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Arthur sat, his head in his hands, contemplating what he had done throughout his life. All the robberies, the murders, the cheating and stealing. Did he deserve this? To be hung by the neck until dead?
"Yeah, I reckon," he said aloud in a voice filled with regret, the somber baritone trembling slightly. Two guards stepped up to his cell, one of them unlocking the door, the other prepared to deal with Arthur should he decide to bolt, but he knew he was well and truly caught now. Unless someone came for him, he was doomed. No one knew he had been captured. No one knew he was here.
"Come on, feller. Get up. And don't give us no trouble or you'll regret it." Arthur felt some horrible combination of terror and acceptance flood him. The two guards stepped in, hoisting him up under his arms after they had fastened his wrists behind his back.
"They haven't measured me for the hangman's noose," Arthur commented, his voice shaking a bit. "You know if you ain't got the right length, you'll strangle me to death. And fellers, that ain't how I wanna go." His brows had risen, his face concerned and pleading for reason.
"Oh, you aren't goin' by way of rope, mister," one of the guards informed him with an evil little laugh. Arthur's world shifted suddenly, nearly taking his feet out from under him.
"What?" he asked softly, but they drug him onward, wordless. There was, he was somehow certain, only one other way they would kill him. That chair. That awful chair with its varnished wood and fried flesh scent. Never mind that his boots felt like they were dragging through mud and never mind that the walls and floors blurred, never mind that the air was suddenly stale, Arthur could think only one thing: Don't kill me that way. Please! He remembered the scorching sizzle of burning flesh and the screams of the man strapped in the chair. Please. Not that way.
Arthur struggled in earnest now, ramming his wrists into the manacles hard enough he was sure they bled, digging his boots into what felt like muddy ground but when he looked down there was only oiled wood and he slid inexorably along. He was simultaneously unable to halt his movement, but also felt as though he was sliding through molasses, the moment slowing and the hall elongating like a gaping mouth that had opened wide to consume him. His boots scrabbled again on the floor and he let his weight fall so that the guards held him mostly upright. One of them rammed his baton into Arthur's spine, shoving him roughly forward into the room.
There sat the chair, gleaming, a menacing evil the likes of which Arthur had never seen. For the first time in his life, he begged. Certainly, he had whimpered when that O'Driscoll had knocked him down with the door and Kieran saved his ass at Six Point Cabin, and he had tried to reason with Colm when he was captured, but aside from this, Arthur had never begged, actually begged for his life. But it was not his life he begged for - he was begging for a merciful death. This chair was a great many things, but mercy was not among its traits.
"Please, please fellas, I'll do anything, anything!" he screamed, struggling, meaning it in that moment, unable to summon any amount of stoicism in the face of this awful death.
Ignoring his cries, the guards rammed him into the chair, each seeming somehow to have the strength of ten men. He hardly noticed that they seemed not to have faces. They ratcheted the leather belts that held his arms and legs in place and Arthur grew furious now, trying to bite them when they forced his head in place, the last strap against his forehead holding the back of his skull to the head of the chair. One of the guards pulled a safety razor from somewhere, cutting away Arthur’s brown blonde hair as he struggled, his jaw clenching tight on the piece of rubber they had jammed between his teeth. The headpiece of the chair was lowered into contact with the crown of his head, the wires there dangling menacingly as they pulled the strap beneath his chin to hold it in place. His heart beating madly in his chest, his vision narrowing to a slot within a haze of black, Arthur spat the rubber bite guard from his mouth, sucking in a massive gulp of air before screaming again.
"Please," he cried, tears slipping from his bloodshot eyes, "please!" One of them flipped a switch and Arthur's mouth went wide, letting loose a shriek of agony in the stillness of the room.
*****
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You awoke, yawning, hearing noises nearby. You had been sleeping at the foot of the stairs in the big house at Shady Belle, the best place to sleep undisturbed while not in one of the actual rooms. You hadn't been with the gang long enough to earn a room, but your padded bedroll was comfortable, and at least you were indoors. The noises continued, small whimpers, crying, sobbing. Who the hell was that? you wondered. You had never heard this voice cry, you were sure. It was too deep to be Jack, and not nasal enough to be Bill. And it was upstairs, you realized. Surely not Dutch? No.
You froze, realizing. It was Arthur. He was crying frantically, moaning and whimpering. Was something happening to him, or was it just a bad dream? It sounded too quiet, too mumbled to be an attack, so you thought that perhaps he was dreaming. You had seen and overheard him dreaming sometimes when the camp was still mostly tents at Clemens Point and Horseshoe Overlook, and you had heard him mumble in his sleep, little words and snippets of phrases, grunts and snorts as he snuffled back into his pillow when you walked past on guard duty. But you had never heard him cry.
You slipped up the stairs, your hand on your knife, just in case violence was afoot. As you put your ear to his door, you could hear him still sobbing, crying out,
"No, no, please no, not like this, fellas, please!" You considered knocking, but you thought that a quieter wake up might be warranted. You also knew, however, that sneaking up on Arthur Morgan could be fatal. The man's eye, once fixed upon you with his gun in his hand and malicious intent in his mind, meant certain death. You huffed a soft, nervous breath, and turned the door handle. It opened with a squeak and you cringed, but it did not awaken him as you had expected. He was deep in the dream, you realized. He was in nothing but his union suit and he thrashed on his cot, having kicked away the blanket. Sweat stood out on his brow in the moonlight streaming in the window. Carefully, you squatted down next to him and put a gentle hand on his forearm, shaking it slightly.
"Mr. Morgan," you said softly, but he just let loose a terrified moan, "Arthur," you said, his first name feeling like honey over your tongue. "Hey, it's alright," you assured him as he, in bits and spurts, began to awaken and realized where he was. His eyes flicked open wide and he lunged back away from you, gasping for air, his big chest expanding and contracting wildly.
"What are you doin' in here?" he demanded in a soft tone, grabbing you by the arm in a fierce grip, his gaze going hard, his features stony in the half light of the moon. His eyes glittered and his brows knitted together, sending a sudden shudder of fear coursing through you. There was a reason you kept your distance from him, a reason why you called him “Mr. Morgan.” It was out of respect, and at least slightly, fear. He was big, angry and strong and you wanted no trouble from him. He was the gang’s enforcer and you? You were just the person who ran errands when needed, a nobody in the gang. Arthur probably never even thought of you if you weren’t directly in front of him, like you were right now, your breathing fast as you met his gaze. “I asked you a question, Y/N,” he snarled, shaking you.
"You were dreaming, Mr. Morgan. Havin' a nightmare by the sound of it." His brow wrinkled.
"You knew that?" His voice had an odd tone to it at this.
"You were crying," you told him honestly. He sniffled, realizing this was the truth as he used his free hand to rub at his moist eyes.
"I'm fine, you kin go," he drawled in an unfriendly tone, his cheeks red. He released his grip on your arm in a gesture of dismissal and you stood, beginning to head for the door, but something stopped you. Maybe it was the terrified, lonely glint still in those sad eyes of his.
"You can talk to me, if you want," you offered, tone cautious. “I know you’re pretty erinaceous, but I’ve been told that imparting the content of one’s dreams can work wonders in getting back to restful sleep.” Dutch had recently lent you some new books to read, so you were proud of your newfound vocabulary and the opportunity to use it. Arthur seemed less than impressed. He glared up at you, his eyes narrowing.
"Why don’t you take yourself and your two-dollar words back downstairs where you b’long? I'm fine," he insisted, but his voice hitched. He was afraid. Terribly afraid, and lonely. You saw it in his posture and in his eyes, it was written on his face as plainly as though someone had put it there in pen. You didn’t want to leave him like this. Feeling awkward, and more than a bit afraid of the consequences of your actions, you bent down and pulled him into a sudden embrace. He froze within your arms, his big shoulders stony, his breathing going shallow. You were just about to release him and apologize when he softened against you, wrapping his own arms around your waist, tugging you down further so that you were chest to chest.
Two sobs.
Arthur allowed himself two big, arm-rattling sobs, but then he composed himself and simply sat at the edge of his cot, with you leaned over to hug him, and the two of you stayed like that for several minutes, until your arms ached and your knees hurt from the awkward position. Finally, he released you.
“May I sit?” you asked, searching his face for permission. He grunted a sound that seemed affirmative, so you did, sitting next to him. He rolled a cigarette in a perfunctory manner, lighting it with a match drawn with swift motion up the side of the bed frame. He offered you a drag, but you refused. Your heart was still beating a staccato rhythm within your chest. What were you doing here? Sitting next to Arthur Morgan, one of the lead gang members, a huge man with massive muscles, incredible skill with a gun and…just incredibly blue, blue eyes, you thought absently.
“It was awful,” Arthur whispered, and you realized with a start that he was confiding in you. “I…I helped a man in Saint Denis. Scientist of some sort or other, fella by the name of Andrew Bell. A madman. Said he was workin’ on a more humane way to kill a man that needed killin’. So, I,” he sighed deeply, waving an arm in irritation or dismay at himself, “I helped him take in a feller that was supposed to be hung. He strapped him into this contraption…all kinds of wires. It’s supposed to use electricity to end a man, instead of a noose.” Arthur rubbed a weary hand over his face and he looked at you with bloodshot eyes. “It ain’t…it don’t matter. I’m fine, you can. You can just go, Y/N.”
“It’s alright, Arthur. I’m awake anyway,” you pointed out with a small smirk. He glanced at you and then clenched his jaw.
“Well. Maybe it would make me feel better to tell the rest, I guess. He, uh, Bell, the scientist, he strapped this poor fella name of ‘McDaniels’ into the chair. There was quite a crowd gathered, you know how a hangin’ will draw the vultures, but…Bell was going on and on about how much more humane it’d be. And he flipped that switch and the poor bastard,” Arthur gasped out a breath, “he fried, but he was alive. Screamin’ and hollerin’ for mercy. Begged somebody to put a bullet in him at the end of it. I weren’t fast enough. I was just…frozen. It was awful to watch. I have seen some…awful things in my time, but, that may have ‘em topped.”
“What about the scientist?” you asked. Arthur let out a bark of laughter.
“Dumb bastard fried himself too. I ain’t rightly sure ‘xactly how, and I know this isn’t very Christian of me, but…feller had it comin’, Y/N. That chair of his…it weren’t humane. If they…if they ever catch me, I hope they just hang me. If you’re there, if I’m caught and they put me in a chair like that, please,” Arthur pleaded, his voice and his face earnest, “just shoot me.”
You gave a full body shudder at the thought of a man being fried to death with electricity.
“If I’m present for your execution, it’ll be to save you from it, Mr. Morgan.”
“Arthur,” he muttered. “I ain’t your better or your boss. Just call me ‘Arthur.’”
“Alright then. Arthur. I guess you dreamed about that chair?”
“Hmm,” he agreed, swallowing. “Gettin’ drug to it. Strapped in. The whole nine,” he finished dismissively, finishing the last of his cigarette and smashing it to lifelessness beneath the toe of his boot on the old wooden floor. “Don’t really want to talk about it anymore.”
“Okay,” you told him, about to stand. He grabbed your arm and tugged you back into place. You searched his face, frowning a bit. His blue eyes were staring deeply into yours and you thought you saw something there you recognized from many nights at the campfire. A look. A glance. You’d thought it was because he didn’t like you. Perhaps it was the opposite. It was hard to tell in this time. The gang was fine with it, but, did he really…? Any question you may have had about Arthur’s thoughts regarding you were laid to rest as he wrapped a hand around the back of your neck and pulled your face close so that he could kiss you gently. It was a sweet kiss, soft and gentle, no teeth or tongue, just a slow movement of his lips against yours. When you didn’t respond, he jerked back.
“Sorry, I…”
“No,” you told him in a hushed, breathless voice, “it’s alright.” You assured him of this by pressing a kiss of your own to his cheek. He glanced over at you shyly.
“Weren’t quite sure what to make of you, but…seems more and more like takin’ risks is a way of life now.” You nodded slightly and the uncertainty seemed to drain from the big outlaw’s face. You studied his features and smiled with a shy motion, scratching the back of your head and feeling yourself go a little red at what you were about to suggest.
“I don’t want folk to talk, but if it’d make you feel better, er, uhm, if it would help with the dreams and the sleepin’, I suppose this bed is big enough to hold us both...? Just to sleep!” you clarified when you saw Arthur’s eyes widen.
“I reckon so,” Arthur allowed, lying back on the bed. You laid beside him, your heart beating like a bird’s, your stomach full of the fluttering of butterflies. You rested your head on his chest and felt him breathing beneath the weight of you.
“Is this alright?” you asked him in a quiet voice.
“It’s fine,” he muttered, and to your surprise, he drew you closer. You weren’t sure if this motion was from affection or from wanting to make sure you didn’t fall off the bed, but regardless, the gesture was soft, and sweet, and it made your chest feel warm. Here you were, cuddled next to Arthur Morgan, the enforcer, the broad angry brute of a man you had always half-feared. Turned out there was more to him than met the eye. After a few minutes, Arthur’s breaths deepened and you could tell that sleep had returned to him. You felt exhaustion overwhelm your senses and you began to drift off, but just as you were nearly to sleep, Arthur let out a little sound from his throat. He was dreaming again.
You listened closely, prepared to shake him back awake, but what he murmured low and throatily beneath your ear was unmistakable. He was not having a bad dream. You smirked slightly as sleep began to take you. He murmured it again, this time with a soft groan of pleasure.
“Y/N,” Arthur murmured, “Y/N.”