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“You make me want thing I can’t have.”
He stands at your doorstep for the first time in months, unchanged and yet somehow different from when you had last seen him. His expression is one you can only describe as sorrowful acceptance as he looks at you with an undeniable longing, though he keeps well away from you. You frown at his words; you want to ask him a thousand questions - where have you been? are you alright? what happened? - but his words have taken you off-guard.
“What do you mean?” is all you can manage when you find your voice again. You move forward, but he steps back and looks away.
“You make me want thing I can’t have,” he says again. “And I can’t live like that no more.”
“I don’t understand,” you whisper. You know what he is - had known it from the very first time you had laid eyes on him what seemed to be a lifetime ago at the saloon in Valentine - and in all your time together you had never asked more of him than he was willing to give - though Lord knows you wanted to (and you suspect he wanted to give you more, too).
There is a long moment of silence before he looks back to you - he doesn’t try to hide the pain in his eyes. You wish he would.
“You make me wanna stay,” he says finally. “Here. With you.”
You heart should have leapt at his words - but it only sank. You feel tears welling in your eyes.
“Then stay,” you reply. A last desperate plea that you know will go unheard.
He chuckles humourlessly, dipping his head forward so that the rim of his hat covers his eyes..
“Can’t do that, darlin’,” he says. “You know I can’t.”
You feel tears running down your cheeks, and you wipe them away angrily.
“Don’t call me that,” you snap, and he recoils as if struck, though he stays silent.
You step forward again, and this time he doesn’t move away. You take another step, and another, and another, until you’re right in front of him, close enough to touch, though neither of you reach out. You want to scream, curse, call him every name in the book, but you can only stand there as your mind desperately tries to keep itself together - at least until you get an answer out of him.
“Why?” you finally choke out.
He’s looking at his boots, not daring to meet your eyes lest he lose his resolve.
“That’s the way it is,” he says simply. “Way it’ll always be. Can’t fight nature.”
You almost want to laugh. But you know he’s right. You were both lying to yourselves, believing that this could lead to anything but heartbreak.
“Then go,” you whisper, and he does.
He leaves you behind, and you curse the day you first heard the name Arthur Morgan.