Work Text:
“You sure this is a good idea?” Arthur frowned, adjusting the strap of the rifle over his shoulder, and shifted his weight uneasily in the entrance of Dutch’s tent— he’d heard the story twice over, and yet he remained skeptical.
Dutch pursed his lips and clapped the book in his hand shut. “Arthur,” he began, “The last thing I need now is you doubtin’ me.”
“I ain’t doubtin’, ‘m just—”
“Just go and keep an eye on him. He should be done changing into those new clothes by now.” He pointed out in the general direction of where he’d left their new member, and Arthur begrudgingly relented.
Huddled up around the campfire, a stranger sat in old clothes that were much too large for him— they looked to be from John, who was about the same height, but the shirt draped awkwardly around his skinny wrists and hung down below his prominent collarbone. Probably hadn’t eaten a full meal in weeks. The poor man was all skin and bones, and his long hair was a tangled mess that hung haggardly around his tired face.
“Arthur?” Tilly looked up from her seat beside the man, washing blood from her hands in a shallow basin set on the ground. “This is Javier.”
The sight was a little alarming— as Javier turned to face him with frightened eyes, watching Arthur like a wounded animal might watch a grizzly bear, the bloodied skin across his throat became visible. The cut there looked to be a couple of weeks old, but had clearly not healed properly and had ended up reopening. Whoever had tried to slit his throat apparently hadn’t done a very good job— Arthur hadn’t ever seen anyone survive that kind of wound.
He watched uneasily, caught off guard by the blood and the look Javier gave him, but Tilly quietly wiped the skin clean with a damp rag and dressed the wound with fresh bandages. “You stay here, now. Arthur’ll get you somethin’ t’ eat.” She looked pointedly up at Arthur, who hesitated, but ultimately couldn’t say no to her. Stiffly, he nodded, and turned away to go dish up a bowl of Pearson’s stew.
“...Tengo hambre,” Javier croaked, and watched the steam rise from the bowl in Arthur’s hands as if it physically pained him.
“What?”
“T-Tengo hambre.” His voice cracked.
“Don’t got a clue what you’re sayin’, partner.” Arthur hunted around for a clean spoon or even a fork, but someone seemed to have skimped on dish duty. “Just gimme a minute t’— hey!” The bowl was yanked from his hands, and Javier dropped to his knees beside the fire, bringing it to his lips to just drink the stew.
He ate like a wild animal, scarfing it all down at once as if he were afraid someone might take it from him— Arthur stared, dumbfounded, as Javier drank all of the broth and popped the big pieces of meat into his mouth with his fingers until the bowl was clean. Javier held it out again towards the pot, and Arthur looked down at the ladle in his hand. “Jesus Christ.”
“Tengo hambre,” he repeated, one hand clutched over his stomach. “Por favor.”
Was he begging Arthur to let him have more? It was distinctly uncomfortable, the way he seemed to feel as though he had to plead for basic care. What the hell had this man gone through? Shifting uneasily, Arthur took the bowl and dished up a little more stew, which Javier also snatched away before the ladle even stopped dripping broth into the bowl.
He devoured everything Arthur gave him with a frenzied hunger that seemed impossible. Stew, bread, even a can of fruit— Javier ate it all and never seemed satisfied, already reaching for more before he’d even finished what he had. It was something between mystifying and horrifying. “...Hey, maybe you oughta—”
“Arthur!”
Miss Grimshaw descended upon the pair like a woman possessed and took the bowl of stew from Javier. “Mr. Morgan, what on God’s green Earth are you doing?”
Arthur stared, baffled, and struggled for the words he sought. “He— he was hungry, n’—”
“He’ll be sick!” She snapped. Slowly, Arthur’s shoulders sank, and he looked to Javier, who barely even seemed to realize what was going on.
“...Oh.”
“Just, uh...” He cringed when Javier retched into the grass again. “...Jus’ let it out.”
Arthur sat on a stump with his knees together and his back tense, holding a glass of water in his lap. The entire situation was horribly uncomfortable, but he knew it was his fault for letting a man who’d been starving to death suddenly go off and eat enough food for the both of them combined. Javier had been horribly sick all night, and even as the hour hand on Arthur’s pocket watch passed midnight and crawled into the early hours of the morning, he didn’t seem close to being finished.
“I’m sorry.” Javier hacked loudly, but Arthur wasn’t sure if it was just the vomiting, a disgusting response, or both. “You... want some more water?” He held the glass out, but got no response. “Hey. Water. Javier?”
With a frown, he set the glass down and reached out to touch Javier’s shoulder— the man’s frame shuddered and he sobbed miserably.
“Aw, hell, y’can’t jus— don’t start cryin’ now,” he weakly protested, unsure of if he felt awkward or guilty. Regardless of his halfhearted protests, Javier wept, sick and miserable. Arthur couldn’t blame him.
Time passed and the night progressed, but eventually Javier seemed to have emptied his stomach of nearly everything he’d eaten. Sitting around the campfire, unable to sleep either from discomfort or from paranoia, he flinched when someone draped a warm blanket across his shoulders. Almost meekly, Javier looked up and saw Arthur.
“...Y’looked cold. Try gettin’ some sleep.”