Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Has anyone seen-“

“She’s out talkin’ to Pearson,” Karen already has the answer to Arthur’s painfully obvious question. He tries to hide his flush behind the collar of his coat, hoping to deflect blame to the cold. It fools no one. Karen rolls her eyes dramatically while Mary-Beth and Tilly poorly attempt to muffle their giggles. 

While Arthur has taken it upon himself to ensure the safety of all his fellow gang members, it’s no secret why he spends a majority of his time looking after you. Their teasing is vehemently ignored by the gruff outlaw to the best of his abilities. He briskly takes his leave with a tip of his hat before venturing out into the bitter chill Colter “graciously” provides them. 

To say it’s been miserable would be an understatement. Lives were lost, and the spirits of the Van der Linde gang were fractured. Arthur wasn’t sure how to even begin rebuilding their faith; he believed his hands were only capable of destruction and bloodshed. But he could at least provide them with the basic necessities in the meantime: shelter, safety, and full bellies. 

Arthur sees you at Pearson’s ramshackle “kitchen” with Charles. As he approaches he can practically feel the agitation radiating off you. Your brow is furrowed, arms crossed sternly over your chest with your bow slung over your shoulder.

“Listen, I just don’t think it’s a good idea sendin’ you out there alone.” 

“And why is that, Mister Pearson?” You bite back, tone icier than the howling mountain winds. Pearson falters and looks to Charles for assistance in quelling your ire. He finds no such assistance. 

“Now that we have Charles with us, there’s no need for a lady such as yourself to-”

“Might I remind you Mister Pearson, that this lady has been providing meat for your pot for well over six years now.” Your voice is even, calm, but your displeasure is greatly apparent. 

“And I will continue to provide for the aforementioned pot as to see we all do not go hungry! Especially because Charles is currently suffering from an injury. Now,” you take a step closer. Pearson flinches in response.

“Is that a problem, Mister Pearson?” It’s posed as a question, but there’s a threat hidden among the syllables. Arthur doesn't think he's ever seen you so...fierce. He quickly finds he quite likes that side of you.        

“I-I…” he nervously sputters, unable to meet your firm gaze. Charles continue to watch the spectacle unfold, mildly entertained, until Arthur finally decides to intervene. While watching Pearson continue to pour oil on an already raging fire is amusing, he can’t have the entire camp burning down on his watch. 

“Well it certainly is nice know somebody can shut you up, Pearson,” Arthur laughs, clapping a hand on Charles’ shoulder before nodding his greeting to you. “My lady.” His presence seems to alleviate some of your tension, shoulders relaxing and eyes softening. You smile for the first time all morning. 

At him of all people. It has a familiar heat rushing to his face, again, like some pathetic lovelorn boy. He mentally reprimands himself for acting needlessly foolish. 

“Mister Morgan,” you greet him gently. You open your mouth to pursue a thought but Pearson has taken quite a liking to enraging you as he interjects. 

“Arthur! Maybe you can talk some sense into this girl,” Pearson barks, rudely pointing at you. You scoff in defiance but Arthur cuts you off before the two of you can start up again. You don’t seem to mind as much when he interrupts you.

“Now, I think the lady has more sense than the three of us combined. And that ain’t sayin’ much, considerin’ you are included in that.” Arthur jabs at Pearson, pleasantly relieved when he's momentarily rendered speechless. The peace doesn’t last very long. 

“It’ll be more beneficial if you and Charles do the huntin’ today. Y’know, two brutes such as yer’selves could bring back twice as much than the little lady could all by her lonesome.” Pearson tries his best to explain without angering you yet again. It doesn’t work.

This time Charles speaks up, hoping his logic can make it through Pearson’s overly thick skull. “As previously explained,” he holds up his bandaged hand, “my burns are too severe to be of any use. I can barely hold a bow, let alone draw one.” 

“I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if we let her do the hunting in my stead. She is more than capable,” Charles turns to you with a small grin, “I’m more upset I won’t be able to join her this time.” 

His praise has you stunned; such high regards from another accomplished hunter? You feel as if you yourself  single-handedly hung the moon. 

Many had doubted you, and the more stubborn folk had completely disregarded your ability simply because of your gender. Charles knows the feeling all too well, spat on and tossed aside, albeit it for different reasons. It’s gratifying to know that others recognize your capabilities as a huntress despite appearances. 

Another smile is playing on Arthur’s lips at how overjoyed you look.  

“I’ll go with her,” Arthur states, garnering the attention of both you and Pearson. “That way we’ll be able to bring back ‘twice as much’,” he mocks the cook’s hoarse voice and you try to stifle a snicker. Pearson throws his hands up, clearly outmatched and defeated with the lot of you.

“Fine! So long as we don’t starve, I don’t care anymore!” He promptly shoos the three of you out so he can enjoy the company of a lady called whiskey. At least he won’t find any ridicule at the bottom of a bottle.   

“A pleasure as always, Mister Pearson,” you grouse, giving him a mocking curtsy before turning on your heels. You always tried to remain cordial, ladylike, but stubborn mules like Pearson thrived on testing your patience it seemed. 

Arthur however seems to enjoy when you throw your manners to the wind, chuckling to himself. He sounds nice when he laughs, you think. 

Perhaps you should be thanking Pearson, sincerely this time. 

After all, his bleating did grace you with the rare (and exciting) opportunity to hunt with Mister Morgan himself.  

You smile to yourself, hoping your giddiness goes unnoticed. 

Arthur notices. And suddenly the Colter mountains don't feel too cold anymore.

Chapter Text

“Well that was... productive,” Charles huffs as he follows you and Arthur to the horses. 

Arthur lets out a sardonic laugh this time. “Always is with Pearson. Old fool thinks he’s actin’ all heroic by telling her to stay behind,” he says, helping you onto the back of your horse, Lady. Arthur’s chivalry comes on instinct, it’s not used as a means to impress.

You quite like that about him. Among other things. 

You can’t help the blush that forms at the feeling of his hands around your waist - firm yet careful. Arthur squeezes your hips gently as he hoists you up, as if you weighed nothing. You quickly turn your face away, hoping he doesn’t catch a glimpse of your bashfulness. He does, he feels it too, and mimics your action to hide his own flush. 

Charles notices the interaction silently and smiles to himself. 

“Arthur,” Charles calls. The two of you would run around in this circle all day if he let you, but people were hungry. 

“You can ride Taima.” Charles offers his own horse to Arthur. His own beloved horse, Boadecia, was killed in their harrowing escape from Blackwater, leaving him without a mount. It was clearly still a tender subject to approach with Arthur but he doesn’t let his grief show. There’s no room for his weaknesses to bleed through during such a tumultuous time.  

It breaks your heart. Arthur doesn’t have the luxury of expressing his emotions, verbally or otherwise. It seems all those thoughts are due to be locked away with bounds of a leather clad journal. You yearn to talk to him about it, to unlock the door he’s kept shut for years to appease others expectations of him.

But for now, providing for the gang together will have to suffice. While it isn’t much, you can’t deny the excitement behind an excursion into the wilderness with Arthur. 

Arthur looks to Charles, hesitant to accept. “Are you sure Charles?”

Charles simply nods, another half smile on his lips. “I trust you,” he looks to you, “the both of you.” Once again, Charles’ admiration has you feeling honored. Arthur seems to share the same sentiment and thanks him in earnest. 

“Think nothing of it,” Charles responds. He gestures to Taima’s saddle, “My bow and quiver are all there for you Arthur. And we already know our huntress is well prepared.”

You grin proudly; it was well-known that your bow was one of your greatest joys. The shaft was composed from a mixture of sturdy red elm and maple with a bowstring of silk reinforced with twisted rawhide. Over the years you would idly carve a variety of ornate designs into the wood, giving it a truly unique appearance; vines expanded upwards and bloomed into intricate flowers along the wood’s surface. 

Arthur thought your craftsmanship was truly astounding, going as far as to capture a moment of you hard at work on paper. 

Wild but beautiful, just like her. It’s signed with a heart.  

“Shall we, my lady?” Arthur asks. The request is lighthearted, imitating a man of high society. It reminds you of home and you laugh sweetly in response. Arthur’s heart only flutters a little bit.

“Of course good sir,” you match his playfulness with a mocking haughty accent. Now it’s his turn to laugh, deep and rich.

“Well lead the way then.”

The entire Ambarino landscape is covered in a thick layer of snow and the prevailing storm would make sure more would ensue. Frigid winds rustle the fully coated trees, sending flurries of snow cascading down from their branches. They seem to be the only visible landmarks save for the surrounding mountains in this frozen hellscape.  

If Arthur never had to see an inch of snow again in his entire life, he would die a happy man. It clings to him, and the bitter chill nips violently at the skin he can’t cover behind his coat or with his hat.

Your lips practically pucker from the sourness of his expression. “Are you alright over there Mister Morgan,” you ask with a teasing lilt in your voice. He picks up on it and chuckles dryly. 

“Not exactly too keen on this kind of weather,” he grumbles, urging Taima on just a little bit faster through the snow. His element is open fields; expanses of thick, wild grass as far as the eye can see. Patches of wildflowers so lush he can smell the honeysuckle as he lays among them and draws passing wildlife. 

You match his pace, setting into a steady trot beside him. “It seems you and I share that sentiment,” you say with a visible huff. 

“These mountains ain't up to the Wildling Princess’ standards?” Arthur says with a smirk. 

You giggle at his emphasis on your nickname, one affectionately given to you by Dutch and Hosea. A term of endearment that paid tribute to your past life of a lady of Saint Denis and now your current one of an outlaw huntress. Many gang members thought it appropriate to tease you for it but you paid them little mind.  

“No I suppose not,” you concede, “it’s considerably harder to hunt when it’s below freezing. The game is too sparse!”

“It’s a wonder we haven’t starved already.” Arthur says, half joking. 

You can’t help the scoff of contempt that escapes you. “Well if I listened to Pearson, we’d be nothing but bare bones by now.” 

Now Arthur laughs genuinely. “Thank goodness for that!” You join in his merriment with your own laughter before the two of you settle into a comfortable silence, journeying onward. 

The wind has died down considerably into a gentle snowfall, much to Arthur’s delight. Snow cascades down from the clouds above, swirling in the breeze. In this lull, Arthur dares to peek at you from under the brim of his hat. He can’t help but notice the way snowflakes coat your eyelashes and the dust of red across your cheeks. 

You’re quite a sight and you look almost...angelic.

Arthur mentally kicks himself for thinking so foolishly. About you no less. 

“So,” he tries to distract himself from an onslaught of flustering thoughts. You perk up and look at him expectantly with those beautiful doe eyes. “You, uh, still happy you fell in with this bunch?” 

If you didn’t know any better, you would say he sounded nervous.

Are you still happy that you met me?

Your heart skips a beat at the prospect that’s what he meant instead. 

“Six years and counting Mister Morgan, and you ask me that now?” You titter.

“A lot can change.” It’s as if Arthur is expecting you to have regrets. You refuse to feed into his already crippling self doubt. 

“Considering the sorry state you found me in, I’d say I’m in a significantly better place.” 

Arthur remembers. Clear as day. Four dastardly bounty hunters had been trailing you for miles: from Tall trees all the way to Blackwater. Arthur had been scouting some leads with Hosea and Dutch (thankfully) when you barreled straight into him. You desperately clutched his shirt with trembling hands as the men approached and all you could utter was a simple plea.

Help.

Who was Arthur to deny a lady in waiting some well needed assistance in the form of a Cattleman and four bullets. 

Arthur smiles fondly at the memory. 

“Well I-” he clears his throat at his rather forward mistake, hoping you don’t catch it. You do, and again your heart flutters in your chest. “We,” he corrects himself, “are happy to have you with us.” It’s a comment sweet in nature, albeit delivered a little roughly. It doesn’t bother you none.

“And I’m happy to be here, Mister Morgan.”

“Just Arthur will do.” There’s no need for formalities. Not with him. 

You smile that same breathtaking smile in his direction once more. “Of course...Arthur.” 

He never thought his name could sound so beautiful.