#my goal was to make this read like a paperback novel with a shirtless werewolf on the front of it

[sweet-by-and-by]

Baptized In Your Name - Arthur Morgan x Charlotte Balfour

summary: The rugged stranger who found her at her lowest turns back up on Charlotte Balfour’s doorstep, offering help as she navigates her new life in the remote wilderness. Determined as hell, she lets him teach her a thing or two about guns, and finds herself offering her own help in turn. But as questions of his past bubble to the surface, will she find the man she believes him to be, or will she learn of a darker side? word count: 3819 pairing: Arthur Morgan x Charlotte Balfour

AO3

The Northern air had always been healing. Arthur took a deep breath in, the fresh air from the Northern Kamasana River calming and crisp.

He had travelled across the Eastern Grizzlies after his ride with Rains Falls. He decided to take the long way back to camp, needing some time away after all his talk of ghosts. Away from Dutch, from John, from everyone who reminded him of everything he had lost.

The painful memories played in his mind as he rode through the mountains. He rode down into Roanoake Ridge, stopping as he approached the fork in the road at Doverhill. He chuckled at the memory of the mad scientist there, a frown settling across his face as he recalled another life lost. He wondered if he was cursed, if to meet him was to meet the angel of death itself.

It had been a few days since he found the widow of Willard’s Rest, Arthur thought to himself as he hesitated at the crossing of pathways. He eyed the road to his right, the one that would take him back to camp. His frown deepened at the thought of seeing Dutch just yet, and he spurred his horse Eastward.

It didn’t take long before he was turning off the main path towards Charlotte’s cabin. He savoured the beautiful scenery, idly watching a buck stand guard over his family as they sipped from the river’s edge.

He startled at the sound of gunfire, his attention drawing towards the sound. He reached for his holster, ice running through his veins as he realized the gunshots were coming from Willard’s Rest.

He dug his heels into his horse’s side, the loyal beast sensing his panic and darting off towards the cabin. Visions of robbers and bandits danced across his mind, fearing what he would see when he rounded the bend up towards the cabin.

He pulled his horse to a stop as he crossed through the gate, eyes scanning the homestead to assess the situation. His brows furrowed in confusion when he saw that Charlotte was alone, and he quickly holstered his weapon before she could take notice.

“Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed as he swung out of the saddle. His worries drained away at the tone in her voice and the beaming smile she wore as she turned to greet him.

He took in the state of her, his confusion only deepening at the rifle in her hands. He tried to focus as she thanked him again for the rabbit, doing his best to keep his concern off of his face. He had only just met the woman, but he found himself worrying for her already.

He listened as she told him of her plan to shoot at some bottles, his heart lifting at the excitement in her eyes.

He offered his tips, his heart racing as he leaned in close to her. He shuffled slightly as he adjusted her stance, begging his hands to stay steady as he pointed down the barrel to guide her aim.

They worked together to improve her shooting, and by the end of their session Arthur was impressed. She may not be taking on Annie Oakley anytime soon, but he could see she took pride in her gained skills and her determination was infectious.

“Thank you for everything,” she smiled, her melodic voice drowning out his thoughts. “Would you join me for a meal? It’s the least I can do.”

Arthur nodded, not daring to speak as his chest tightened. His heart hammered at the invitation, hammering against his ribs. He followed her into the cabin and glanced around her home. The solid wood logs were familiar to him, but the decorative touches screamed of rich inhabitants. Arthur felt starkly out of place against the backdrop of luxury. He awkwardly took a seat in the ornate dining chair at Charlotte’s prompting.

He looked around and took in the rest of the cabin, and could practically hear Hosea scolding him for his gawking. Her home was full of beautiful items, the likes of which Arthur had never seen in a cabin in the woods.

He whipped his head around at the sound of the stew pot slamming down on the table, Charlotte’s hiss at the heat drawing his eyes to her. He smiled politely as she dished up his dinner, passing it to him with a “bon appetit”.

“Huh?” he slipped out before he could stop himself, and he quickly cursed his muddled response. Charlotte spoke of Aristotle with grace that would have Dutch draped at her feet, and here Arthur was sounding like some back country hick in Murfree territory.

“Please, enjoy,” she said, her eyes casting downwards in embarrassment. Arthur felt himself flush at the realization he thought it was cute, casting his own gaze down to a spoonful of stew. “And thank you again, for everything. I really am grateful.”

“Ah, it was nothing,” he dismissed, scraping his spoon against the porcelain bowl to keep himself busy.

“You’re a good man,” Charlotte said decidedly, turning away before she could see him react. He was taken aback by her conviction.

“Oh, you don’t really know me,” he murmured, his conscience heavy with the weight of misleading a poor widow. He thought of his deeds, of the list he could give her to prove his case.

“I know enough,” she retorted, busying herself around the kitchen.”There’s always more to find in ourselves, you helped me to see that.”

“My husband Cal was such an optimist,” she said fondly as she took her seat across the table from him, “I found that to be quite contagious. We were both born with the silver spoon...banquets, butlers, valets,” she trailed off.

“Sounds awful,” Arthur chuckled, a cough working its way through his chest. His ears rang and his vision wavered as he tried to suppress it. He blinked to clear his eyes, listening pointedly as Charlotte told him of her father and her fear of being crushed by the wilderness.

“Well, I reckon you’re gonna be just fine,” he coughed, struggling against his labouring breath.

“Are you alright?” Charlotte asked, her worry evident. His coughing worsened but he waved her off, rising to his feet.

“I’m fine,” he stammered, rising to his feet. The spell he was under broke, and he realized the risk he was putting her at by having come in for dinner. He rushed to get himself out the door, out of her home and away from her with his disease. The angel of death had forgotten his place, let himself enjoy Charlotte’s company and foolishly put her in danger.

“Thank you for this,” he struggled, staggering forward as the room spun around him. He forced himself to keep going, splatters of blood peppering his fist as he coughed even harder. “I think,” he wheezed, “it’s best if I just-”

And he was down on his knees.

He heard Charlotte rush towards him as he collapsed to the floor, trying to keep her back as his body shook. His lungs burned and his abdomen ached, rendering him helpless as he curled into himself.

“Stay right there,” he faintly heard, “it’s going to be okay.”

The melodic promise carried him away as darkness swallowed him.

--

He startled awake, another cough bringing him back to life. This one was less debilitating, just the usual tickle through his chest and throat.

He propped himself onto his elbows, looking around to register his surroundings. He forced himself to roll onto his side, pushing himself to a seat with a groan. He shook his head and ran his hand down his face, stopping to wipe blood from the corner of his mouth. He glanced around again and noticed a note at his bedside, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he leaned forward to reach for it.

“My Dear Arthur,” he read, blinking at the words before him. His face sunk as he recalled his letter from Mary just a few days before, the same greeting pulling at his heartstrings.

He smiled as he read the rest of the letter, fought through the confusion from the sleep-addled fog that still clouded his mind. He admired her penmanship, her decorative sprawl surely a result of her higher education.

He scowled at her words about the money in the jewelry box. He knew she had plenty, but his stomach turned at the idea she thought his visits were for some kind of payout. He tucked the letter away, reaching around the jewelry box for his hat. He stood, glaring at the box that stashed the bills as he pushed past the door and into the main room.

True to her letter, Charlotte was out hunting. He took another chance to gaze around the room, no memory of Hosea’s reprimanding stopping him this time. A fire roared in the great stone hearth, warming the cabin from the slight chill in the morning air. This far North the chill lingered late into Summer, and Arthur was grateful as a shiver crept down his spine.

Though he wasn’t sure the cold was to blame for that.

He looked at the fine furniture, wondering to himself how much they had brought from Chicago. He was sure it wasn’t purchased around here, though he supposed it could have been shipped up through Annesburg.

He looked at the pictures in their frames, photographs and paintings decorating the dark wooden walls. He was struck with a longing to stay, to hang his own photos alongside her relatives.

His heart ached as he continued to look around the cabin. He imagined a life here, of coffee brewed on cold mornings and conversation shared over breakfasts. The fancy furniture would take some getting used to, but he could easily see himself settling into it. Could even imagine the patter of small feet running across the floors, the chime of a child’s laugh bouncing off the walls.

He shook his head to clear that thought, the echo of ghosts rattling in his skull. He turned to the door, walking towards it as he left those images behind. There was no point in pining for something so intangible. All just hopelessly romantic dreams of a life he stopped deserving long ago.

He pushed the front door open and stepped out onto the porch. His eyes adjusted to the brightness of the sun, and he faintly wondered how long he’d been out for. A misty fog hung low in the air, the weather seeming to reflect his somber thoughts.

Arthur sighed and stepped down from the porch, greeting his horse from across the homestead. He strolled down the path at a leisurely pace, trying to savour the last few moments before mounting up and heading back to camp. He approached his steed with a pat on the neck, wiping away some dirt from their journey. Arthur noticed the horse’s trepidation to his touch, his own hair rising on the back of his neck. He was suddenly overwhelmed by an encroaching feeling of being watched.

He reached into his saddle compartment and pulled out his rifle, gripping it tightly as he checked the chamber. He looked for cover, but found nothing useful in sight.

“Well look who decided to make an appearance!” a voice cried out from the woods. Two men on horseback emerged from the thicket, guns already drawn and aimed.

Bounty hunters.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Arthur warned, “payday ain’t worth the risk you’re about to take.”

“I dunno,” the other one snickered, “they really seem to want you. I reckon we could get ‘em to ten thousand if we brought in that lovely lady of yours too, I bet she’s got all kinds of things to say.”

The first man hummed, his eyes darkening, “If we even hand her over,” he smirked devilishly.

Arthur growled, his fists clenching around the cool metal of the rifle. His lips cured up in a snarl as rage rushed through his veins. Before he could think, his barrel was pointed between the man’s eyes and a bullet ripped through the air. Arthur quickly dispatched the other one, whose bolt was still half-cocked in loading when his body slumped down the side of his horse.

Arthur heaved as his rage coursed through him, snorting furiously and spitting at his feet. He fought back another cough, not willing to let his victory be spoiled by another fit.

He watched as their horses took off, throwing their heads back and whinnying as they galloped away. He sighed and shook his head, slinging his rifle across his back as he went to get rid of the bodies.

He whistled for his horse, who met him dutifully as he hoisted the first bounty hunter up. He slung the body over the horse’s rear, the man’s arms and legs dangling morbidly as he hung from the beast. He reached down to lift the other hunter over his shoulder, and he whistled again for his horse to follow him.

They walked the bodies down to the water, stashing them behind a rocky coverhang at the base of the waterfall. He quickly washed the blood from his coat in the pool of the river, hoping it wouldn’t stain. He wasn’t sure how much laundry the girls were doing anymore, not that he would be in camp long enough to have it washed anyway. His stops there were getting shorter and shorter between Dutch’s errands, the state of the camp only adding to his souring temperament.

Once he was satisfied with his cleaning, deciding it wouldn't get much better than this, he walked back up the hill to Willard's Rest. He wanted to make sure there was no trace of the bounty hunters left, get their horses good and gone before Charlotte returned from hunting. He held back another cough, frustrated by the ache in his lungs. He had barely done any heavy lifting, nothing that would even have him breaking a sweat a few months ago, but now he could feel himself on the edge of exhaustion.

He passed under the wooden arch and paled when he spotted Charlotte standing on the front porch. She held a hat and a pistol in her hands, remnants he had missed from the bounty hunter’s corpse. He sighed and cast his gaze down to his feet, keeping his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat as he approached her.

She turned to look up at him, her confusion evident as he drew nearer. Her mouth opened as if she was going to speak, but no words came.

"Mrs. Balfour," Arthur murmured, stopping when he reached the steps of the porch. He kept his head dipped, resting his hands on his gunbelt and waited for her to speak.

"Please, it’s Charlotte" she said, looking between him and the hat in her hand, "is everything alright? I found this by the gate, a-and there was blood in the dirt…"

Arthur said nothing, just refused to meet her gaze.

"Did something happen? Are you alright?" she asked, her tone more insistent. Arthur heard worry in her voice, foolishly hoping she was afraid for him, not of him.

"I'm fine," he muttered, "some...some men came lookin up here, tryin' to find somethin'."

"Oh my," she gasped, "did you chase them away? What on earth would they be looking for up here? Perhaps it was Cal's relatives, I wrote to them regarding his...incident."

Arthur almost smiled at the innocence in her eyes, but the weight of the situation kept him serious.

“No,” he drawled, shifting uncomfortably where he stood, “they-uh. They were lookin’ for me. Bounty hunters,” he admitted after a long pause.

He watched Charlotte’s expression shift as she realized what he was saying. He waited for the moment she kicked him off of her porch, shooed him away like the mangy dog he was.

“You’re a criminal,” Charlotte said simply. Her tone was dangerously even.

“I told you, you don’t really know me,” he warned, “I’m not a good man.”

He cringed as Charlotte unconsciously took a step away from him. The action cut through him, made his shame swell and his chest ache. He knew he deserved it and so much more..

The two of them stood there for a moment, tension hanging thick in the morning air. Arthur turned away, clenching his hands into fists at his side and hung his head as he walked away from the cabin. “You don’t want me,” he said forcibly. “I’ll leave. You won’t have to worry about seein’ me no more.”

“What kind of outlaw would just leave?” Charlotte called out, and Arthur froze at her words.

“What?” he gaped. He turned to face her, finally looking up.

“Should I expect to go in and find that you’ve robbed me blind?” she asked.

“No,” Arthur said slowly.

“And will you turn your gun on me and force me to lie with you?”

“No!” Arthur sputtered, appalled that she would even suggest it.

“Well, I’m not sure you’re quite the bad man you seem to think yourself,” she said, her face set with that same determination that he admired so much. She stepped down from the porch and walked slowly towards him. “In the city, everything is painted so black and white. But out here,” she gestured to the forest that surrounded them, “I see clearly now that there are so many shades of grey.”

She closed the last of the distance between them and reached out to rest her hand on his arm. He felt himself relax at her touch, noticing the sweet scent of her perfume that mingled with sweat from her hunt.

She placed her other hand under his chin, dragging his gaze up to meet hers. “You’re a good man,” she said, the steadiness of her voice and the fire in her eyes almost too convincing, “I can feel it in you.”

Arthur didn’t dare to move, barely dared to breathe. Worried that at any moment he would wake to see the waxed canvas of his tent and find that all of this was just some far-fetched dream. His eyes searched Charlotte’s, looking for some kind of trickery or deceit. All he could see was kindness, and he found himself leaning forward against his better judgment.

He startled when his lips pressed against hers, surprised by their softness. It had been some time, but he didn’t remember it feeling this easy in the past. Not even Mary, whose secret, stolen kisses always gave him such a rush.

He was shocked to feel Charlotte return his affections; kept waiting for her to push him away. Instead, she met him with a soft passion that entranced him, made him unable to stop himself from running his tongue along her bottom lip and deepening the kiss.

She opened to him willingly, wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in close. Their tongues danced, the taste of coffee on her lips swirling around the cigarette smoke that lingered on his. Nothing else existed in that moment; not bounty hunters or wolves or even Dutch and his plans. Nothing mattered but the taste of her on his tongue, the soft fabric of her shirt beneath his fingertips.

She pulled away after what felt like eternity, leaning her forehead against his. He ducked his head to steal one more chaste kiss in case this was the last chance he had.

He drew back when he felt a teardrop against his cheek. He opened his eyes to see Charlotte’s brimming with tears, silently crying as she squeezed her lids tightly. Arthur reached up to cup her cheek, wiping away the falling teardrops gently with his thumb.

“I-I’m sorry,” he said lowly, his voice all whisky and honey, “I shouldn’t’a- I mean I-” he stammered, returning to his senses. He stepped back and pulled his hand away like it had been burned.

“No,” she choked, “it’s not that. I wanted it- I do want it. I just...,” she hesitated, hiding her face in her hands as more tears flowed, “it’s Cal.”

Arthur’s stomach dropped, a wave of guilt and shame washing over him at the reminder. Widow or not, Charlotte was a married woman. And here he was, stepping right over her husband’s grave to make his move.

His mouth tasted bitter, no longer of coffee and cigarette smoke or the underlying hint of her. He stepped back farther, putting even more distance between them.

Not knowing what to say, he stood aside as Charlotte cried. He forced himself not to reach out to comfort her. He didn’t trust himself not to take, not to hold her in his arms and will everything else to fade away again.

“I make a terrible widow,” she laughed humourlessly, “my husband is barely ten minutes into the grave and I’ve already fallen for the first handsome stranger that crosses my threshold,” she shook her head, her voice catching in her throat.

She smoothed her skirts and wiped away her tears, straightening herself to try and regain composure. She looked to the sky and smiled sadly.

“I think it’s best if I go,” Arthur said, adjusting his hat.

“I wish I could say that I didn’t agree,” Charlotte replied, “but just for now. I’d like to see you back soon, though perhaps without the bounty hunters next time.”

Arthur frowned as the guilt returned. Charlotte stepped forward to place a kiss on his cheek, resting her hand on the other side of his face to draw him in.

“I don’t care what you are,” she whispered against his skin.

“I ain’t got long,” he replied, his head swimming with thoughts of bounty posters and doctors and Pinkertons.

“Once a widow, always a widow,” she joked, “at least now I come with some experience on the matter.”

Arthur laughed, wondering how such a fine society lady could have such humour. Before he could think on it for too long, she was backing away to return to her porch.

“Goodbye, Arthur,” she said, “Arthur Whoever-You-Are.”

“Morgan,” he said, “but, uh, don’t go lookin’ it up. Please.”

She nodded in understanding. He took in the sight of her one last time, trying to memorize each detail of her for his journal. He stared as she reached for the door handle, opening the heavy wooden door and disappearing into the cabin.

Arthur sighed and whistled for his horse, swinging himself into the saddle as he prepared to ride away. He turned back to look at the cabin, his mind racing. He tried not to let himself hope, but he felt lighter than he had in years. So maybe, just for now, he could let himself believe that things would work out. That he could find something he needed at Willard’s Rest, and he could be something in return to the widow that lived there.