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“That looks like poison ivy,” John remarked.
“Nah,” Arthur replied coolly. “Ain’t poison ivy, the leaves are wrong.”
The two were on the edge of camp, clearing out some brush to expand their camp a little farther. Finally they’d be able to spread out their tents and have a few more inches of privacy. Little Jack would have a little more space to play and not be underfoot so much.
Arthur boldly reached forward and grabbed the plant in handfuls, ripping it off the trees. John, upon seeing how fearlessly Arthur handled the plant, reached out to remove it as well.
They cleared out a small section before Dutch was calling everyone to gather around his tent for another speech. John was starting to think Dutch just liked the sound of his own voice.
They never got back to clearing out the overgrown plants on the outskirts of camp. They were distracted and pulled in every direction with other chores or missions or discussions with Dutch.
That night John found himself scratching his hands more and more, breaking the skin.
“That bastard,” he grunted, hands formed into fists, trying to ward off the intense itching and coming pain. “He set me up,” he seethed to Abigail.
She was trying to get him to stop fucking with his hands and to just tell Hosea he needed something for them, maybe a salve or a plant he could crush up and apply. He was too proud… embarrassed, really.
“How exactly did Arthur set you up?” Abigail asked, thinking about the scenario. “Didn’t he touch it too?”
“Yeah, but… he’s fine. Look at him!” John gestured toward the campfire were Arthur was sitting with Charles and drinking. His hands looked normal as far as John could tell, and he wasn’t itching at them like John wanted to.
“You both touched it, maybe he didn’t keep scratching at it and it got better already.” She jabbed at John, feeling like she had two sons with how stubborn he was.
He eventually broke down and snuck to Hosea’s tent, feeling better now that most everyone was getting drunk by the fire. Hosea shook his head at the sight of John’s hands, red and scratched open over the rash. A few small bubbles were forming, filling with liquid John would eventually rupture.
“Let’s get this cleaned up,” Hosea sighed. “I should have something to put on it but you need to stop scratching at it!”
John flushed; unaware he was itching his hands again. “Sorry, Hosea.”
The older man beckoned John closer and began wiping his hands with a rag before applying a questionable substance all over the skin. It burned at first, but it did help with the itching.
John sulked back to his tent and stayed mad about Arthur.
The next morning his hands were worse, and John had to return to Hosea for further help. He ended up with bandages wrapped loosely around his hand, fingers still free.
Arthur approached him and asked, “Wanna finish cleaning up that bit over there?”
John huffed. “No, I can’t.”
Arthur had an inquisitive expression before he noticed the bandages. “Oh shit, Johnny, what’d you do?”
“You set me up!” John finally burst. “This is from poison ivy!”
Arthur looked between John’s angry expression and his wrapped hands. “Oh, shit. I really didn’t think that was poison ivy.”
“How are you fine?”
Arthur looked down to his own, unaffected hands. “Huh. You know, now that I think of it, I’ve never gotten a rash from poison ivy. I thought I was just good at picking it out.”
“Clearly not,” John huffed.
“Well look at that! I’m immune to poison ivy!”
John huffed and stormed away. He couldn’t even be mad at Arthur, the man genuinely didn’t know he was wrong!
It was infuriating!
“Hey, Micah!” Arthur called from across the camp, catching everyone’s attention. He walked across the camp, meeting up with the blonde rat by the fire.
“What?” Micah spat, already not trusting Arthur’s intentions.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry for being so hard on you,” Arthur drawled, pulling out a box of premium cigarettes. He tapped out a dingy looking cigarette and offered it up. “I just… felt threatened, is all.”
Micah smirked and took the cigarette. “Threatened? Yeah, makes sense.”
John couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Had Arthur gone mad? Why is he being so nice to that piece of shit?
Micah lit up the cigarette and Arthur pulled out another, more pristine one. As Arthur began lighting his own up, Micah began coughing.
Soon Micah was bent over, hands on his knees, cigarette dropped to the ground.
“Jesus, Bell, first smoke?”
Micah tried to curse out Arthur, only choking more. Arthur chuckled, shook his head, and walked away. He approached John, who was still mad and giving Arthur dirty looks.
“See that?’
“You kissing Micah’s ass? Yeah, I nearly threw up.”
“No,” Arthur grinned. “Look at that sumbitch.”
John craned his neck and looked past Arthur, now noticing Micah wheezing and scratching desperately at his hands.
“You didn’t.”
Arthur had an evil glint in his eye. “I promise, Johnny, I only use my powers for good.”
“How is giving Micah Bell a poison ivy-laced cigarette good?”
“Got him shut up for a while, don’t it?”
John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I guess.”
Arthur’s face dropped and he looked down at John’s bandaged hands. “You know, I’m… shit. I’m sorry about your hands. I really didn’t know it was poison ivy. I wouldn’t have asked you to pull that if I knew it’d do this to ya.”
John’s eyes lightened and he finally looked at Arthur without disdain. “Thank you. I guess it ain’t your fault, you didn’t know…”
Micah hacked violently in the background.
“You did know about that, though.”
“Yeah, it’s kind of fucked up the more I think about it… Oh well, what’re you gonna do?” Arthur shrugged and John laughed at him. “I’m gonna clear out the rest of that poison ivy. Have fun resting those hands, Scarface.”
John weakly flipped off Arthur through the bandages and turned around to watch Micah struggle by the fire.