Chapter Text
Albert Mason lives for his art. He admires the beauty in the wild, the dangerous, the fearsome. He admires the beauty of such things as wolves, bears, alligators, and Mr. Arthur Morgan.
Arthur does not see himself the way that Albert does. He is an ugly brute. Capturing him in a photograph is a waste of time and supplies. So when Albert asked for him to pose the day they met, Arthur was surprised. But he was not hesitant. He did not argue. Albert did that to him. Made him agree to things he would usually scoff at. It was because of that unique charm of his. When strangers babble on and on to Arthur, he gets annoyed very quickly. But Mr. Mason? He could listen to him talk nonsense for hours and by the end, Arthur would still be smiling. Nothing amused him more than Albert being in awe of the world that Arthur had been growing tired of.
“When you think of birds, you think of flying, do you not?” Albert posed to Arthur one evening. The pair had run into each other yet again just outside of town and Albert insisted he buy him dinner. Finally, some sort of reward for saving his skin so many times. They kept meeting like this, it was strange. The first few times Arthur walked away expecting to never see him again, but he would always find him again. By now when they parted, their goodbye was not a goodbye, it was a ‘see you next time’.
So there they were, tucked away in the booth in the corner next to the staircase at the Rhodes Parlour House, both with a plate of fried catfish in front of them. Albert was more interested in the peas and potatoes on the side, he had both on his fork as he talked animatedly, while Arthur was enjoying the fish.
“Mmm… And— feathers,” Arthur said awkwardly in response to the question.
“Yes. Feathers. Indeed,” said Albert slowly, contemplating before speaking excitedly again, “But flight!” He said, “The gift given only to birds! And bats of course, and a few strange little rodents. Yet there are birds that do not fly. The Eastern Wild Turkey is one such creature—”
“Turkeys can fly,” Arthur interrupted without thinking.
“What?”
“They’re no migratory bird, sure,” he said, chewing his food, “but if you get up on ‘em, chase ‘em, they’ll flap their wings and get away from you pretty quick.”
“Oh,” said Albert. Arthur suddenly felt bad about bursting the bubble Albert had been inflating.
“Sorry, what were you saying?”
“No never mind,” sighed Albert, then he exclaimed, “This is great news! I shall be able to capture the rare moment a primarily flightless bird takes flight. Will you help me?”
“Of course.”
“Oh good. You really are such a gentleman, Mr. Morgan.”
Arthur rolled his eyes, tired of such compliments. Albert did not know him well enough. He felt almost guilty, like he was leading him on, making him think he was a better man than he was.
But Albert did know Arthur. He knew him to be kind and gentle when he wanted to be, but always strong in a way that Albert had never seen in any other. That man had the resilience of a bear. Arthur looked quite like a bear too. Big and dark and angry, rough hair, scars, but a sweet face. Soulful. And as Albert watched Arthur chuckle to himself across the table, he decided he wanted to know how that man could be such a walking contradiction.
They set out together the next morning.
“The light is perfect!” Said Albert, as he carefully strapped his camera mount to his saddle. Arthur was already on his horse. He looked up at the sky. It sure was bright alright. Arthur didn’t know much about photography, but as he looked at the grey clouds to the south, he assumed that rain was not to the advantage of capturing moments in time. Though Arthur said nothing. If Albert cancelled the expedition, Arthur didn’t think they’d get another chance. Besides, it was only rain. If it came their way, they could avoid it. Arthur would watch the sky, vigilant.
“Alright,” announced Albert as he finally mounted his horse, “we’re off!”
He broke out into a trot and Arthur had to press his horse to catch up and take the lead. He guided them beyond the fields and towards some trees— a more natural-looking environment Arthur supposed, which he assumed was what Albert was after. He had seen turkeys in these parts plenty of times, they wouldn’t be hard to find. With a peeking view of Flat Iron Lake through the trees, Arthur stopped their two-man procession just shy of the tree-line, the grass beneath them was thick with little white flowers.
“This spot alright?”
“Oh yes,” hummed Albert, “This will do very nicely. That is, of course, if we can actually find some creatures to photograph.”
Arthur swung his leg over his horse and hopped out of the saddle, landing elegantly on the soft grass. Albert followed suit a little slower and more clumsily. As he began retrieving his equipment, Arthur stalked the trees. A rainbow of squirrels raced by, black and red and grey. When he saw that there were no animals of interest in the immediate area, he walked back to Albert who was busy affixing his camera to its mount.
“No turkeys down there.”
“Then we wait,” Albert smiled happily as he carried his things past Arthur.
“You sure? We could head up thataway where it’s more open,” the outlaw said, pointing in a random direction that Albert wasn’t looking at.
“If needs must, but this is such a wonderful spot. I think I’ll take my chances right here. I’m sure something beautiful and wild will turn up eventually.”
If Albert was a more honest man, he’d say that he wished to stay where there was less of a chance of finding a turkey because then the day might last longer.
A few minutes later, Arthur lit a cigarette, wondering what the hell Albert even needed him for. He rested on the crumbling wall of the ruined farm. This land had been a battlefield in the war and had remained largely untouched ever since. It was a beautiful though spooky idea that a place so scarred and tainted should be so peaceful.
Albert was just crouched behind his camera, staring into the viewfinder, lost in the tiny world that was confined within the border of the frame.
“How many photos do you have now, Mr. Mason?” Arthur asked curiously before taking another drag.
“Oh a few dozen,” Albert replied without looking up, “Soon I’ll have enough for an exhibition, though I doubt I’ll ever complete my collection.”
“Exhibition?”
“Oh yes. The plan is to exhibit the photos in New York and hopefully, eventually, God willing, publish them in a book. Those about wildlife are only illustrated, you see.”
“That’s a fine plan, Mr. Mason.”
“Hmm I thought so too. When I came up with it that is. It all seems rather silly now,” said Albert, always so quick to dismiss himself.
“Oh I don’t know about that…” laughed Arthur, “What I do know is that your photos ain’t silly. They’re good, and people should see them. Especially folks that ain’t never seen the subjects before. That’s what this was all for, ain’t it?”
“Exactly.”
Albert finally looked back at Arthur, lowering the flash in his hand. His words made him so happy in a way he couldn't begin to explain. But Arthur wasn’t looking back at him, his eyes were to the brush in front of them.
“There!” he said, pointing. Albert whipped back around and saw them. Four turkeys a good ten feet away, moving through the trees, pecking their way across the ground. Albert steadied the nerves that always came before taking a shot. The pop and sizzle of the exploding flash pan did not startle the birds. Such docile creatures, even from this distance. Albert sighed and put a hand to his heart. He laughed lightly and then went about resetting for another shot.
“Oh I think that was very fine, Mr. Morgan. Very fine.”
“If you say so,” replied Arthur, fascinated by how captivated Albert was by a few dumb ugly birds. He began to wonder if he could take one or two back to Pearson after this was over.
“Quick, Mr. Morgan— while we still have them. I want to get a shot of one in flight!”
Arthur shook his head to himself and finished his cigarette. He walked out in front of the camera as he asked,
“What is it you want me to do, exactly?”
“Chase them, I suppose. Get them into the air!”
What would Arthur be doing if he wasn’t doing this? Probably arguing with Dutch or exacting one of his ridiculous plans and robbing some poor soul. Arthur much preferred chasing turkeys. He stepped carefully towards the birds, expecting them to take off running at any moment.
“Come on, you ugly little pests. You wanna be in a book or not?”
Arthur circled the group slowly and they calmly avoided him. Oh, so he was a turkey herder now too.
“You must be careful, Mr. Morgan. As roguishly handsome as you are, it’s not you I want in frame,” joked Albert.
“To hell with this,” Arthur muttered before pulling his revolver from its holster. Before Albert could protest, he fired two shots at the ground near the birds and they all ran, breaking off into pairs, running in tight circles. None went into the air, so Arthur picked up a stick and chucked it at a couple of turkeys. Albert, who was watching this all unfold, was quite alarmed to say the least. This was not the method he had expected. But it worked. The stick hit one of the birds (only just, and very lightly) and it took a few more steps, flapping its wings, and it went into the air. Utterly delighted, Albert took the photo. He hoped it wouldn’t come out blurry, and was about to ask for another just in case when they heard the deep boom of thunder that had Albert’s attention pulled from the viewfinder and to the sky. Arthur had been too busy watching Albert and herding turkeys to notice the storm coming in. It suddenly became very dark and a second later and they were being pelted.
“Oh!” cried Albert, “Oh no!”
He tried desperately to protect his things from the rain. Arthur took off his coat as he ran back to Albert and covered the camera with it. Albert smiled appreciatively. Then his smile faltered as he lost focus. The shape of Arthur’s arms were showing through his wet shirt, everything else hidden by his cotton vest. Albert admired the level of physicality that he himself could never reach as he clung onto his sopping hat for dear life. A stray thought was given to how big the rest of him might be, but then Arthur spoke over the sound of thunder and noisy rain,
“At least you got the picture.”