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honey-sweeeet · 3 years ago

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curse you arthur morgan; arthur morgan

(cross posted from my A03)

arthur morgan is not a very good man. you learn that very quickly.

but he is also full of surprises, as proved by your many chance encounters over time.

word count: 6.2k

Despite outward appearances, Arthur was not a very violent man. He had his outbursts whenever Bill was around—but he was, generally, rather mild mannered. That meant that until the moment he had you by the throat and pressed a gun to your temple, you never even registered him as a potential threat.

The first thing that went through your mind was that he was the local sheriff. Which was odd, considering you hadn’t even made a move yet to stick up the teller.

It seemed that he had plans of his own.

“Now, Ladies and Gentlemen,” He yelled right beside your ear. “I’m going to need some co-operation from you all now. Nobody screams, nobody moves. My friends here will be relieving you of your valuables. I suggest you do not resist.” He gestured two other wiry men from the door way with a flick of the gun.

“And don’t you dare move for that gun.” He whispered to you, jostling you around roughly in his grip.

You seethed. He was right, you shouldn’t move for that gun strapped underneath your dress, not because you were incompetent at shooting but simply because you were wildly outnumbered. You’d be an idiot to try overpower a man that was almost half a foot taller than you and probably also had a few kilo advantage over you too.

“Speed things up gentlemen, we seem to have company.” Arthur mumbled, craning his neck to peer out of the thin glass window of the train station. He turned to you afterwards, looking down and squinting at your face.

“Hand over that satchel.”

You refused to move.

“I will shoot you.” He warned.

“I don’t doubt that at all.” You replied.

“Then hand over the damn satchel. I ain’t ever hit a lady before, don’t be the first.”

You eyed up his companions, still shaking down everyone in the room. Rich women covered head to toe in layers of lace and satin. Men with greased moustaches and silk ties around their plump and sweaty necks.

And you, in nothing more than the dress a farmer’s girl would wear. Why would he think you had anything of value? Unless he was watching you. He’d picked up that you had a gun under your dress. What else did he manage to pick up in such a short space of time since you swanned into the train station and feigned interest in the local map of Strawberry underneath an advert for the local Stables...

“I ain’t going to ask again.” He said, spinning you around harshly. His angry breath moved the bandanna around his nose, his mouth shifting the dirty fabric as he talked.

You raised your hand above your head, reaching for the satchel strap and pulling it deliberately slowly over your head.

“Much obliged. Gentlemen, we’d best be leaving.”

His two scrawny dark haired companions dashed for the door, laden down with stolen goods and nothing in the way of remorse. One of them even let out a gravelly laugh as he passed through the doorway.

Arthur was the last one out of the building, waving his gun around at the hostages to ensure that nobody thought about moving. Of course they wouldn’t. The entire station was full of the Saint Denis passengers, none of them would dare move in the face of a countryman with a gun. That was the exact reason you’d picked this station, at this time. You were just trying to get some easy pickings, but these absolute asses had to turn up and steal your thunder.

The only benefit to the whole affair was that you knew who it was that had robbed you. Who didn’t know about the man with the five thousand dollar bounty on his head? Everybody on this side of West Elizabeth knew about him.

But you were the only one to recognise him in the chaos of the robbery.

The local police burst through the door a minute later, but it would be futile chasing after any of them now. They had a head start.

Briefly mourning the departure of your satchel and the stolen jewelry inside that you’d been meaning to pawn off for weeks, you knew there was nothing more you could do. You’d just have to go find somewhere to camp and lick your wounds.

“Oh Arthur Morgan, you’re a dead man.” You whispered, pulling yourself into your saddle by the horn.

///

The knife was dull by now. He would have to get up to sharpen it soon, but he was too absorbed in his own thoughts to care.

Arthur didn’t even register someone calling his name until they were right beside him.

“Arthur!” John yelled, waving a limp hand in front of Arthur’s tired face.

“What d’you want, John?” Arthur sighed, rubbing at his grimy beard. He really needed to go into Valentine for a bath and a shave soon. Grimshaw would be getting on at him about it before too long, but he had been so damn busy recently since Dutch had everyone camped at Horseshoe Overlook.

“Hosea said he’s heading out to Emerald Ranch. Said you should head over as soon as you can.”

“Right.” Arthur sighed, dusting wood chippings off his knees. He tossed the stick he had been whittling into the waning fire.

John meandered off, slinking around in the dusky evening as far away from Abigail as he could get.

Tired, in a sour mood from the day and body aching, Arthur retreated to his tent. The moon was barely visible through the layers of clouds drifting overhead. It was a quiet night. And if he could, he would have gone straight to sleep. Yet all he could do was lie deep in thought, listening to the sounds of the fire crackling slowly fade into birds chirping as morning arrived and he knew he would soon have to go see what Dutch needed today.

///

“Son of a bitch!” You yelled, rifling through your saddle bags. “That bastard.”

Your horse’s tail swished unhappily at the noise of you shouting.

“He took everything. Might as well have taken my gun too because it’s fucking useless without any bullets to shoot from it. That damn scoundrel. I’m going to kill him.” You paced around your small campfire, swearing and mumbling into the evening sky. At this point, you had the clothes on your back, your horse and a tent.

The gun was practically as useless as the dress you had stashed in your tent because all of your bullets had been in your satchel. The very one that Arthur stole from you.

Spitting curses into the cloudy evening, you hunkered beside the fire and eventually the sound of your empty stomach grumbling was all that could be heard.

Curse Arthur Morgan. You’d get that satchel back, come hell or high water.

///

The sun was high in the cloudless sky, but it did not make the day any more pleasant.

You sighed, pulling your hat lower over your eyes. Your still empty stomach ached at this point and your chapped lips only added to your discomfort. Without a satchel you had no water skin. With no water skin you were positively parched. Once more you cursed the man that had almost condemned you to death out here. And once more you squinted into the horizon.

You hadn’t seen anybody all day, not a soul was around. All you were looking for was a quick mark to take some petty cash from. Hold them up on the road in the middle of nowhere and make an easy escape before the local law could even get a whiff of you.

A couple of dollars was all you needed. Hell, even some stolen jewelry would be enough to pawn off for a water skin and some precious bullets.

Just as it was becoming early evening you decided it would be best to set up a small camp. The dusk would conceal any smoke, although it wasn’t like there was anybody around that would spot you from miles around. The heartlands seemed completely empty. It was a grassy wasteland, and you were the only idiot riding around in it.

As you turned your horse to head up a hill towards the cover of the tree-line, you briefly saw a tiny silhouette blotted on the very crest of the hill. If you really squinted, you could see the tiniest wisp of smoke winding up into the grey evening sky overhead.

Perfect, the exact thing you’d been hoping for all day. Maybe you wouldn’t die of dehydration in the middle of the Heartlands after all.

Quickly, you jackknifed your horse towards the trees. Slipping behind the tree-line would mean that you had some cover to hide your approach from your unsuspecting target. When you were almost upon them, you dismounted your horse. It would be easier to approach on foot. Less noise, more chance of having the drop on your victim.

For a fleeting moment, as you crouched behind a thicket near the camper’s tent, you worried there was more than one when you heard a voice.

“It’s okay girl. Been a long day, hasn’t it?” A male voice was barely audible. “You’re alright.”

As you dropped lower behind the bushes, you realised it was just a man talking to his horse. He had his back turned to you and head hanging low beneath his own hat. You hoped he wouldn’t turn around soon or else you’d lose your chance to jump him.

Suddenly, you heard something rustle and shift beside you. Apparently the man did too. He whipped around to your direction. You panicked, there was no way you made that sound, but he would be on you in less than a minute.

You were pinched in place, not able to move without giving away your position to the stranger. He tensed up as he took a tentative step towards your hideout.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” He called into the darkening evening.

As he stepped closer his face became clearer in the flickering light from his wan fire. You would have laughed if you weren’t in such a dire situation. Out of every person you could have found to rob, it just had to be Arthur Morgan.

Fate truly was a cruel mistress.

“I said who’s out there?” He called again, hand twitching for his own gun.

You dug your hand around as quietly as possible in the dirt by your feet, looking for something to make a distraction of any kind. Soon, you had a small, rough rock in your palm and you did the first thing you could think of: you threw it into the bushes a few feet away from you to divert his attention.

It landed sharply, rustling the entire bush as it dropped through flimsy branches. He whipped his head around to the source of the sound immediately.

His horse paced on the spot where it was tethered, ears flattened against it’s neck as it let out a strained, fearful whinny.

In a split second, a rabbit shot out from where your stone had landed, dashing right into the clearing in front of Arthur’s feet. It sprinted off quickly, zigzagging under his horse’s feet and off into the night.

He laughed, fingers abandoning his pistol holster.

“It was only a rabbit you silly mare.” He laughed, heading over to calm his horse.

You got off lucky, frankly.

You waited a long while for him to settle in front of the fire. He spent a decent amount of time cleaning his revolver and you knew it was a terrible idea to try jump a man with a gun already in his hand. You had been sat there in wait for so long in the same position your neck was starting to ache and you wanted nothing more than to slump against the nearest tree – but the sound would only give you away. So you gritted your teeth through the aching of your joints and waited. And waited.

Eventually, he placed his pistol back in it’s holster and sprawled out on the ground beside the smoky fire.

That was your chance, he had his guard down.

Taking another small rock in your hands, you employed your distraction tactic from earlier, trying to rustle up the undergrowth to distract Arthur. This time, you aimed a fair distance away, hoping to simply shock some birds into flight. It worked, as a few seconds later a few small sparrows launched from the undergrowth and back into the safety of the tree branches. Arthur barely shifted at the sight, but the sound gave you enough cover to remove yourself from the thicket and into his small clearing on the top of the hill.

Pulling your gun (with no bullets) out, you held it right behind the nape of his neck, letting the cold metal sit there as a warning.

“Don’t move.” You warned, reaching to pull his own gun from his holster and throw it to the ground a few feet away.

He didn’t resist, fully unaware your gun was not loaded. This all rested on Arthur not calling your bluff before you could make a getaway. He sat perfectly still as you reached for his satchel and lifted it to drop his valuables onto the dusty ground.

You noticed him glance sharply at you under the rim of his hat once he could see you over his shoulder.

“Oh. It’s you.” He sighed curtly.

“I’m glad you remember me. This is payback.” You replied, gathering a fistful of dollars in your free hand and cramming them into the frayed pockets of your workman’s trousers.

“Revenge is an idiot’s game.” He grumbled with a hint of amusement. He was starting to annoy you.

“Not when it’s life or death.” You snap, taking a pocket watch from his bag.

Satisfied you had enough to be on your merry way to the nearest town for food and ammunition, you suddenly dropped the gun from behind his head and took off running back into the cover of the trees.

“Now we’re even!” You yelled over your shoulder as the darkness swallowed your retreating figure.

///

You spent two days in Valentine getting back on your feet. You’d replaced the things Arthur had stolen from you, stabled your horse with the livery, even indulged in a bath at the hotel.

Their food was bland and the bedding was the roughest cotton you’d ever felt, but for someone who hadn’t eaten in days and slept on the ground in all weather, it was a luxury you were unused to.

One particular morning, you were in the saloon across the road from the hotel. This was your last day lounging in Valentine before you went back to roaming, stealing and occasionally following bounty posters to a reward.

You leaned against the bar, sipping at a beer and chewing plaintively at some congealed oatmeal. Even this early in the morning people were already blind drunk. The piano in the window never ceased playing and the working women were walking laps around the bar looking for a potential customer.

You were enjoying your own company when two men leaned against the bar a few seats away from you. They paid you no mind, and so you continued to keep to yourself.

One of them quietly asked the bartender for some whiskey, while the other made a show of leaning against the end of the bar and winking at the whores perched on the windowsill. You ducked your head and tried to avoid eye contact as much as you could.

A busty red-head simpered her way over to the man in the bowler hat at the end of the bar, laughing and batting her eyelashes.

The other man simply gestured at one of the other women who joined him without a second thought.

You were just tipping back the last of your beer when the doors swung open once more.

“Arthur! Arthur over here!” The man in the bowler hat called, a hand around the waist of the redhead.

You cringed, ducking behind your hat rim, hoping it wasn’t the same Arthur that you dreaded it would turn out to be.

“Come over here and meet our new friends!” The bowler hat man exclaimed.

“Nice to meet you,” Came the gruff reply. Your blood ran cold. It was the same Arthur that had robbed you and you’d stuck up as revenge. Wonderful.

“Well aren’t you just a tough as teak mountain man!” Exclaimed the busty red-head.

“No you be quiet Anastasia – you can tell he’s a pussy cat.” The other woman interjected, dragging out her last few syllables. You tried to finish your food as fast as you could, hoping to slip away unseen from the saloon and never return.

“Yes! Yes, he’s a pussy... cat.” The bowler man replied, glancing at Arthur when he paused. “Ain’t that so, Arthur?”

“Whatever you say.” Arthur sighed at his friend. “How much you cost anyway?” He asked, eyeing up the redhead with a level stare.

Your food was being choked down at record speed, just to try and evade being recognised.

“That’s no way to talk to a lady,” Teased the red-head.

“I didn’t know I was talking to a lady.” Arthur shot back. You held in a laugh, trying not to draw attention to yourself.

“Excuse me.” The red-head replied curtly, turning and walking off. The man in the bowler hat simply sighed, while the long haired companion tried to reach for the retreating women.

“You’ve got a fine way with the women, amigo.” Sighed the man in the bowler hat.

“Yeah, regular dandy and a charmer.” Arthur replied, reaching for a drink.

You retreated from your perch, hunching your shoulders and making a break for the door.

Just as you were about to reach the door, a large man with shoulders almost as wide as the doorway—and a gut that barely even fit through either—burst through in front of you. He barreled you onto the floor and bounced another man against a table.

He was staggering around, clearly drunk.

“Watch where you’re going!” The large man screamed, waving his arms around angrily.

“Hey! Watch it!” The other man yelled back.

“Is he about to kiss that man or punch him?” Arthur asked from behind you. The man in the bowler hat offered you a hand off the floor and you pulled yourself up by his forearm, avoiding looking at Arthur.

The large intruder headbutted the man he had in a tight collar grip, causing people to stand up from chairs hastily and dive in wildly with fists swinging.

“We have an answer!” The man in the bowler hat yelled, pushing you behind him. Caught off balance, you slammed backwards into the wood grain of the bar. The force of it knocked the wind from your body and you spend a second trying to force your lungs to work again.

Glass was being smashed all around the room, furniture scraping against the floor as tables are abandoned.

You staggered forward, taking a few steps towards the door, still wheezing from the shock of the force to your spine.

As you approached the doorway, Arthur was slammed backwards onto the ground in front of you, another large man pinning him to the floorboards.

Head slightly spinning, you unthinkingly reached for your revolver and slammed the handle of it into the temple of Arthur’s attacker, not even wincing at the sickening crunch that followed the sound of it connecting.

The man slumped, dropping his grip on Arthur’s lapels. Arthur shoved the unconscious body off of him onto the floor, looking up to meet your gaze as you stand towering over him.

“It’s you.” He simply says, wiping at his bloody nose.

You don’t reply, simply stepping around him to dash into the street.

“Thank you!” He yelled after your retreating form, quickly scrambling back up to help Javier.

///

You turned your horse away from the trapper’s stall above Riggs’ station, slowly picking your path down the hillside. The mossy rocks made footing difficult so you took it slowly, relieved to have finally unloaded your stockpile of deerskins that had been piling up over the past few weeks.

As you approached the bottom of the slope a familiar face headed towards you. It was Arthur, steering his horse towards the same narrow path you were descending.

“...Mornin’” He mumbled, unsure if you were the person he thought you were.

“Morning.” You reply, turning off the path to allow him to pass. You hadn’t actually seen him in a week or two since the incident in the bar in Valentine.

He doesn’t move at first.

“I- ah. Thank you for the help at the bar.” He said quietly, not really looking at you.

Unsure of how to reply, you simply say:

“He’s in a bad mood. I wouldn’t haggle if I were you.” With as much of a polite smile as you can manage before you continue on your way.

He laughed quietly to himself as you leave.

///

It continues for several more weeks. You cross paths with each other more and more, to the point where you both begin to silently question if the other is following you. Neither of you are, of course, but it certainly seems that way.

At first, it just turns into simple passing conversations about where the best places to catch fish are, or where to find herbs, or warnings about local police patrols. Nothing more than that.

You offer each other information in passing, subsequent conversations becoming gradually longer. Eventually Arthur learns your name, which he is thankful for. It was getting awkward for him to not even know your name, but then again it was a strange friendship that had formed. He stole from you by chance, you stole from him by chance in retaliation. You stumbled across him in a bar and saved him from a beating. You ran into each other outside the trapper’s station, swapped information about hunting and gathering grounds, and barely went beyond that.

Until one time.

You were camped in the hills outside Strawberry, a cliff to your back for protection and a fire crackling with freshly charred rabbit meat.

The approaching sound of hoof beats alerted you to the arrival of another person, and you were immediately on edge at the prospect. Intruders almost always meant trouble.

As the shadowed form of a horse and rider approached, you stood up in front of the fire and called out to them with your gun outstretched in front of you.

“Who are you? Stop where you are!”

“It’s Arthur you dumb-ass!” He cried back.

“How the hell can I see you when it’s this dark you idiot! I could have shot you!” You returned, lowering your gun as he freely approached.

“You’d have missed.” He stated wryly, dismounting his horse and tethering her beside yours.

You snort in reply, not even willing to indulge him. You instead turned your attention towards stoking the fire passively.

“Why are you even out here?” You asked, occasionally glancing over at him while he unsaddled his horse.

He simply shrugged in response. It was starting to dawn on you how odd it was that he was frequently wandering the wilderness on his own when you knew he had a gang to return to whenever he wanted to. So why did he spend so much time alone? It would be safer for him, without a doubt.

“On the run?” You joked, gesturing to the food over the fire. He nodded and took up the smaller piece of rabbit haunch. You didn’t speak about it, neither of you liking taking thanks and being too anti social to have a friendly exchange of gratitude. You spoke through your actions to each other. Trading information and offering sanctuary at campfires in passing. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Aren’t we all?” He replied, crouching opposite you and glancing over the flames.

“Some more than most.” You laugh, looking at your boots. “But you have others to go back to, so why hang around alone when you have the rest of your people?”

He shrugged again.

“Some of them get on my nerves.” He admits. “And I’m starting to worry things are going too far.”

“Is there anything as too far for an outlaw?” You ask, noticing him flinch at the mention of the word outlaw.

“We weren’t always bad men. Believe it or not we actually tried helping people.” He whispered, more to himself than to you. You didn’t press further, knowing how much you yourself hated people pressing you for information. Not that it had happened in a long time since you made a break on your own.

You silently offered him your half empty bottle of rum that you’d been swigging at through the evening. He took it with wordless gratitude.

“You looked like you needed it.” You admitted, leaning back to stare at the silvery surface of the moon rising above the trees.

“This is terrible!” He cried, spitting out his mouthful and coughing away the fiery alcohol. “It tastes like piss!” He added, scowling at the bottle.

You sat bolt upright, offended.

“I’m sure you’d know!” You snatched the bottle back indignantly.

He laughed heartily at you, his scowl transitioning with his drawled mirth.

“Where’d you steal it from? A dead man?” He continued to laugh.

“I bought it, actually.” You mumbled, cradling the almost empty bottle in your dirty hands.

“You’ve been robbed, then.” He continued to chuckle, scratching at his beard and letting his long legs fold in front of the small fire.

“Well there’s no need to be an ungrateful ass!” You cried back, holding the bottle against you with barely concealed anger.

Arthur continued to laugh, eventually leaning back to lie on the floor, staring at the stars. Eventually his laughing died down. He was silent for so long that you began to wonder if he’d fallen asleep on the other side of the dying fire.

“...Thank you. I needed that.” He sighed, pulling his hat over his eyes. “I feel like a mighty fool lately.”

“You are a mighty fool.” You grumbled, finishing off your rum.

He raised a thick eyebrow at you, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t I know it.” He eventually whispered.

“I think it’s all about over now. We’re backed into a corner we can’t get out of. I just realised far too late for it to matter.” He rolled over to grab for his bedroll, and you were starting to feel unsettled at how much he was talking, at how freely he was revealing these pieces of information about himself when he never had before.

“Been chasing a shadow all along, what a fool I am. Of course it was never going to work out.”

You didn’t know what to say, you had no idea how to help. And you had no idea why you felt that you had to comfort him, but you just did. It was inexplicable, but you felt like he needed somebody – you could see he was lonely.

And although he was only on the other side of the fire, he had never felt so far away.

///

You heavily disliked camping in Scarlet Meadows. Not just because of the dust, but because of the murky, lingering moisture in the air of Lemoyne. You woke up drenched in sweat and even the lake water was lukewarm so there was never any respite from the heat and the dust.

You refused to move closer towards the swamps of Lakay, because the mud was even worse than the dust in your eyes.

For the last few days you’d been feeling rather unsettled by Arthur’s outburst over your campfire. Something must have been seriously bothering him to cause him to share things like that with you - and the worse part was that you’d not seen him in a decent few weeks. It was almost as if he had completely vanished from the face of the Earth, without even leaving a trace behind.

Well, that wasn’t completely untrue, the bounty posters for the Van Der Linde gang were the only trace left that confirmed you hadn’t completely imagined him.

You weren’t unused to being alone, wandering in any direction you decided suited you, setting up camp wherever took your fancy and hopping between towns on a whim. But since Arthur’s complete disappearance, the world suddenly felt a whole lot bigger without him to turn up at your campfire or by your hunting grounds, or at a saloon in the middle of nowhere.

Maybe you didn’t really know him, but it was odd without your new found friend to cross paths with.

You would maybe go so far as to say you felt lonely.

The dust built as you moved towards the centre of Rhodes, carriages and horseshoes shifting the dust constantly. It was almost unbearably warm as the sun beat down on you, but you needed money, you needed some form of work be it bounty hunting or something more illicit on the back alley black market. It was a small town, but there was always work in the middle of nowhere like this. Someone would need something and would be willing to pay.

Train stations and saloons were the best places to start – newspaper sellers, posters and gossip from travelers made for a rich pool of potential leads to start looking into.

When you’d dismounted your horse and tethered her to the hitching post outside the station doors, a young boy in threadbare, oversized clothing came dashing over to you. He had a sheen of sweat on his chubby face, red cheeks from youth and boots that were clearly a hand-me-down rattling on his feet.

He waved around a stack of newspapers, shouting about the newest stories in the print.

You dropped a few coins into his grubby palm and sauntered off with a crisp paper folded under your elbow. You leaned against the station wall in the shade while you read, looking for any mentions of bounties, criminals or any new found fortunes large families had claimed.

Anything that you could use to get some fast money and be on your way.

There was one thing that caught your gaze as you flipped through the flimsy pages: a story running from Saint Denis, about a botched bank robbery… the Pinkerton Detective Agency had busted it and managed to arrest one member of the Van Der Linde gang, and had killed at least two more.

You started to panic, sweating in fear, despite not knowing any of those people.

‘The rest of the culprits attempted escape on a cargo vessel bound for Spain. It is understood that the ship was successfully sunk in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. There were no survivors found. Finally the West is scourged of the nuisance and terror of the Van Der Linde gang, due to the courageous efforts of the American government and the Pinkerton Detective Agency.’

… He was dead.

///

Arthur sighed. He should have left when he had a chance all those years ago. Hosea left with Bessie. He should have left when…

He should have left after Isaac was born.

He should have never looked back.

But he didn’t. Because he thought they were family. He did anything he had to for them, and they used to help people, many many years ago. He used to be able to do good things, but now he could only get people he cared about killed.

Dutch hated him.

He supposed he deserved that for disobeying him and going after John with Sadie. He supposed it was because he encouraged the women to leave while they still could. He supposed it was because Hosea was gone.

So he slouched against the rough grain of the bar table. It was chipped and covered in the sticky residue of spilled alcohol – there were dents and dark stains he could only assume to be blood from bar fights. He didn’t expecting anything less from the worst bar in the belly of Saint Denis.

Nobody would look for him here. Nobody asked questions, no names were taken, no small talk made. People just came, drank and left. It was a place for lost people, evil people, and the forsaken people.

Arthur thought he fit right in.

The hinges on the door squealed as the newest patron arrived. Nobody even glanced up from their drinks, Arthur least of all.

He just continued swiping his finger along the rim of his glass and occasionally taking swigs of cheap whiskey.

“Whiskey.” Came a terse, cracked voice from beside him at the bar. A few cents rolled along the bar and a glass was set down. He didn’t even bother to glance over at the new intruder to his miserable sanctuary.

He stayed sat in silence for a few minutes, wallowing within himself. He was glad he was presumed dead, because it meant that he could get away with turning up in shady bars and drinking himself silly for a few hours.

That was the only benefit he really saw to it.

Suddenly, a tentative voice perked up:

“Arthur? You’re alive?”

He snapped his head to the side, only to find you standing there, whiskey glass to your parted lips and eyes wide in shock. He hadn’t seen you in what he could only guess to be months, but his sense of time was somewhat warped as of late.

“Unfortunately so.” He sighed, returning to looking at his glass.

You moved closer, taking a seat directly next to him.

“I thought you were dead … I mean that’s what everyone was saying. You had me worried.” You whispered urgently.

“You shouldn’t have been worried.”

“When I heard what happened… I- Arthur I’m glad that you’re okay.” You admitted.

He stayed quiet, trying to say as little in the conversations you kept trying to start.

“I don’t know why you’re talking to me. That’s a poor choice.” He eventually grumbled, staring at you angrily.

“Because you vanished without a word. I thought something had happened and then I hear you’re dead? Of course I’m going to be concerned.” You scowl back at him.

“And I told you not to be.”

“Whatever you say, Arthur.” You sigh, standing up and turning towards the door. “I think you should come with me. The offer is there. I’m leaving in the morning. Leave this behind like you said you wanted to.” You add, brushing past his shoulder as you left.

Arthur sighed again. He was already a dead man walking. He’d had way too many chances in this life than he should have.

///

The fire crackled angrily, popping embers and slowly collapsing on itself as it burned away. You tossed a few more pieces of damp kindling onto it, watching as the smoke wisps gathered up into the sky.

Your horse stamped it’s feet and swished away flies, eyelids dropping as she began to doze in the evening.

You simply laid back on your bedroll, hands folded behind your head as you scowled at the moonless night sky.

Stewing in your thoughts, you sat up and cradled your head in your hands, mulling over if it would be a good idea to try and track Arthur down, or if he wouldn’t want to see you around after he brushed you off at the bar. He’d been miserable then again, even more so than the night before he vanished from your campfire outside Valentine.

Maybe it wasn’t your place to say anything, but you couldn’t just sit and watch him leave without even trying to taste what things would be like otherwise. You couldn’t watch him do that to himself when he had so much more to live for, so much more to do than become the shadow of a dead man drinking in the middle of nowhere.

Hoof-beats approached. You could hear them building in the silence of the night, coming closer and closer, deliberately picking a path over to your fire.

“Who’s there?” You tiredly ask into the darkness, reaching for your revolver.

There was no immediate reply.

“I said who’s there?” You tried again, patience wearing thin.

“It’s Arthur you dumb-ass.”

You were astounded, he actually took you up on your offer. You didn’t think he would.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” You admitted, watching him come closer to the burning wood pile in front of you.

He dismounted and sat beside you, shoulders almost touching.

“So,” He began, tipping his head back to look into the night sky. “Where are we going?”

You laughed, not sure you could believe he’d changed his mind so quickly.

“Anywhere you want to go.” You admitted.

Arthur laughed, leaning back to lie beside you in front of the fire. Maybe he could be gruff, and violent and a bit of an ass at times, and maybe he wasn’t the best around people, but he was trying.

He had a new opportunity presenting itself to him, and he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

#red dead redemption #slow burn #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #strangers to lovers #canon divergent #i gave him a happy ending #he deserves that

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honey-sweeeet · 3 years ago

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lamentation; arthur morgan

(cross posted from my A03)

cw; major character death

arthur mourns the loss of a very dear loved one

word count: 2.3k

Warm and muggy wind, heavy air and miserable rain. It was so damp, constantly. The ground was so soft it had sunk so easily under the wagon wheels as you rolled into the area. Sadie and Charles had cleared this place of the previous inhabitants, and you were lucky enough that the locals were terrified of the place. Night folk were not something to be messed with, but Sadie and Charles had driven them off nevertheless. You hated Strauss, but had to admit you were grateful he could think of somewhere to lie low a while. Until the men got back. You had helped Sadie run the place as best as either of you could on short notice, and Charles had been nothing short of solid help.

They had been gone for weeks now. How long would it take for the men to return? Hosea wasn’t here to give his wisdom, and you missed his company. He was pretty much your father after all this time, and you knew Arthur felt the exact same way about him.

Little Lenny had been buried beside him. You hated to call a funeral ‘lovely,’ but the union of the people around those two graves was heartbreaking. With Dutch and Arthur in Guarma and John in Sisika Penitentiary after the botched robbery in Saint Denis, you were the most senior member the gang had. It seemed fitting that you were the one to lower Hosea into his grave, and all you thought as you did so was that when Arthur returned, you knew you would bring him here alone to say goodbye properly.

You weren’t sure how he would take it. He was a man you had known since adolescence, just like John. You three were Dutch and Hosea’s earliest family, the children they chose. They were your mentors from almost childhood so it was obvious you’d see them a family. You were family. You are family. And you had lowered your father into his grave all the same. Little Lenny laid still beside him. ‘‘Blessed be those, who hunger and strive for righteousness,’’ Intoned Swanson, reciting a passage Hosea had quoted to you in your early days, and Arthur seemed to like as well. You knew it off by heart. ‘‘And blessed be those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,’’ He finished, waiting for you to stand from lowering Hosea. Charles placed a hand on your shoulder as all eyes laid on you. It was up to you to fill in the grave slowly as Abigail held onto Jack and pretended not to cry behind you. You rode Arthur’s horse back to camp after that. It seemed fitting somehow. A piece of Arthur was there with you and Hosea when you needed it.

You hated to say funerals were ‘lovely,’ but the whole thing was a beautiful way to be laid to rest.

That had been over a week ago now, after you had robbed the morgue with Sadie and Charles. There were days where you would wake in the Lakay shacks and think that this would be the end of your life. Between the people who were with you, there were less than ten people who would be able to defend themselves if it came to it. Tilly and Karen, Abigail perhaps. Susan, Sadie, Charles and Yourself. Pearson maybe, Uncle and Strauss not so much. Besides lacking the manpower, it was also the gun-power that doomed you in a gunfight. You feared there wasn’t enough to defend yourselves from the Night Folk, least of all the Pinkertons.

Some part of you wondered what would actually happen if they never came back. Charles told you how he had given the others a window to escape on a boat to god knows where. What if they never returned? Clearly you all couldn’t live in Lakay forever, there would come a time where one by one you would either die off or cut loose. One by one you would drift without resistance until there was no body left around. One by one the Night Folk would pick you off, or a fever would take you, or you would starve slowly, or a wandering alligator would catch you unawares. It was a cruel world, and you had no plans. They were looking to you frequently. You were taking Dutch’s place while they were absent.

Blessed be those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

It had rained again overnight. You knew the ground was already sodden and waterlogged as usual before you had even stepped outside the cabin. Your temporary repairs had to suffice, even if they were pitiful to say the least. It was early morning, and you were sat stoic in the chair at the back of the cabin. Sadie had walked out with a repeater for her lookout duty. Karen and Mary-Beth traipsed around the front room of the pitiful shack until Grimshaw would inevitably pick them up for work. Pearson and Abigail were outside cleaning fish. Beside you, Jack was curled up on his bedroll. In front of you, Charles sat with his legs folded while he braided his hair back. ‘‘You’ve been skittish for days,’’ He commented. ‘‘That’s normal, though.’’ How could you even begin to defend your recent mental absence? ‘‘You’ve been so disconnected. How much have you slept since Saint Denis?’’ ‘‘I don’t know, Charles. I can’t think past the most simple things. It’s just one thing at a time before I shut down. People are asking me to make plans for them and I can barely look after myself any more.’’ ‘‘Nobody is expecting you to work miracles, you know.’’ ‘‘I miss Hosea.’’ ‘‘He was a great man, and I know he was like a father to you. He deserved a better life than the one he had.’’ ‘‘He made the most of it though, didn’t he?’’ ‘‘I can’t pretend to know him any better than you knew him, he was closer to you than anyone else. But I believe that man did everything he could, and did right by all the people he could in his life.’’

There was shouting outside, and your mind was divided. Part of you knew it was the inevitable danger catching up with your band of murderers and thieves. Part of you hoped that it was the men returning.

Part of you was correct.

Arthur stood in the mud, being held by Abigail and Pearson. They rushed him inside and Grimshaw handed him a metal bowl of stew. He came and sat by you, the first to return. His nice shirt had been ruined and salt stained and muddied, ripped and charred and bloodied. He seemed slightly sunburnt, although it was hard to tell beneath the full beard he had grown in the weeks he had been away. The voices surrounding him were loud, but slowly they died down after some panic had been placated within the rest of the gang. ‘‘You need a change of clothes,’’ You said, ushering him away to his possessions a while after he was finally left alone. ‘‘You’re telling me,’’ He mumbled, dropping his random weaponry to the ground. He ran water from a basin over his face, through his hair. Swapped his clothes into normal attire. You chose instead to clean up his guns, if they even were his. ‘'I think you’re in need of a shave, too,” you commented, watching him slide on his work boots. ‘‘Wouldn’t hurt,’’ He said, moving to sit in a nearby chair. You sorted through his trunk of things, trying to find his razor.

He was quiet in his seat as you knelt between his legs to reach up and shave his beard away. ‘‘Hosea and Lenny?’’ He finally broke the silence. ‘‘We buried them a while back. I’ll take you there in the morning.’’ ‘‘What was it like?’’ ‘‘Swanson read that passage he loved so much. Me and Charles filled in the graves,’’ You shifted, moving to trim at his jawline easier. ‘‘Side by side. Not going to be bothered by anyone. I wanted to take him back to where his Bessie is, but we all knew that wasn’t going to happen.’’ ‘‘He was a better father than either of ours ever were – or could dream to be.’’ ‘‘I wish you’d have been there to say goodbye with us all.’’ ‘‘Me too, but it still means something no matter who hears it, or how late it is.’’

That same night had been an ambush, as through the day the rest of the men had returned, Dutch and Bill being the last ones to show up around nightfall. Arthur was told to go with Charles through Murfree country come morning time, but he told Dutch there was some unfinished business to attend to. Dutch said he couldn’t bring himself to go see it. You could understand that at least. Wasn’t really something pleasant to put yourself through, anyway. It was already a dice roll of how Arthur would take it, would he be able to process a loss so significant? You’d hate to see him just shut down and lose what little faith he already had in himself.

‘‘It’s just around here,’’ You said, breaking the silence of your horses hooves. Neither of you had slept much last night, and it was adding to the sombre spirits in camp.

People had been moving corpses well into the morning.

‘‘Are you going to be okay?’’ Softer, after Arthur’s lack of replies. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ was all he said in return. You both dismounted into the soft ground. It was far enough out of the swamp that the alligators wouldn’t dig at them, but it was far away from the city and the road to prevent travelers from just stumbling onto them. It was pretty when the light filtered through the leaves above them. You left the horses hitched a few meters away.

‘‘Nice place.’’ ‘‘Nice as we could do,’’ you replied. ‘‘I hate to say it’s ‘lovely,’ but its a nice spot for them both.’’

You stood back and let him make his own peace with it. ‘‘Hosea, I- I’m sorry I weren’t able to do more. We shouldn’t have fixed that bank. I wish you were still here. I hope I was a good enough son to you. My real father was terrible, you know that. But I, uh. You were the father I hoped for. And I’m sorry I could not do more to save you.’’ He stood there, holding his hat and looking down at the shallow graves. ‘‘Lenny. Dear Lenny. You were a good kid. Such a good kid. I’m so sorry you got caught up in this as well. We trusted each other with our lives and I could not do more to save you despite the faith you had in me.’’ ‘‘Arthur, none of it were your fault,’’ ‘‘Well it sure feels like it,’’ He said, sitting down beside you in the grass. ‘‘That I made it out and they didn’t? That makes it all feel like my fault.’’ After a while he pulled out his journal to sketch the place, write down his own obituary for them. ‘‘The others will move on so easily,’’ He said a while later. ‘‘I wish I could get over this like the others. I wish it didn’t hurt so damn bad.’’ ‘‘Arthur,’’ You began, sitting up properly shoulder to shoulder with him. ‘‘The fact that the others will move on so easily is a testament to how much they meant to you, and you to them.’’ ‘‘I can love them without hurting, though. Surely it can be that way again?’’ ‘‘Sometimes loving someone is hurting so deeply for them. You of all people should know this. Love and grief work in different ways. Your grief makes you feel guilty, and your love reminds you of what you once had. When he first died, I felt nothing. It shames me to admit it, Arthur. But I was so empty. I didn’t even cry. I thought it must make me so horrible, so heartless. I thought it meant I had never loved him, but I knew I did. I realised it was my grief working in different ways, Arthur.’’ ‘‘I’d like to think you’re right,’’ He replied, after a small pause for contemplation.

Just as the sun was reaching mid afternoon in the sky, you both decided it was time to leave. Neither of you said goodbye again, it had already been said a long, long time ago. It broke your heart to see Arthur cry as he stood by his horse, but you knew it was best to let him grieve. He looked so unable to mount his horse and walk away. ‘‘I can’t.’’ He said, one hand on his saddle with tears brimming in his eyes. You moved around your horse to his in an attempt to comfort him. ‘‘If I ride off, it will be too final. I can’t do it. I can’t,’’ he pleaded with you. ‘‘Arthur, you’re torturing yourself here.’’ You rested your head on his shoulder as he lowered his head to his saddle and cried. Truly cried. ‘‘I know.’’ He said. ‘‘Blessed be those who mourn, for they will be comforted,’’ you quoted, reaching to wrap your arms around his middle. ‘‘For they will be comforted,’’ he echoed. He placed a hand on your head and righted himself until he would swing his foot into the stirrup and mount his horse.

You two walked the horses away slowly, eventually rejoining the main road.

#angst #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #emotional hurt #hurt/comfort #arthur crying breaks my heart #van der linde gang #post chapter 5: guarma

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honey-sweeeet · 3 years ago

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honestly the most heart melting thing is seeing what people reblog my works with

thats the sweetest thing :)

#fanfic

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honey-sweeeet · 3 years ago

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dear the lovely who asked if i was ever doing a part two - i do have one half written! set much later, during horseshoe overlook

the successor; arthur morgan

(cross posted from my A03 )

“Where are we going to go now?” The child mewled, kicking his boot into the ground below. Grinding the toe of his scuffed boots that were much too big for him. “What are we going to do?” “I. Son, we aren’t staying here. You aren’t staying here. We’re going to stay with- with my family.” His father replied, looking down at the ground and shuffling similarly on his feet, not looking at his son not looking at the freshly moved earth. “I don’t want to leave. Please daddy, stay here with me. Don’t leave mama.” The child protests. “This hurts me too, I know boy, I know. But. There’s nothing else I can do.” He replies, fixing the boy’s possessions to the saddlebags of Boadicea. “I promise nothing will happen this time.”

Welcome to a world where Isaac survives… and Arthur doesn’t quite know what to do on his own.

cw; mentions of miscarriage, major character death

word count: 7.8k

[beautiful art of everyone’s pretty boy from @sunshinexlollipops]

Keep reading

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honey-sweeeet · 3 years ago

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the successor; arthur morgan

(cross posted from my A03 )

''Where are we going to go now?'' The child mewled, kicking his boot into the ground below. Grinding the toe of his scuffed boots that were much too big for him. ''What are we going to do?'' ''I. Son, we aren't staying here. You aren't staying here. We're going to stay with- with my family.'' His father replied, looking down at the ground and shuffling similarly on his feet, not looking at his son not looking at the freshly moved earth. ''I don't want to leave. Please daddy, stay here with me. Don't leave mama.'' The child protests. ''This hurts me too, I know boy, I know. But. There's nothing else I can do.'' He replies, fixing the boy's possessions to the saddlebags of Boadicea. ''I promise nothing will happen this time.''

Welcome to a world where Isaac survives... and Arthur doesn't quite know what to do on his own.

cw; mentions of miscarriage, major character death

word count: 7.8k

[beautiful art of everyone’s pretty boy from @sunshinexlollipops]

You remember the day Arthur rode back into camp with his son. He dipped his head low and hid behind the brim of his hat, not daring to make eye contact with anyone. The boy on the saddle in front of him, huddled against his chest, was red faced and terrified. Arthur had mentioned he had a child, a product of a one night stand in the middle of nowhere with a woman who didn't love him - but you knew that Arthur refused to bring the boy into this life. Arthur would visit them both, Eliza and Isaac, every so often and bring them what they needed. He would support his son, teach him to fish and not leave the child wanting for food on the table or a warm set of clothes. And for all of that, he had adamantly refused that he would bring the child back to camp. He vowed his son would never know the same life as him, or that Isaac would grow up into the same man Arthur was, that his father - Lyle- before him had been.

So it shocked you when Arthur rode into your small camp with a tiny, wide eyed, blonde haired boy that couldn't be mistaken for anything other than his own son.

You were playing poker with Hosea and John, sitting idly by while a teenage John Marston grew irritated that Hosea was robbing him blind at his first round of poker. Hosea had begun teaching John the rules, but eventually John's youthful bravado had decided that he was going to beat the older man at his own game. You sat there, joining in the occasional round albeit halfheartedly, flipping through the pages of one of Dutch's favourite Evelyn Miller novels. The last few days had been somewhat on edge, for only you, truth be told. Arthur had been gone for a while, promising he was visiting Eliza and his son as he usually would every few months. You knew he would be back in a day or two, but once it began to drag on to more than five whole days without a word from him? You were worried. Bessie had assuaged your fears somewhat when you confided to her and Hosea one night outside their tent. You admitted something wasn't lying quite right with you, and that Arthur wasn't usually gone for so long. Poor Bessie had seen your worry, your young and naive worry. You were Bessie's chosen daughter, the only other girl in camp aside from Annabelle. But since Annabelle was usually on Dutch's lap just drinking in his company, and you were in the awkward stage of life where people like Hosea called you 'kid' still, but you were still several years older than John - he was the actual kid in camp until Isaac showed up. Bessie had told you that there was nothing to worry about, that Arthur was likely spending the week with his son like he hadn't in a while. Hosea patted Bessie's shoulders as she comforted you but you felt none the better for the talk.

So when Arthur finally rode back on Boadicea, a small boy tucked against his chest and a hat covering his pinched expression, you knew something was immediately wrong.

John dropped his cards on the table in shock, going to stand up and approach the man before Hosea put a hand out to stop him. Dutch and Annabelle's laughter petered off in their conversation, and you shut the book you had been only pretending to read. Your feet moved of their own accord, carrying you towards where Arthur was lifting Isaac off of Boadicea's saddle.

''Arthur? I-Is... Did something happen?'' you attempt, but the man walks past you without a word, carrying his son to his tent. Bessie looked at you apologetically from the tent she and Hosea shared, and you lower your gaze to the floor instead.

///

A few days later you found yourself heaving a young buck carcass from the back of your shire. After spending some time away from camp hunting to try and distract yourself, the hurt that you had felt when Arthur had bypassed you had begun to dwindle. You understood he would be occupied of late, and as means of distracting yourself you started taking up Arthur's chorse around camp too. He'd been shut inside his tent for the last couple of days, while Bessie tried to get Isaac to open up to her. Not being able to handle the sudden cold shoulder Arthur was suddenly giving you, you decided that you'd get yourself away from the boy with the wide, bright eyes that seemed to always be brimming with tears and curiosity - or on occasion, youthful terror - when you walked past his father's tent. Heaving the carcass across camp, you put your head down and walked faster when you had to pass Arthur's tent to get to the wagon at the far edge that stored the food supply.

Dropping the buck heavily onto the back of the wagon, you take out your hunting knife and begin slicing the pelt away from the muscle and sinew. You worked away at the carcass, butchering the meat into small chunks that would be well received in a hearty stew, and tossing the scraps to the stray camp dog that liked to follow Arthur around at times. Hanging the pelt up on the outside of the wagon to dry in the summer heat, you moved over to pluck the sack of assorted vegetables picked from a farmers market a few towns away to pull out some potatoes and carrots that were destined to go into the bubbling pot of slowly softening deer meat and watered down animal stock. You chopped away at them absent minded, glancing around the camp as you tossed the vegetables into the pot hanging over the fire to the side of the wagon. Hosea was tending to the horses, brushing away at their dusted coats while John sat on the ground beside him, cleaning the saddlery with an old rag. Bessie walked over and passed the men some coffee, smiling fondly at Hosea before walking away to find you. You were still caught up in throwing herbs into the pot, and the occasional splash of water to keep the broth soupy before you settle the iron lid onto the heavy pot. You took another old rag and wiped away at the deer blood on the wagon, and the tacky remnants smeared along your forearms from cooking.

''How you doin' dear?'' Bessie asks, lifting the lid of the stew and lifting a pleased eyebrow at your work. ''I'm glad you can cook because we'd sooner starve before anybody gets John to make a decent meal,'' she adds with a snort.

You smile, looking at your boots and rubbing away at your arms from the wash basin beside the wagon. ''Ain't much you could get John to do decently.''

''While that I don't doubt, I'm sure he's doin' a halfway decent job at cleaning the saddles over there. Hmm?''

''I'm afraid to admit you might be right there, Bessie.'' You smile back at her.

''You didn't answer my question,'' She says, leaning against the wagon and watching you tidy up the last scraps of waste and tossing them into the nearby tree-line.

''Well, 'am doin' mighty fine. I think.'' Bessie says nothing, just raises an eyebrow at you and folding her arms as she glances over to the shy little boy daring to emerge from Arthur's tent and sitting shyly in the long grass right in front of the canvas flaps.

''I think I'm doing a sight better than that poor kid is, that's for sure.''

''Arthur wont tell anybody what happened, not even Hosea.'' Bessie admits, looking from the child back to you. ''I worry he's going to shut everyone out. I worry for him and that poor boy.'' You scrunch your face at that in a sour expression at the thought of Arthur building his walls up again and not letting anybody back in. Bessie looks at you once more before walking away and returning to her own chores. You watch her leave and wonder what it would take for Arthur to come back out to everybody.

An idea strikes you, and you dash to brew some coffee on the smaller fire outside Dutch's tent where Annabelle sits on one of the logs, reading some book she must have found at the local general store.

''Fancy some coffee?'' You ask her as you set the percolator over the small flames.

''Now that would be mighty fine, darlin'. Thank you,'' she smiles over her pages.

''Enough going for me too?'' A rich voice hums over your shoulder. You turn and see Dutch leaning against his tent pole, cigar between his index and thumb. ''Reckon so- there should be a fair bit spare.'' You say, standing up from where you kneel and popping your knees in the process. ''I just got to run into town quickly - I won't be more than fifteen minutes. I just got to grab something real quick.''

''Can't promise there will be much coffee left for you if you're gone that long...'' Annabelle chuckles, light and free from her perch.

''There'd better be you freeloader,'' you laugh in jest.

''What are you gettin'?'' Dutch asks, smiling at Annabelle. You wonder if you should tell them, but then realise that surely it can't hurt. ''I. I- Uh I was going to grab something for Isaac. I think the kid deserves a welcome present. I can't imagine what he's been through really. I feel for the kid..'' you trail off, mumbling as you watch the boy hug his knees and look around more confused and lost than you'd ever seen any other human. Dutch and Annabelle look at each other, then back to you in a sombre mood. Dutch places a hand on your shoulder and you know he's approving of whatever it is you're about to go do.

Crossing camp to the horses, Isaac looks at you briefly as you stride by, and you raise a hand to the child in passing. He does not return the favour, only continues to look at you wide eyed like he does the rest of the world. You reach your horse, patting her neck and vaulting onto the saddle while Hosea looks up from where he is grooming Boadicea.

''Where you goin'?'' He asks, one eyebrow raised.

''Just heading into town. Need anything?'' You ask, adjusting the reins and wheeling your horse around.

''A better job than tack cleaning-'' John mumbles sourly from the floor on the other side of Hosea. You snort in response, turning your horse and heading to the main road leading into town. It's admittedly a very short ride from camp to the small town outside of it, but it seems so much longer as you canter along, stewing in your own thoughts. Scowling at the conclusions and tangents all your thoughts about Arthur and Isaac go on, you arrive outside the general store and swing down. You know what you're looking for.

You weren't any longer than fifteen minutes, just as you promised. Your satchel now slightly heavier and swinging at your side, you dismount and head straight back to your now brewed coffee, grabbing yourself a mug and slowly approaching Isaac.

''Hey kid. How are you doin'?'' You ask, crouching down in front of him, cradling your mug in your hand. He looks up at you and sniffles, not making eye contact or saying anything to you in return. Bessie looks up from her tent across the way, and eyes you sympathetically.

''Say, you ever had chocolate?'' You try again. You can see he perks up at the thought of it. ''I happen to have some with me, and surely I can't eat it all myself.'' You smile.

''...I...I only had it once.'' Isaac murmurs, the quietest sound you ever did hear.

''You liked it?''

''I guess so... mama didn't really buy it for us.'' He says, grabbing fistfuls of the long grass at his side and fidgeting with them nervously.

''Would you like some?'' You say, reaching into your satchel and producing the bar you'd just bought for him in town. He doesn't look up for a minute, and meanwhile, Hosea stops brushing Boadicea for a second to glance over her withers at how the boy will react. Isaac doesn't move for a while at your hand holding out the chocolate. Eventually though, something gives and the boy looks up at you sheepishly.

''Could... could I have some please?'' He finally asks.

''Why of course.'' You smile, shifting your weight to sit in the grass beside him and letting the boy take the chocolate from you. Hosea lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding as he returns to his work across the camp from you. Isaac breaks off a small chunk and pops it in his mouth while you sip at your coffee. As you lean back against Arthur's tent canvas, you hear some soft snoring from inside. You frown, wondering if Arthur was struggling to sleep more than ever since his return.

''You enjoy reading much either?'' You ask over the rim of your mug.

''I can read a little. Not too much though. Only what my 'pa could show me.'' It only saddens you to think Arthur tried so hard to give his son a good life away from this, and for some reason unbeknown to you, he brings his only child back here out of the blue completely.

''Well. I can read to you if you'd like?''

''O-okay...'' Isaac says, eating more of the chocolate. You pull the Otis Miller comic from your satchel too, freshly bought from the general store, and open it with your non-coffee occupied hand in from of you and Isaac.

After a while, you are nearing the end of the comic and Isaac has brightened up some, even daring to laugh as you read along and he continues popping pieces of the chocolate bar into his mouth. Hosea and Bessie watch you, holding hands across the table you play cards at. They seem somewhat sombre, and off at the side, Dutch shows John how to whittle down tree branches as Annabelle finishes her own book by the fire. All of a sudden, the canvas of the tent behind you bursts open, the flaps swinging back wildly as Arthur lurches through the opening. His forehead is pinched, his eyes wide with worry. There are bags under his eyes that give away how little he's been sleeping, and his young face looks all the older for the stubble that has begun growing out since he has abandoned shaving himself. His hair has somewhat grown out an become rather unkempt from before he left to find Isaac and Eliza. He looks down at you in pure, unadulterated panic. You whip your head back over your shoulder to look at him and wonder what has caused the outburst. Isaac seems unfazed by it all - still focusing on the comic splayed open in your hands and the taste of chocolate on his tongue. Arthur runs a hand over his tired face and lets out a heavy breath.

''Arthur- are you okay?'' You ask, looking up with concern. Isaac tugs at your sleeve and begs you to continue reading to him. At the sight, Arthur relaxes some and crouches down in front of his boy.

''What you reading there Isaac?'' He says, coming to sit on the other side of the boy.

''Well - I'm not really the one reading it, Pa.'' Arthur chuckles at this: ''Is that so?'' He looks at you, not giving away anything by his guarded expression. Isaac blushes, appearing coy at the admission. You stand, brushing dirt from your work trousers as the afternoon begins taking over the skyline. You pick your empty mug from the ground and stretch as Arthur takes over reading the last few pages of Isaac's comic.

''I got work I should be getting back to. I'll leave you to it.'' You say, not making eye contact with Arthur and walking away to the food wagon. As you pass Bessie and Hosea, you feel a gaze pinning to your back as you walk away.

Rinsing out your coffee mug in the wash barrel, you adjust your hat brim and set out to finish off the last of your work.

Your back strains from swinging the axe down and splitting the firewood propped beneath you. This was Arthur's job, and the ache in your muscles showed it. You'd cut firewood before, you weren't useless around camp, but never after a full day of heaving hay bales to the horses, moving sacks of grain to the wagon, stoking the fires and refreshing the buckets of water from the river down the steep incline away from the camp. You'd spent your time hauling, lifting, dragging while the sun moved higher over your head and the other camp members came and went about their own business. Bessie and Annabelle sat washing and repairing some of John's clothes from where he'd fallen off his horse a few days back - admittedly in possibly the most ridiculous fashion while on a hunting trip with Hosea. As the older man told it, a rabbit had dashed out of the tree-line as they rode by. John's mare hadn't even spooked by it, but apparently John had. His mare had swung around as he grappled the reins, and displeased by the way he was hanging off the bit, his mare threw him into the muddy, rocky undergrowth. Sounded about right. Hosea and Dutch had ridden out into the town, and John was left to sit round camp and sulk at the laughs of Bessie as she stitched back a rip in his trouser leg. Arthur and Isaac had stayed outside the tent, the stray camp dog wandering up for a short time to let Isaac scratch his ears. Arthur seemed drained still, like something was weighing on him massively, and you wouldn't be surprised if there was.

Wiping your forearm across your brow, dragging what felt like the whole of New Austin worth of dust across your skin, you frowned. Your union shirt was sticking to you with sweat, and your jeans were muddied. Your boots were caked in dust and you knew if you looked in the mirror in your tent you'd find yourself in a similar fashion. Trudging back to your tent, you picked out some clean clothes and pulled your tent flaps shut for the privacy. After changing and washing, it was late evening. Hosea and Dutch had returned from town in high spirits just as everyone started moving over to grab their own bowl of stew from the wagon. Arthur came over, grabbing two bowls and headed over to Isaac who was sat on a log by the fire talking to Hosea quietly. You looked at Arthur's tired form as he passed by you. What had happened? Why had he brought the child he vowed not to bring back to camp?

''Arthur. You need to talk to someone, you're not having a good time of it. You don't have to deal all on your own with this.'' He frowns, deepening the creases in his forehead in thought. He stays silent as you reach out for his forearm gently.

''You know everyone here cares about you. We'll help you look after Isaac no matter what. We-I. Arthur we care about you both. And ain't nobody going to judge you for whatever happened while you were gone. I want to try and help you, I can't imagine what either of 'ya have been through...'' His tired, pinched expression doesn't relent. He's thinking about something and you know whatever it is pains him.

''You can't help.'' He mumbles, looking at his boots, holding a bowl of stew in each hand.

''I can try make it easier for you-''

''You don't know nothin'. What could you possibly do?'' He looks up and frowns at you. You know he's hurting, and you shouldn't blame him for what he says when he's dealing with such heavy things. It still hurts you though, to be brushed aside as if you'd not grown up with the man for the last several years. It hurts you to know he's in pain. But it hurts you the most to know that he's pushing everyone else away for the sake of it. As if the soft and caring man he was a few weeks ago died when he left camp and returned with his child crying on his saddle.

''You're right,'' You relent, dropping your hand away from his forearm, ducking your head behind your hat and turning away from him around the other side of the wagon.

///

You huddle into your tent instead of joining everyone else at the fire. You knew you were being childish, that you were no better than John's sulking episodes. But what did anybody else expect? You were hurting and the man you were just trying to help had pushed you away. He had changed. And maybe not in a way that you liked. It took another few days of you hiding away in your tent in the evenings and throwing yourself into work through the daylight hours. Isaac started to open up slowly, to Bessie and Hosea first. They treated him like their grandson, and he was reveling in the attention. He started to thrive slowly over the coming few weeks - growing into the boisterous toddler you knew he must have been before coming back with Arthur. Hosea took him fishing, you taught him how to cook when you prepared the camp stews, Bessie and Annabelle sat and read with him. And all the while, Arthur shut himself away. He started to go out on jobs with Dutch, or occasionally into town with Hosea. But he was nowhere near back to normal. He no longer played cards with you in the evenings, he sat around the campfire less and less, the bags under his eyes only deepened. But like he said, there was nothing you could do for him or his son.

You were sat on your camp bed one night, cleaning your boots with some beeswax and an oily rag, hunched over yourself and working away at the stubborn grime and dust. The others were sat around the campfire in the dusk, as they usually would. Their voices carried across the dry night air into your tent. You could hear footsteps approaching, and a clearing of a throat. You looked up to the figure blocking the entrance to your tent where you had pinned the canvas back against the frame. Arthur stood there, looking down at his shoes, two bottles pinched in his left hand as his right messed with the frayed edge of his holster.

''You wantin' some company?'' He mumbles, not meeting your eyes.

''Depends.'' You huff, straightening up from dusting your boots. He shifts on his feet, clearly uneasy. He clears his throat one more time, and looks up from under the shadowed brim of his hat to finally glance at your face.

''I just. I'm sorry,'' he says, turning to walk away.

''Arthur, wait. Come back,'' you say, patting the empty space on the bed beside you. ''Come keep me company.'' He nods, walking back over to you, awkwardly setting himself down on the frame at your side. Silently, he holds out one of the bottles of beer he had held in his hand to you. You take it gently from his grasp.

''Arthur,'' You start, popping the cap off the bottle. ''Everyone is worried about you. You need to let us in.'' His shoulders drop and he hunches in on himself, as if he can shut the world out with it. He takes a drink, a long, heavy drink from his bottle before he even starts talking.

''I'm sorry that I shut you out - I. I don't know what I'm doing here. I have no idea what I can do for the boy because he deserves better than this.''

''You thought about taking him and leaving?'' You offer quietly.

''I have. But I don't think I'd be able to deal all on my own. I'm glad it's not just me here for him because I'd be god awful at it on my own.''

''You know that ain't true Arthur,'' You frown back at him. After a short silence, you try again.

''Arthur, what happened?'' His expression sours and he looks down at his feet. ''Eliza. She was real sick. I don't know how long for, but she were kinda weak when I got there, and the next mornin' she were gone. We didn't love each other - I ain't sad about that. But...'' He trails off and looks out of your tent to where Isaac runs around after the stray camp dog in lopsided circles. ''We knew it weren't love, but we loved our son and that made it different. It changed things.''

''Arthur I'm sorry. It might not have been love, but it doesn't mean it wasn't still worth it.'' You say, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder.

''I just feel so guilty for bringing him back here into this,'' He punctuates that with a wave of his hand. ''But I didn't know what else I could do.''

''You did the right thing Arthur - what else could you have done? Left the poor kid alone in the middle of nowhere with no parents? If you're worried this is going to corrupt him, then you need to remember how much worse it could have been if you didn't go back for him.'' He seems troubled still, and you know nothing can lift that weight from him all at once. But you can try lighten it bit by bit.

''You know Arthur, I'd be willing to help you two out.''

''What do you mean?'' He grumbles, still stewing in his own thoughts.

''I mean - When I was growing up, the neighbours would pay me a dollar to look after their kids for the weekend while they went down to Saint Denis. They weren't rich folk, like. But they were better off than I was by a mile and. Well I guess I nannied their kids for the weekends. I might be able to help you out-''

''I don't need a nanny.'' Arthur snaps.

''That- Arthur that ain't what I was getting at,'' You sigh, ''I'm just saying I can help look after the boy with you. You said it yourself- you don't have a clue about raising a child on your own,'' You murmur, setting your drink down on the chest by your bedside. Arthur's mood has soured something fierce since you started talking.

''That kid don't need a replacement mother. Just because you want to play house and you ain't got a kid of your own to test it on.'' Arthur's eyes widen as he realise what he just snapped at you - his lips part slightly in shock at the roughness of his tone. You, shocked, stand from your bed.

''I - I didn't mean that. I don't know why that came out - I. I'm sorry - please.'' Arthur begs, trying to take a hold of your hand.

''I know you're in pain Arthur, but you don't have to be an ass to the people trying to help!'' You raise your voice, placing you hands on his chest and pushing the man out of your tent. There are a few raised eyebrows from the people sat around the fire, and Isaac stops dead in his tracks from chasing the dog. The whole camp seems to freeze in that moment, while you push your rage down to your sour, bitter unconscious. Shoving past Arthur who tries to grapple at you as you leave, you head straight for the horses tethered at the other side of the camp. Arthur watches you stride away - he knows he fucked up. But like with everything else recently, he hasn't got a clue how to deal with it. You mount your shire, adjust the bedroll tied to the back of your saddle and begin to wheel yourself away from camp. As you're walking your horse away, Isaac runs after you, a tiny shadow in the dark. The sight breaks Arthur's heart even more as he picks his son up and carries him back to the fire and away from your retreating shadow in the distance.

///

Arthur spends the next few days pacing about the camp more restlessly than ever. Isaac's previously growing personality had shut itself away again and he begun to hide in his father's tent more and more. You didn't return to camp in the morning, nor the next few days after. Arthur felt like a prize fool - and while Hosea never said the words to him, he knew that he'd been stupid. Sitting around the campfire one night, almost a week since your disappearance, Hosea and John sit around trying to get Arthur to play poker with them. He was having none of it. He was once more stewing in his emotions, but this time, it wasn't sadness that consumed him. It was his own anger at himself. In the morning, John left camp in search of you. Everyone knew you'd never leave for good - all your things were still in your tent after all - but more than that they knew it would take more than a spat with Arthur to drive you away. He found you, half a day's ride away by Lake Owanjila. You'd headed up to Strawberry and into Big Valley, putting distance from yourself and the gang back in Blackwater. John found you in the late afternoon, fishing in the cold lake, your horse grazing nearby. You had your small tent and a little fire crackling outside your meagre campsite. John rode his mare up to your shire, hitching her side by side with your horse as he approached you by the lakeside.

''You movin' out or something?'' The gravelly young outlaw yells at you.

''You'd be so lucky,'' You snort in response, reeling in the perch you'd hooked.

''You planning on comin' back?'' John asks hesitantly.

''Maybe soon - I needed space to think. Don't act like you don't go off to sulk too.'' You scowl at him. He seems to accept that. As he starts pulling his own bedroll off the back of his horse and pitching his tent beside yours, facing the fire and the lake shore. He sits cross legged in front of the fire, folding his gangly legs beneath him. You return to the fire and begin to gut the fish you'd caught. You slapped the fillets onto the grill you'd set above the fire and left them to cook.

''So....'' John stares at the cooking fish. You forget he's almost 10 years younger than you sometimes. He's only just hit 17, and you're passing 26 just like Arthur. John doesn't seem to let that get to him though, he acts the tough man as much as possible.

''So?'' You echo, flipping the slowly grilling fish.

''What caused that whole show back there?'' John says, leaning back on his hands. You can see where the start of his moustache is coming through, and the small cuts under his jaw from where he'd obviously tried shaving for the first time.

''Arthur not saying much?'' You ask, handing John one of the smoked fish steaks. He takes a mouthful and chews thoughtfully before saying: ''Well, you know how he is. He likes to brood. I guess that's what you two must have bonded over,'' He grins, a wry shit eating grin and you frown back at the child sat in front of you.

''You're a little shit, Marston.''

''An' don't you forget it neither,'' He says, tearing into the other half of the fish steak in front of him.

''Arthur just said some shit. I got mad. I left. That's about it.'' You explain.

''Must've been some shit if it sent you running for a week.''

''That it was.'' You're reluctant to explain to John. He's not a stupid kid, despite the shit you give him for it. But still, you don't like talking about certain things. That is truly what you empathise with Arthur about.

''So?'' John pushes.

''He just said some shit that hurt. You know how he can be.'' You sigh and look up at the setting sun in the sky above you, leaning back on your hands. John raises an eyebrow at you, clearly not about to drop the subject.

''Fuckin' Christ kid. Alright- I'll tell you. I was going to have a kid of my own once - before we picked you up. I was young and stupid, but then again who isn't? There was a boy I'd known my whole life in Blackwater, and maybe we'd never done much more than dance about each other as teenagers. So when we were in our early twenties... Well - you know how it is. I was going to have his kid. Not for love, but for stupidity.''

''Was it Arthur's?'' John interrupts with some weird fixation.

''No you fuckin' dolt. It was some rancher's boy. He died of typhus before the kid was even born, and maybe it makes me a bad person to say I don't really miss him, but it's true. I don't think he loved me neither and I'm okay with that, because I was willing to love that child. I was running with the gang already by then so at least I weren't all on my own. But. Well. The kid didn't live neither. I lost it- maybe a couple months later. Bessie helped me through it. It's been almost 7 years now since that. And the other day I offered Arthur help with Isaac.'' You rub your forehead, already regretting opening up to John because you knew he'd give you shit for this later.

''And he just said some choice words about me not having a kid, 'bout playing at being a mother. And. Well I won't lie John, it pissed me off good and proper. And I ain't going to run from him, but I needed my space away from that.''

''Christ.... I- I had no idea. I'm sorry,'' John says, looking away from you and out into the lake.

''Me too.'' And with that, you two retire to your separate tents for the night. Not quite ready to go back to Arthur in the morning, but knowing all the while you had to eventually.

You weren't trying to replace Eliza - you'd never dream of it. But is that how you were coming across? You wonder if Arthur had a point. Poor Isaac was barely 3 - how was he ever going to remember Eliza? He would grow up and he wouldn't even know his own mother. And you'd be the villain for being her replacement. When you'd lost your own child, not even having the chance to meet them before they were born, Bessie had comforted you then too. She had known the same pain. And Arthur had helped you get through it - your individual grief of your lost child, and Arthur's engagement falling through. You'd just been two broken people trying to fix each other. And maybe you'd never loved the father of your child all that much, but you'd loved Arthur ever since. And he still pushed you away, despite the love he also felt for you.

///

You and John arrive back into camp the early afternoon the next day. Bessie and Isaac came up to greet you both, admittedly you more than John. Bessie grabbed you and held you into an embrace before you'd even managed to let go of your horse's reins. ''I missed you girl, we all did.''

''Well - I was hardly going to run off on you all.''

Dutch came out of his tent, frowning at the commotion before knowing the source, although he relaxed on seeing you. You hitched your horse as John walked away and headed for his own tent, and Bessie lingered by you with Isaac.

''How is everything?'' You ask, walking back into camp with Bessie as Isaac ran on ahead to amuse himself.

''Well, Arthur's still sulking. He went out hunting not too long ago - him and Hosea. They should be back before too long I imagine.'' You stop yourself outside Bessie and Hosea's tent, uncertain. You frowned a little, deciding it was better to just face Arthur yourself and work it out between you. Waiting until he returned with Hosea, you decided to visit the nearby river and wash the all grime and dust that the great plains always brought with them.

Arthur and Hosea rode into camp later that evening. They were both in somewhat high spirits, carrying some fine pelts with them. Isaac ran up to greet his father, laughing as the man picked him up and swung him over his shoulder like he was nothing heavier than a bag of grain. Isaac continued laughing and thrashing as Arthur held his son over his shoulder. Hosea hitched the horses, and you headed over to help him carry the pelts into camp.

''Well I never. I've seen a ghost,'' Hosea starts, watching you approach as Arthur lowered his son back to the ground and let Isaac off to go annoy John into playing some game with him.

''Now, now, old man. I ain't pulling a disappearing act on you,'' You smile and notice how Arthur looks down to the ground, clears his throat and walks away from you awkwardly.

''Never mind him - you know how he can be,''

''Better than you'd think,'' You snort, lifting one of the pelts up onto your shoulder as Hosea does the same.

''These need taking to the trapper upside of Rigg's station tomorrow and selling. Would've gone today but it was getting on like,''

''Well I can always run them up for you in the morning. Ain't got much else on.'' Hosea just rubs his chin, nods at you and walks over to where Bessie sits by the campfire.

As the soft morning light filtered into camp, you shuffled out of your tent. Bleary eyed and grouchy, you head to brew some coffee as you stretch your back out. Earning yourself a satisfying pop of your joints as you straighten yourself back up, you pour out some coffee for yourself. You'd head out and take those bison pelts out later. Probably best to take the wagon unless you fancied two trips there and back with each separate bison pelt. Arthur came out of his tent to where you were brewing up your coffee. He looked less haggard recently, and he'd trimmed his beard to a short stubble and cropped his hair back to it's usual length. The bags under his eyes were still there, but somewhat less dark than they had been before.

''Mornin','' You offer, pouring yourself a drink and heading over to the food wagon where the bison pelts were stowed. Arthur followed after you, trailing slowly.

''How you doin'?'' Arthur asks quietly.

''I'm good Arthur.''

''I'm sorry. About- well. I'm sorry I was a mighty fool. And I'm sorry I hurt ya. I can't excuse that,'' He stammers, not looking at you in the eye.

''I know you didn't mean it. I weren't trying to impose or nothing. I just needed some time away too I guess.'' Arthur nods a few times, scratching at his beard. He's never been too good with words or handling emotions without shutting people out.

''You need help with those?'' He asks.

''I was just going to run them up to Rigg's station in the wagon. Nothing too special.'' Isaac wonders over, grabbing at Arthur's leg as he frowns at you.

''The wagon? Why aren't you just riding them up?''

''Well it's two trips on my own. Wagon just seemed easier...'' Arthur mulls this over as he picks Isaac up and sets him in the flat bed of the food wagon where he plucks an apple for his breakfast.

''Want me to ride up with you? Two horses, one trip?''

''Not if you're busy or anything. I can handle the wagon on my own.''

''Can I come with you?'' Isaac asks quietly from behind his mouthful of apple. You look to Arthur and shrug.

''It's only a short pelt trip. Won't hurt.''

''Alright. Come on kid,'' Arthur relents, looking somewhat worried as he pulls both the pelts out of the back of the wagon. Isaac holds his hands up at you to lift him from the wagon, but you turn around and offer him to jump on for a piggyback ride. Isaac clambers onto your back unsteadily, holding on to your shoulders as he adjusts his weight. You walk alongside Arthur towards the horses as he heaves the two pelts across camp.

''Faster! Can we run?'' Isaac laughs from over your shoulder, and you break out running, spinning in a circle and holding onto Isaac's legs as he laughs and yells from your shoulders. Arthur doesn't say anything, he just smiles at you both as you reach the horses before him and place Isaac back on the floor.

///

Steering your horses up the shallow incline towards Rigg's station, Isaac shift in front of you. He'd decided he was going to ride in front of you, and was amusing himself by messing with your horse's long, shaggy mane. Arthur adjusts his hat and keeps his gaze fixed forward as he had for the entire journey. He was on edge, as if someone was going to hop out of the treeline at you and snatch Isaac away. You couldn't exactly blame Arthur, you understood he was nervous for a decent reason, but it still worried you by proxy.

''Are we nearly there yet?'' Isaac sighed dramatically, rubbing at his chin and leaning back against you as if he were going to die of boredom if you didn't arrive at the trapper within the next few minutes.

''Almost,'' Arthur sighs, shifting in the saddle and leading the way up the thin track to the hill overlooking the train tracks below. The small haphazard shack sat in front of you, the lean-to frame covered in drying pelts and assorted piles of antlers, claws and hooves stacked randomly. The trapper was an obscure man, often found keeping to himself either in his tiny, weathered shack by Strawberry, or in his equally dismal and rickety stall in the Saint Denis flea market.

''Got anything good for me today?'' He asks, in a gravelly tone. You'd done business with him several times before, handing over pelts and haggling for hunting baits or sleeping furs. He knew you and Hosea well, often showing up with a few deer pelts in exchange for bait or trapping equipment.

''Couple of bison pelts - hooves and horns too.'' Arthur says, swinging down from Boadicea and approaching the man. You drop off your shire, holding one arm out for Isaac to grab and lower himself with.

''Depends on the condition, but I'll take some good bison furs from you. I- I uh didn't know you had a son...'' He trails off, looking between you and Arthur. The outlaw beside you clears his throat and heaves the bison pelt from behind Boadicea's saddle.

''What will you pay for this?'' He asks gruffly, avoiding the trapper's statement.

///

Your horses are by the Upper Montana river, heads down in the water as they drink in the hot afternoon sun. Isaac splashes around in the shallows a few meters away from you and Arthur. The two of you stand side by side between your horses. Boadicea splashes her head in the shore water, spraying you and Arthur in a cool mist from the river. It soon dries up quickly from your skin in the blistering heat of the Great Plains.

You take your hat off, run a hand through your sweaty hair and replace your hat with a frown. The heat was really uncomfortable at times, but at least the water could be reliably crisp and chilly.

''I hope you know I didn't mean what I said. You know. About you being a replacement mother and all that...'' Arthur trails off, watching Isaac splash away in the muddy shallows not too far out, not making eye contact with you.

''Listen Arthur, I'd never dream of replacing Eliza. That weren't what I was trying to do. I was just trying to help you out.''

''I know.''

''I could never replace her. It wouldn't be right. He deserves to know where he comes from. He deserves better than to not know the truth.''

Your reply is met with stark silence.

''When he's older I mean...''

Arthur still looks out at the water, not looking at you ant not deciding to reply either. You look at the water lapping at the soles of your boots in the riverside below. You both knew you should be leaving soon and heading back to camp before it was too late and Isaac was out late at night with you both in the middle of the open countryside.

''I do need you to help me. I don't think I can raise Isaac on my own,'' Arthur admits quietly.

''Arthur I don't want to impose. I don't want to replace Eliza,'' You frown at him.

''You wouldn't be replacing her. You... You'd be succeeding her. Picking up where she left off,'' He looks at you now, finally making eye contact. ''I can't say I knew her too well, but I know she wouldn't want her son growing up without a mother.'' And this time he looks back at the floor as if he is ashamed.

''Of course I'd help you, Arthur, I love you. But I don't want to take over where Isaac might not even want me.''

Arthur moves towards you, to close the gap between where you stand with the horses. He cups your face gently with both hands as if you were made of glass and you might shatter if he wasn't careful.

He kissed you once, slowly, tenderly. For the first time in months, he had kissed you. For the first time since he left to see his son, and came back a broken man. He kissed you, and maybe he wasn't fully healed yet, but he was on his way to being fixed once more.

''Please...'' He whispers, his forehead pressed to yours softly.

As he moved back, you both looked out at Isaac who was throwing stones into the river and watching the water droplets spread through the air.

And you found that, in that moment, you couldn't have said no to Arthur and his child. Even if you'd wanted to. You loved the both of them, and you'd never abandon that love, not for any promise in the world.

#arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption #isaac morgan #van der linde gang #pre game canon #established relationship #hosea matthews #bessie matthews #emotional hurt #domestic fluff #angst with a happy ending though

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honey-sweeeet · 3 years ago

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moriarty the patriot;

duty calls; sherlock holmes

devil take you; mycroft holmes

#masterlist #sherlock holmes x reader #moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty

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honey-sweeeet · 3 years ago

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red dead redemption;

curse you arthur morgan; arthur morgan

lamentation; arthur morgan

return ticket; arthur morgan

the successor; arthur morgan

#masterlist #red dead redemption #rdr2 #fanfiction

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honey-sweeeet · 3 years ago

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duty calls; sherlock holmes

(cross posted from my A03)

sherlock likes to annoy you instead of just going to sleep at a normal time.

(tbh i had a song stuck in my head and it made me think of sherlock and im just waiting for season 2 of the anime. so heres something not depressing for a change)

word count: 1.7k

“I can’t sleep.” He sighs, rolling over onto his back dramatically, one arm tossed over his eyes. “Ask me a riddle.” “Won’t that just wake you up more?” You sigh, not opening your eyes as you pull the blankets to your chest and bury your face against his ribs. Try as you might, you couldn’t block out the moonlight pouring through the window.

“If I’m going to be awake I might as well have something to do.” He throws in rebuttal. “I don’t know any riddles.” “Everyone knows at least one riddle.” He groans back, propping himself on one elbow to lean over you. He strokes absently at your cheekbone with one of his knuckles. “And you know every single one of them.” You sigh, still trying to drift off to sleep despite his tomfoolery. “Then tell me one I haven’t heard.” He smiles, hair wild and no longer restrained by his ponytail. “Fine. Let me think.” You relent, rolling onto your back and glaring at him through your lashes. Just because he couldn’t sleep didn’t mean that you should have your rest stolen from you too.

“Come guess me this riddle: What beats pipe and fiddle?

What’s hotter than mustard and milder than cream?

What best wets your whistle? What’s clearer than crystal?

Sweeter than honey and stronger than steam?”

You sing quietly, voice wavering a little as you try remember the melody. Sherlock drops onto his back again and folds one arm behind his head, smiling with his eyes closed. His other arm pulls you towards his body, drawing lopsided circles on your bare shoulder with his pointer finger as he listens. Your legs tangle together under the threadbare cotton sheets of his bed.

“What can make the dumb talk? What can make the lame walk?

What’s the elixir of life and philosopher’s stone?

What helped Mr. Brunnel to dig the Thames tunnel?

Sure wasn’t it whiskey from ‘old Inenshowen?

Stick to the cr’atur, the best thing in nature

For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys.

Boy, I of’t wonder if lighting and t’under

Were made from the plunder

Of whiskey, me boys.”

“Well, I recall asking for a riddle, not a song.” He eventually sighs. “That was a riddle, did you not hear the first line?” “It’s not a riddle if you tell me the answer in the middle of it.” “I didn’t tell you the answer,” You smile, looking up at his unamused face. He just raises an eyebrow at you, and you laugh against his chest.

“It’s a pretty song. Where did you hear it?” He asks, staring at the dark ceiling, finger still idly stroking your shoulder. You shrug. “Some men I was serving at the tavern were singing it.” “It’s Irish.” He suddenly declares. “How do you know?” “Inenshowen.” You just grunt at him, a sign of you not understanding. “It’s a place in Ireland. How many English songs would mention that?” “Maybe there’s one out there.” “There’s not.” He laughs.

You’re broken out of your little bubble when there is suddenly a clamour at the front door. You glance at each other and Sherlock untangles himself from your arms. He rises from the bed, walking over to the window. You roll on your back to watch him walk over to open the window, staring at his completely bare body bathed in the moonlight. His dark hair tangles around his shoulders, knotted slightly from where your fingers had threaded through it earlier in the evening. “Sherlock?” Came a cry from below. It sounded urgent, and you worry what he had done to offend someone this time. “Lestrade! What can I do for you at this fine hour of the night?” Sherlock sing-songs, leaning his shirtless torso out of the window, elbows braced on the frame while he grins at the visitors below. “We need you to come assist Scotland Yard in a murder investigation. Urgently.”

You didn’t have to even see his face to know there was a deliriously exuberant expression crossing his features. He makes a hasty hand gesture down below, and shuts the window with a giddy flourish. He rushes over to his side of the bed, and you squint as he strikes the oil lamp on. The yellow glow enveloping the room burns your eyes after so long curled in the darkness. He staggers around, picking his clothes up from the floor and you watch as he buttons his shirt up hastily. He tucks it into his trousers haphazardly, grabbing his jacket from the armchair nearby. His hair was still wild and untamed, and you wondered if he would tie it back on his way downstairs.

“Stay here for the night. Tell John when you wake that Lestrade called for me.” He instructs hurriedly, brushing some stray hairs away from your forehead. He plants a fleeting kiss between your eyes and turns off the lamp, dashing out of the bedroom. You hear his shoes patter against the floorboards as he finally slips them on. The front door swings open and closed, and through the thin glass pane of the window you hear the faint sounds of carriage wheels and hooves fading away into the night.

You had never met two men with such irregular sleeping patterns as John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Holmes can while the night away experimenting and pacing the length of his living room with a book in one hand and a hundred puzzles in his mind. Watson will often be writing late into the night, but will rise early - likely a habit that he hadn't yet shaken from his army days. The two often met in the middle, Sherlock staying up so late that John was just rising as they passed in the hallways. When you stayed with them, Sherlock would stay in his room with you - either lying there and sleeplessly holding you, or finally catching the rest you continually begged him to get.

You're woken up before the dawn had even broken by the sounds of shuffling and pacing right outside the bedroom door. There's a timid knock on your door, and you presume that John is looking for Sherlock - that's the only explanation for his intrusion this early in the morning.

"Sherlock?" He murmurs quietly, knowing that you were likely sleeping in there too. You roll over, realising that you wouldn't be able to get back to sleep before you had to leave.

John hears some shuffling in return and a few dull thuds which he assumes to be Sherlock heading for the door.

He startles when he sees you wrapped in a long chemise and one of Holmes’ dress shirts, still groggy from sleep.

"Did I wake you?" He asks, not expecting for you to be the one to answer the door.

"It's okay, I need to prepare for work anyway," You yawn, wrapping your arms around yourself.

"Is Sherlock still asleep?"

You shake your head and rub at your eyes, stepping past John into the small parlour. Sherlock's desk is littered with jars from his experiments and there's a few physiology books stacked on the drawers that John still hadn't got around to organising onto the shelves.

"Lestrade called for him in the night, something about a murder investigation."

"He's at Scotland Yard?" John asks, heading over towards the door to the stairs. He would probably offer to make you an apology breakfast for waking you up so early.

"I assume so, there was a knock at the front door and then he was running off to God-only-knows-where."

"I'll go check for him there, I wonder what's going on this time." John muses. "I'll go prepare breakfast." He adds, excusing himself and leaving the small parlour room. You sigh, still tired, and look out of the window at the grim and grey sky lying just beyond the glass panes.

There's some rattling of pans and the occasional slam of a cupboard door. You trudge back into the bedroom, picking up discarded items of your clothing from the floor. Your clothes were cold from the wooden boards they'd been laid on, and your petticoat was crumpled from the desperate pile it had been left in.

The bell above the tavern door chimes, and you don't bother to turn around. You're just there to serve the drinks, you're not there for hospitality. You probably should have turned around, though, because you feel a grip on your shoulder and you turn around, fully ready to chide another handsy patron.

You're met with Sherlock's tired, yet still playful grin.

"Sleep well?" He asks, trying to reach over the bar for your hand.

"You shouldn't do that in public, it's indecent." You reprimand, settling your hands onto the counter and watching as he leans against his folded arms. He just shrugs, and you should have guessed that was coming because it was Sherlock of all people, and he often spread offence and chaos wherever he went. He clearly didn’t care about being indecent, because you were both unwed and sleeping together.

"And no I did not - John woke me up before dawn looking for you," You grumble, flicking a dirty dishrag at his chest. He strikes an expression of offence before softening.

"I promise I won't disturb you this time." He grins, taking a grape from the fruit bowl on the bar and popping it into his mouth. He bites down with a grin, fully relishing in annoying you while you're at work. He won't enjoy it as much later when you 'accidentally' knock over one of his beakers or 'misplace' his notebook in retaliation.

"Go home and go to bed, you oaf. It's not healthy to stay awake all night." You stare, a finger pointed at him to reinforce your point. He can't take you seriously though, because you're trying to not smile at him and he can see the conflict in your expression.

"Okay, fine." He relents, holding his hands away from the bar. He takes a small handful of grapes from the bowl and strolls towards the door, tossing them into the air and catching them in his mouth.

"Think of some riddles while I'm gone!" He calls, and the bell rings as the door closes behind him.

#moriarty the patriot #moriarty the patriot x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes #john watson #inspector lestrade #fluff #established relationship #probably historically inaccurate #domestic fluff #drabble #yuukoku no moriarty

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