring the way Caleb most certainly rolls his eyes when you're not looking.

Your next handful of races are a lot better than people expected you to do. You place second again, and then third behind Caleb once, first another time, and eventually it becomes painfully obvious that despite Onychinus' point advantage, you and Caleb were neck to neck behind him, and with the improvements being built into your car, you think you'll be speeding into first place eventually. Caleb's been taking back first place more often, though you give him a good run for his money as you snag a handful of first places from him. You're a little concerned that you're placing podium so easily, but you try not to think too hard about it. Especially not when it places you on everyone's radar for an ideal F1 team. It's enough to be good — you think.

The interviews don't get any less relentless, though. You're grilled for everything you've ever done, and at one point you start giving thumbs down at people when you don't want to answer a question. Your PR team gave up on you. Let the woman on the track be a little manic as a treat. God forbid a girl have hobbies.

They give up, eventually. It comes as a double-edged sword, though, as people start asking Caleb if he had a hand in sending you to F1. They just can't comprehend a girl making it to F1 without the help of anyone. But he handles is with calculated grace and risk, not bothering to argue or give them a juicy answer, being honest about how Josephine put both of you through training. It was true. You didn't receive a training as intense as Caleb did, but you still went through the same Young Gifted Drivers program. You just don't understand why Caleb got less for it than you do. God forbid a woman do the same thing as a man and turn out successful.

Your PR team loosens the reins eventually, letting you do what you want as long as you weren't being openly rude for no reason, but that comes back to bite Caleb in the ass when his answers get more curt with each question about you. He doesn't like it when people dig him for things about him. It's just not his thing, and, well, if no one would do it, then he would. Not that the other guys give any answers that leaves the media satisfied. You'd think that they're used to how much goes down on everyone's twitter accounts, but maybe they're just digging for something. You're sure there's reader insert fanfiction replacing you with them as the only female racer on the grid. Guaranteed. You ought to read it out loud sometime to Caleb when you want to annoy him. There's already plenty.

Caleb cuts down public contact with you after races — people like seeing beef first and then reconciliation. They want to do that with Caleb.

Star crossed… lovers but not quite lovers maybe you should really ask Caleb what you are.

He still visits you in the hotel, though. Up in the privacy of your floors, Caleb sneaks into your room to kick legs with you and split down a meal that tastes like shit. Well, shit is a little too mean. Tastes bland. You try to lessen your caloric intake during the weekend of the race, and your weight remains within a very rigid standard that you've set for yourself. It's fine, though. You suppose the bright side is that Caleb will force you to eat sometimes.

"I want… chipotle…" You groan.

"That's not open at this hour."

"A big mac…" You close your eyes.

"After the race."

"God, why can't we have races in California. I want in n outtttttt."

"Complaining today, aren't we?"

"Yeah. I love complaining. You should try it sometime."

"I happen to know someone who complains enough for the two of us."

You whistle, looking to the side. "What does Whitesand Bay even have to offer?"

"Rafayel's mansion."

You stare at Caleb, kicking at him on the bed as he rolls his eyes.

He lands on the ground with a thud, laughing as he throws his head back, and you stare at his adam's apple for a little longer than you're supposed to. He notices, as he always does, and the second that smirk makes its way onto his face you reach over to throttle him.

"Oh, fuck you."

"I'm trying."

You grimace, fighting the warmth that crawls up your neck as Caleb grins, yanking you down between his legs as he rubs his cheek against yours.

"You dog!"

"You know what sir mix a lot said. I ain't nothing but a nasty dog."

You yell as he opens his mouth to bite at your jaw, squealing as you fall over, ignoring the way your phone rings.

There are a handful of things that can catch you off guard at a race.

Josephine used to purposely mess with Caleb's car when he was a child in karting, and she would mess with yours more on occasion, but significantly less than with Caleb's. It's just an unfortunate reality. So, most malfunctions on the grid are easy to maneuver, and you're able to go through most situations with a relatively clear head. Thus, you aren't as affected when there's a crash in the car, and you're able to walk out most situations relatively unbothered and unscathed.

However, you are not immune to hot men propaganda.

You'd assume that because you had been drove alongside so many men over the years that you'd grow immune to a hot man on the grid, but that is simply not the case. It was easy to ignore everyone because you had Caleb, but you're not immune to the fact that objectively hot people are still hot as hell and you have no defense against them.

Your jaw drops as Caleb tugs the mask off his face after his helmet, panting as he fans his face. The cameras flash at the look on your face, and you're certain you're gonna be a meme on an F1 page in ten minutes, but holy shit you think a face card this lethal should be cancelled. Maybe the real way the FIA makes money off of the racing is because fans keep making thirst edits of Caleb. In another life you make thirst edits of him for a living. No one said you're better than a man. You're shocked you've survived so long being nonchalant around him. Holy fuck.

Well, survived so long is a lie. You've staked your claim over Caleb as early as you can remember. All of his jewelry is from you, after all. Not to mention half of his outfits being coordinated to match yours at any race you can. When you show up to the grid, you have to match in some way. Why would you stop if Caleb's just as eager to take part? Besides, most people already suspect your relationship, so it's not like you can do much about it. You're too selfish to let him go, after all.

"Holy shit."

"That one tiktok audio where it's like lord have mercy. I'm bout to burst."

"WHAT."

Maybe you stare a little too much, because the next time you're at the debrief, the PR team pulls you to the side for a little chat. The summary is this: you're being too close with a driver that will get your reputation in tatters if he's only playing you, and while you try to explain that you grew up with Caleb — it's well known — the team doesn't listen, and they essentially threaten that you'll be dropped at the end of the year if you don't comply. It's added into your new contract, and your eye twitches as you text Caleb about the new development.

DAA cares less about reputation and PR, and more about what their drivers can do on the grid, so Caleb texts back that you can play stupid all you want, but it won't stop him from doing anything. You think it's slightly unfair.

"It's normal." Xavier mumbles. "It's like me and Lumiere. Their idea."

"I struggle to understand how UNI-CORN could do that."

"Well, the PR team is usually called Tenebra, so—"

"Oh." You grimace. "I see now."

"Yeah." He purses his lips. "So. Me or—"

"You." You deadpan. "Considering that Lumiere is a PR thing? You over him."

"Careful. May just steal you from Caleb."

"He'd probably kill you before you get the chance."

"Yeah. It happens."

You shudder. "So? How do you live like this?"

"I'm considering changing groups next year."

"Starting a team?"

"Philos."

"Oh!" You pause to think. "That makes sense, actually."

"Mhm."

"Your old teammate moved there too, huh? How is he doing?"

"Pretty well, actually. He's been placing points."

"Mm."

You sit through the first handful of races talking to Caleb as little as you can, letting him do what he wants to do, not reciprocating. You still bump helmets with him, though. You refuse to give up that one bit, and even the PR team knows that they shouldn't quite mess with pre-track rituals. You cycle through your playlist as Caleb lingers around you, taking you through your usual stretches and reaction exercises.

"How are you faring with it?"

"I'm pissed I'm not allowed to reply to your tweets."

"Man, I love indirectly tweeting about you and watching you crash out from a seat across the hotel lounge over not being able to tweet back."

"That is my personally crafted hell."

"What was the new clause anyway?'

"I'm not allowed to date anyone on the grid."

"That makes sense."

"Yes, but it means I can't become too close with you or else I'm going to get an onslaught of questions about it." You glance at the time, and Jenna shakes her head.

"How about we just make it official?"

"I literally just said—"

"They want a solution to the whole situation, right?" He leans so that his head blocks the majority of your view, and you blink.

"Yeah."

"Then just make it official. We're dating."

"I call you gege sometimes."

"Yeah, but you do realize that it's the same way you call Zayne gege too, right?"

"No, I didn't mean it like that. My team doesn't want me dating while I'm under that."

"Well, that sucks."

"Yeah, no shit."

"Well, how about, if I win this race, I kiss you."

"Caleb."

"Yeah?"

"Denied."

"Then if I win, you kiss me. You can blame it on the bet."

"And what do I get if I win?"

"Dinner?"

"I literally just told you my team doesn't want me going out with you one on one."

"Hm…. a blind box."

That has you listening, tilting your head as you pop your helmet on your head.

"Fwich one?"

"A whole set."

"Say fwucking less."

You think you push far harder than you were expected to, cutting Caleb off on as many edges as possible but falling behind when he overtook, and you step on the gas to push for as big of a time difference as possible. You're not too satisfied with the time, but when you're forced to pit and he rings back to first, you groan and make chase.

Rafayel gives you a good run for your money, but ultimately lets you pass when Xavier catches up behind the two of you to chase him down.

"Jenna?"

"Lap 60. Ten to go. Tyres look good. Feel free to push."

"Got it."

You catch up to Caleb with five laps to spare, and Caleb sticks as close in front of you as possible, attempting to block you when you hit a DRS zone, but you speed past him anyway, cutting him off in a corner without foul play, watching as you hold him back.

"Final lap. P1. Push."

You speed through the final lap, forcibly keeping Caleb behind you as you finish in P1, exhaling as you slow down to park the car to the right spot.

"Congrats on P1. Xavier in P3. Well done."

"Thank you, Jenna." You laugh.

Anything to get a box of blind boxes, you insist, with an absurdly high salary per year and the financial freedom to do essentially whatever the hell you want as an F1 driver. Anything for free stuff. Those bartering genes run deep. No way you're going to let something free slide.

You hop out of the car, running to find Jenna as you cheer, screaming at your first P1 of the season. It was a little anticlimatic and motivated by a set of blind boxes that will most likely require Caleb to take you out, but it doesn't matter. You're a glutton for gambling for children, and you'd argue it's at least one tier above playing a gacha game and gambling everything.

Caleb holds his helmet out to bump with yours, and you bump helmets with him to seal off the end of the race.

"Good job. Thought about which series you want?"

"You're getting me a box of those zzoton ones."

"The ones that cost—"

"Yes. And we will go hunt for one until we find em." You kick Caleb as you step in front of him onto the podium, cheering as you shake the bottle to spray at him.

"Pips!"

"Contract said no talking, not spraying." You dodge as he points his bottle at you, taking a swig straight as you lick your lips, hair soaked from the bottle Caleb's sprayed at you, pushing your hair back as you raise a brow at Caleb, and you soak in the way he stares, slow smirk spreading on his face as you turn to the side to spray Xavier.

Ring the bells — someone on tiktok is going to make a scenepack out of that.

The media is signficantly less pushy about your relationships with people on the grid now that it's relatively well known that you aren't allowed to fraternize with anyone on the grid, but the questions they ask about the post race still get a little personal. Namely the one asking what you thought Josephine would think about you getting your first P1.

"She'd be proud. I assume." You laugh. "She always played favorites, after all."

"Do you think you'd be able to bring back a WDC this year even though it's your first driving in F1?"

"Points wise, I'm guessing yes?" You pause to calcualte it. "I'm second behind Caleb, I believe."

"Twenty points behind me." Caleb nods. "If it wasn't for the slow start with P5 in your first race, you'd be pretty close to me."

"Mhm." You nod. "It's been a couple of races since then."

"Did Josephine ever pit the two of you against each other?"

You pause to think, and Caleb laughs.

"Well, she could have indirectly caused it, spoiling her and sabotaging me, but that wasn't the case." Caleb shakes his head. "I spoil her just as much."

"We noticed your interractions have lessened—"

"Keep it on topic, please." Someone from your team speaks up, and you raise a brow, unimpressed.

You're mildly unimpressed at the whole situation, but oh, whatever. You can't have everything, you suppose.

You'll get an earful for hanging out with Caleb later in a mall, but that's not your problem. You're collecting your free prize like it or not.

"I can't give it to you right now. It has to be when we're on summer break."

"Okay." You mumble, hugging your trophy.

Summer break can't come fast enough. There's a fear in your bones from something, maybe. Caleb DNFs once and it scares you shitless, ignoring the PR team to find him in his garage, patting him down for a check up. You have a fear you'll lose him sometimes. Lose him the same way Josephine lost her best friend on the grid. It's never worth that much. You'll never think that it's ever worth that much. Maybe it's just a horrible fear on your end. There's a minimal chance of death on the grid, but it still scares you.

You stay in Caleb's hotel room that night to comfort yourself, tucked in his arms, his chin on your head as you close your eyes to think. Horrible, horrible world. A world that threatens to tear the two of you apart. You're not ever sure it's worth that much. You doubt it is.

Summer break rolls around, and you spend it with Caleb. As you always do. Nothing changes. You don't change, and neither does he. It's truly incredible how little you care for the PR team, but alas. Whatever.

Caleb takes you hunting for the blind box series you wanted, dragging you through mall after mall just to find it. When the two of you inevitably do, you're sure there are paparazzi who have caught photos of the two of you. It's alright. You're not allowed to date him anyway. It wasn't the end of the world. Whatever.

"Caleb, what are we?"

"I'm yours." He mumbles back, half awake, eyes trailing to the bare skin of your collar under your sleep shirt, and you grow warm. Chest full. Like this comfort is something foreign to you. It's not. You've heard Caleb say that to you so many times it shouldn't feel like this anymore — but it does. It feels like it. It just feels like the first time again and again. Again and again. You're quite in love with him. Stupid, stupid girl, but it's alright. Caleb's there to catch you.

You cherish the last handful of moments you get with him in the privacy of your apartment before the two of you need to go back to racing again.

Back to strangers.

At this point in time, you've grown more than comfortable enough in the car. UNI-CORN's car's become an extension of you, so it's more than comfortable. Nothing feels off in FP1 or 2, and everything's going fine in quali. Too smooth. Too good. Everything goes too well, and Caleb promises to leave you alone the second half of the season to respect the PR team, so everything should be fine. It's fine. It should be fine. You place P2 in quali. It's more than fine.

You don't bump helmets with Caleb because he promises to stay far away from you when he can help it.

First half of the race is fine. Jenna tells you everything's under control, and then you're spinning in circles and slamming into the wall after one of the wheels wasn't changed properly.

Jenna's frantic voice registers lightly in your helmet, and you groan as you glance at the fire threatening to swallow you.

"I'm fine." You force your way out of the seat, walking to the firefighters.

It doesn't even make sense, but you're too focused on survival to care, walking out of the fire as the fire extinguishers are sprayed on you. It doesn't matter. It's fine. You'll live, and there will be something. You'll grow. But the fire still tingles on your skin even when it's gone out. It threatens to burn your skin again and again, and you watch Xavier race from the back, heart still trying to calm itself.

Caleb doesn't take the news well.

"Crash with UNI-CORN's second car—"

"Shit, is she okay? Fuck." Caleb swears, brows furrowing as he turns.

"Driver is unharmed. Caleb, don't worry about her."

"You're asking an awful lot from me. I follow your orders to not bump helmets with her for the sake of her PR team, and suddenly she crashes. I'm not listening a second time. Zip it for the rest of the race." Caleb's finger leaves his mic button, and the bitterness festers even when he places P1.

Caleb's first to check on you, ignoring the way the UNI-CORN engineers yell at him to stay away, but he finds you anyway, trophy long handed to his race engineer as he kneels in front of you.

"Pips?"

"Mhm?" You laugh. "I'm fine, gege."

His thumb brushes over your cheek as he blinks slowly, and you blink slowly back at him.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." You hum. "Congrats on placing P1."

"Thank you. Please don't do that to me again." He whispers. "I'm the one who should be exploding."

"As long as you promise not to explode on the grid again."

"I'll stay accident free as long as you do."

"Mhm." You nod. "I promise. This one was because of a faulty pit stop."

Caleb presses his forehead to yours for as long as he can before he's forced to the interviews— promises to find you in a bit when you're both back in the hotel. Promises it'll be over and you can scrub your skin raw until you no longer feel the fire. He knows. He understands it, probably. Horrible, horrible reality. Horrible world for you. It just makes you nauseous.

If news breaks the next morning that Caleb was seen walking you back to the hotel, then it's fine. You'll take a scolding from the PR team over anything else any day. You don't want to lose whatever little of yourself that's still left over something as replaceable as a drivers championship. You think the realization and heaviness creeps in slowly. It makes you nauseous to the bone, sick until there's nothing left in the hollow of your bones but the exhaustion that's come again and again.

So it's to no one's surprise that you go into autopilot, ignoring Caleb and following the PR team, the same way you had been raised, and you break past everyone else to place P1 in quali. When it ends, you're at the end of the race, forcing Caleb behind you as you speed past the finish line to place P1 in the race as well. Nothing's changed. You want to tell yourself that the heaviness in your chest is from other things, but you know better than anyone what it means. You're tired. Oh, so tired.

Sweet summer's child.

You stare blankly at the trophy in your hands, staying that way and giving perfectly media trained answers when the media asks how you feel, and it isn't until that you're in your hotel room that you stare blankly at the empty TV and let the first sob break past your lips.

You don't know what you're crying over.

Maybe you're tired of pretending to not know Caleb. Maybe you're tired of pretending that you're okay with listening to a PR team who seems to care less about you the more you listen. You're tired of something. Something. Anything. It tears and breaks and threatens to throw you over, and all that waits for you is heartbreak. You think it comes unnecessarily. There was no need for you to be heartbroken like this over stupid things. Caleb's been yours since the beginning. Maybe you feel bad that you have to ignore him on the grid. You want to be you again. You want to feel whole again.

You've been like this with Caleb your whole life. It's like asking yourself if you really genuinely hate yourself or whatnot. The answer is obvious. Whatever the hell you are with Caleb is exclusive, but the lack of the acknowledgment is just— you don't. You don't know why. You don't deserve to feel like this. He gives you so much security yet there is so much insecurity just rolling off of you in waves that you just—

The knock at your door throws you out of your thoughts.

"Leave me alone." You whisper, biting your tongue as you fight back the tears.

"Pips, I know—"

"Leave me alone." You say it again this time, through the door, eyes closed.

"Pips."

"I need time alone, Caleb."

"You're not okay. Come on. Let me in."

"No."

"I'm sorry. It's probably something I did, isn't it? I'm sorry. It's always my fault."

"It's—"

You want to refute it, but he's not wrong. You don't feel all that great, and it's probably in fault because of him.

"Can we talk it out? You can stay behind the door."

You rest against the door, closing your eyes as Caleb starts quietly.

"I like you— well, like is a little shallow. I love you. This whole battle for wdc isn't going to change anything. I promise, pips." His voice fades off, and you close your eyes, furrowing your brows as you breathe. "I'll always be yours. A little PR stunt means nothing to me."

"I love you too." You croak. "I just. I don't like having to act like this with you for the media."

"I know." He mumbles. "I'm sorry it has to be like this."

"Don't be." Your voice breaks. "God, please sign into the same team as me next year so we can be together."

"I'll do what I can, pips. I promise."

When Caleb goes quiet, you finally open your eyes to stare at the floor.

"Xia Yi Zhou."

"Yes?"

"Will you sign on the same team as me?"

"And which team would this be? Do you think Farspace would offer you a spot?"

You pause. "Then abuse a loophole. You've always been good at that."

"I can't, love."

You chew on your bottom lip, closing your eyes as you wonder just a little who you could work under without losing your mind.

"But I love you, pips. I always will. There is and will be no one but you."

You crack a slight sliver in the door as Caleb smiles at you, and you finally let him in, only scooting a little to the side to stay on the floor.

"Hey."

"Hi." You mumble.

"Is it comfortable?"

"A little. It's carpet, after all."

"Mm." He sits down next to you on the carpet, leaning towards you slightly as you let him, before he rests his whole body weight on your shoulder. "I missed this. Reminds me of when we were in karting."

"Yeah." You close your eyes. "That was nice. We were so young."

"Yeah."

"We'll find a way, I promise."

You'll find a way, apparently, your manager letting you know that Farspace was making an offer with more money in order to switch to their team, greedy to bring back both the WDC and Constructor's championship. You know it, though. The internal battle might tear both you and Caleb apart, but it was fine because it didn't matter in the end. All that mattered was that you end up on the same team as Caleb. You don't care if the forced relationship PR kills you both. It's something that you'd rather die to than be apart from Caleb.

You stay in discussions about moving, and when you're finally given a contract that is enough for you, you sign and only consult with UNI-CORN's CEOs. You'll tell the team later. It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Though, you doubt they'd force you to stay or anything of the sort. The CEOs were relatively willing to let you go. They understood that the team was slowly killing you. Like a bird shrinking cages until it forgot how to fly. They have your best interest in mind as much as you do as well, and if your best interest was to go head first into a team that would make or break you, then so be it. You cite your reason for leaving being that you broke the PR clause about not fraternizing with someone else on the grid. They accept, and you're allowed to break the news to your team yourself.

"You're signing to where?!"

"My contract is only for one year." You speak, slowly, as calm as you can, because it is quite terrifying to be saying this to Jenna, but maybe she'll understand. "I… I asked my agent to be moved to Farspace."

"You'd rather—"

"I get it." Jenna mumbles. "Our PR team is tearing you apart. It's not my proudest moment since we're usually relatively relaxed over things like this, but I understand. They're the worst thing out of all of us. Did you already sign the contract? Has it made the news?"

"No. It's all rumors for the time being."

"I see. Well, we'll do our best for these last handful of races. You're a good driver, but you'll have to get used to a new car."

"I know. That's the worst part, though. I also get to stress my poor grandma out by ending up on the same team as Caleb, so."

"I see." She nods. "I'll miss you. Working with you this year was a pleasure. Let's end it on a high note?"

"I doubt I'll bring back a WDC despite the tie."

"Put in your best anyway."

"Of course." You nod.

When news of your transfer breaks onto the net, you drop all PR stunts and learn to live. It doesn't break over the break, but the final race of the season. you're tied with Caleb, and unfortunately it's also the make or break of the Constructor's championship. But it's alright. You've learned to be at peace with it. Xavier can tell too. You're much more lively now that you're no longer chained down by the team. It'll be good for you both.

Skyhaven signs off the end of the season, and you step up to Caleb's car as he stares up at you. He had flown you over, and you had laughed so hard on the flight that you thought that it was alright. You wouldn't be bitter if he won the championship. You could never be bitter over him winning something he clearly deserved. He needs to step out of the shadow of Josephine, and you need to understand the weight of everything. to you, losing and winning meant the same thing.

"Hey."

"Ready for our tiebreaker? Terrifying race, actually."

"Yeah. Considering I DNF'd once and you did too, this is arguably the worst race for the two of us in a while."

"Yeah." You hold your helmet out to him, and he bumps helmets with you, leaning to the side. "You ready?"

"Always. See you at the finish line."

You nod, putting your helmet on as his hand finds yours.

"And pips?"

"Yeah?"

"See you in Farspace."

You're sure he knew instinctively before you could even bring it up. You never needed to. He just always knew.

The race is tight. You swap between P1 and P2 with Caleb, and you bump tires, front wing taking light damage and the two of you box at the same time, but it's fine. You think it's the most fun you've had all season while racing.

"How's the car?" Jenna's voice comes in.

"Alright. Xavier?"

"P3. No stress."

You tail Caleb and he tails you in return, and the two of you do your best to block each other. it's how the race has always been. It reminds you of your days in karting when you used to struggle to overtake Caleb, but it's fun to see how much you've grown. You force the car to push as far as you possibly can, toe to toe with Caleb as the two of you race past the finish line and into your respective garages. No doughnuts for either of you. Neither of you know who won, and the announcers wait for the two of you to leave your cars to find each other to announce it.

"Pips!"

You jump out of the car to find Caleb, meeting him halfway as you watch him pull his helmet off, and you hold your breath in as the two of you wait for the announcements of the results.

You pull your helmet off, breath held in your throat as you blink up at the big screen, waiting for the announcement of who has just passed the line first. You chew on your bottom lip as Caleb steps next to you, waiting for the announcement just as much as you are. You pull your gloves off to find Caleb's hand the same way you used to as a child, and you think you're going to get scolded all over again. It's over. It's finally all over. You're certain that you'll never be put in a position like this ever again. You know you won't. It's alright if you get scolded for holding hands with Caleb. You need the reassurance just as much as he does.

You both flew by the flag at the same time to the point that they had to replay it on the camera.

"It seems that Miss Hunter is simply too good at hunting in these cases. Our second mildly confusing almost-tie of the season!"

You lean into Caleb on your left foot as Caleb leans into you on his right, and the two of you listen in mild anxiety and excitement as the announcers finally give an answer.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, five years ago, when Caleb Xia initially joined the F1 lineup, the whole world pointed fingers accusing foul play because of what an icon his grandmother was and how it was unfair that he would make the jump from F4 to F1 al because of her influence, but oh, did Caleb Xia climb. Climb, climb he did, tearing through reigning drivers to win championship after championship to prove that he wasn't just four-time world champion Josephine's grandson. Ladies and Gentlemen, may you welcome back your reigning world champion, officially broken out of the shadow of the woman that once was. Finally, Caleb Xia takes home his fifth world driver's championship!"

You scream, throwing your arms around Caleb as he catches you, stunned as his arms wrap around your waist out of instinct.

"You won!" You scream. "Oh, god, Caleb!"

Caleb squeezes your waist, closing his eyes as he shakes. You laugh in his arms, letting him sob into your shoulder. You eventually peel yourself off of him, hands finding his face as he cries.

"You beat Josephine." You whisper, letting him rest his forehead on yours. "You kicked Josephine's ass. Hard. You're better than her now."

Caleb sniffles, chest shaking as he tries not to laugh, but you see right through it, laughter spreading through your chest.

"Do you think she's bitching to her friends in the nursing home?"

"Guaranteed." You laugh, and he peels himself from you to wipe the rest of his tears with his hand, throwing his head back to bask in the win.

You let him, stepping to the side as he runs to his team, cheering as he jumps into their arms.

You think it'd be a funny moment to tell him that you'll be his teammate next year as the other driver, but you could hold on to that. You had all the time in the world to tell him that you'd be joining him, but he really only had this moment to celebrate with his team over finally breaking out of Josephine's shadow.

You're not sure where along the line you had started calling her by name instead of grandma, but you suppose it doesn't matter anymore.

Xavier steps next to you, and you nod.

"Yeah. Are you flying back?"

"Yeah." You hum. "Wanna drop by sometime?"

"I have a feeling Caleb would kill me." He hums, waving at Caleb as he jogs over.

"I'll see you on the flight. I have something to tell you later."

"What." You freeze up. "Hey, you can't just—"

Caleb walks off to get to the reporters, and you yell for him from behind.

It's ok if he's ahead of you. You're plenty sure that he'll always look back for you.

The flight back home is easy, Caleb opting to send the two of you on a commercial flight instead of his regular plane, and you contemplate kicking him for being horrible, but not really an option. You get to roll down the center window to poke at him while he's asleep and catch ugly photos of him in .5. You're happy with it. He's happy with it. It's just so easy, you think.

You can't believe you almost forgot this was the whole point.

The next time you wake up is to Caleb shaking you over the center seat. Thirty minutes til landing, and you notice you've got a face mask on and a soda in front of you.

"Drink. You haven't ate in a while."

You take it from him, staring quietly at him as he tilts his head.

"What if we just don't pick up Josephine?"

"She'll get mad."

"I know. But. We can just tell her we'll be late. We can visit the field." You whisper. "From the tragedy."

"Mm." Caleb pauses to think. "Or, we can just visit her and not take her back."

"She'd get sooo mad…" You grin. "Will you cook again?"

"Yes." He hums. "Now that we're on the same team, I can cook for you all you want."

"I wanted to save that as a surprise, you know?" You pout, letting him pinch at the tips of your hair.

"I was the one who requested to move to whatever team you'd end up on. It's better that way." He hums, brushing your hair behind your ear. "Josephine would get so mad."

"I know." Your lip quirks up in mild amusement. "She always said you'd have to take care of me."

"My fifth championship would send her down a spiral considering I stole it from you."

"No. You didn't steal it from anyone." You hum, pinching Caleb's cheek. "It was yours. Earmed with blood, sweat, and tears."

"Too many tears for comfort."

"Too many."

But it's fine, you suppose.

After all, now that it's all over, the two of you will be fine.

Caleb squeezes your hand as the two of you sit in the back of the cab, and you know.

You'll be fine.

It has passed.

#caleb x reader #caleb xia x reader #love and deepspace #reader insert #caleb xia #xia yi zhou #xia yizhou x reader #love and deepspace x reader #☾.fics #for anyone who's curious yes i asked for permission to use the art as a banner!!#ok see you all next august when i write another f1 au again

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