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The flu had been working its way through the camp, infecting most of the gang members. Susan had been fortunate enough to avoid it all together despite also taking care of the worse-off people when it struck them.
Little Jack had gotten sick, followed soon after by his parents each falling ill. Herr Strauss and Reverend Swanson were out for a couple days before bouncing back. Bill, Sean, Javier, and Karen had all been sick at the same time as well. Even Dutch had to take a few days to himself to hide away in his tent to recover.
Hosea knew it would hit Arthur soon, and he did not look forward to dealing with a feverish Arthur Morgan. The man was ridiculous when sick—refusing to admit he was falling ill, then downplaying the severity, to outright denying he was ill moments after vomiting his guts out.
He noticed the way Arthur’s skin seemed to sheen more, like he was sweating without the heat. It was coming, and Arthur would only drag it out by being difficult as always.
Hosea found Arthur sitting by the water with his journal in hand. He hadn’t written or sketched much, spending more time staring out at nature.
“Arthur, how’re you doing?”
Arthur closed his journal and looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Hosea. Just thinking.”
“Hm,” Hosea hummed, stepping closer to Arthur. “You still feeling alright? Nasty business with that flu going around camp.”
“I’m good,” Arthur replied, stifling a yawn. “Flu skipped me this time ‘round.”
Hosea didn’t believe that one bit, not with how tired his son looked. “Yes, well, why don’t you come with me back to camp? Maybe you can get a nap in while things are quiet.”
“Nap?” Arthur repeated. He tried to sound offended but the idea sounded amazing. He was exhausted after a short day of nothing and didn’t want to admit to himself that he was coming down with something. “I’m fine, Hosea, thanks.”
“Okay, Arthur, just know that it’s okay to take it easy when you’re unwell.”
Arthur got to his feet, not proud of how unsteady his legs were, and brushed past Hosea. “I appreciate it, Hosea, but I’m fine. I got chores to do.”
The older man watched forlorn as Arthur made his way back to camp, no doubt about to overexert himself doing chores for appearances.
Somehow Arthur managed to sneak out of camp and leave with a few of the boys to rob a homestead. Hosea was frustrated at this turn of events, because every single goddamn time Arthur got sick he would hide it, then endanger himself by attempting to carry on like he was fine.
This time he was out robbing with Javier and Bill… surely he would return exhausted, if not shot up. Hosea grumbled to himself and looked around camp for Charles to see if the man would mind helping him prepare some herbs. He was planning to craft some medicine and teas for when Arthur finally crashed. Their previous stock of medicines had been thoroughly depleted.
Once he had his fresh arsenal of medicines prepared, Hosea entered Arthur’s tent and sat a bucket by his stubborn son’s cot. He’d wait until Arthur returned with a fever to prepare a cloth and bowl of water.
A few hours pass and he finally hears the voices of Javier, Bill, and Arthur bouncing off the trees as they re-entered camp. Hosea watched from the table as Arthur dismounted his horse, passed the reigns to Keiran, and stumble past the hitching post. It took Hosea a minute to realize Arthur was limping.
Javier and Bill seemed to be carrying the majority of what they stole and Arthur limped to his tent, eyes fixed on the cot. Hosea cleared his throat as Arthur got close and the younger man startled, stopping in his tracks to face the man.
“Oh, hey, Hosea,” Arthur said, eyes darting from Hosea’s face to the assortment of tins of medicine on the table. “Been keeping busy?”
Hosea nodded. “Charles helped me craft up some more medicine. Flu, nasty business.”
“Uh huh.”
“What happened out there? You’re limping.”
Arthur looked down to his foot and snapped his head back up. “I’m not limping.”
Hosea raised his brows. “I watched you limp all the way from your horse to here. Now, what did you do? Roll your ankle? You didn’t get shot, did you?”
Arthur huffed. “No, I’m fine, the robbery went to plan. Now, if you’d please excuse me, I’m going to sit down a minute.”
Hosea watched as Arthur finished walking to his tent, the man trying not to limp on his pained foot, and dropping his ass on his cot. Hosea could only sigh and stand to his feet, following Arthur into his tent.
“Hosea, I said—”
“Yeah, I know what you said,” Hosea bit back. “You’re a shit liar. Which leg is it?”
Arthur averted his eyes and bit his lip in a pout. “My legs are fine.”
“Arthur Morgan, I swear I will—”
Arthur held a defensive hand up. “It’s not my leg… it’s my foot.”
“Oh. What happened?”
Arthur rubbed at his eyes, unaware of how young he looked doing so. “Was looking through the house for shit to take and I thought I saw a loose panel on the wall behind some heavy fucking sewing machine. Damn thing fell off the table and right on my foot.”
Hosea winced sympathetically. “Well, let’s get your boot off and see how bad it is. Do you think you broke it?”
Arthur stared down at his foot thoughtfully, a sudden pain ripping across his face. “It better be broken if it hurts like this.”
Hosea knelt before him and took hold of the boot, gently working it off his son’s foot. He peeled away Arthur’s worn sock, softly apologizing at the hisses of pain from Arthur. The foot didn’t look too bad, being swollen with a light bruise forming under the toes.
“Can you bend your toes?”
Arthur’s toes barely moved, curling slightly before going back. “Seems not.”
With a nod Hosea reached out to feel the foot, eyes darting to watch Arthur’s face as he felt each toe and gently moved it. Arthur’s face contorted with the pinky toe, less pained by the next toe. Hosea prodded at his foot where the toe bones met the metatarsals, noticing the wincing and hissing when he pressed on the joints.
“Definitely broken. Looks like you’ll be off your feet for a few weeks.”
Arthur groaned. “I can’t.”
“You don’t have a choice. We can’t have your foot healing wrong, how will you run?”
“I can run on these.”
“You can barely walk on those,” Hosea chided. “Look, Arthur, I know you hate taking it easy but you’re only going to make your foot worse if you don’t keep off it. And you know what? You’re sick, and I’m tired of pretending otherwise.”
Arthur’s mouth gaped open and he struggled to find any words to throw back. He weakly tried (and failed) to swat away Hosea’s hands when one landed on his forehead and the other laid on the side of his neck.
“You’re hot.”
“It’s summer.”
Hosea narrowed his eyes. “Why are you so stubborn?”
Arthur shrugged. “C’mon, Hosea, just wrap my foot and maybe I can take a quick nap before getting back to taking care of the camp.”
“Fine, Arthur. But you’re drinking some tea for the pain, no arguing.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and agreed. He sat silently as Hosea wrapped his foot, making sure the toes were all even. Kicking off his other boot, Arthur gently pulled his feet up into the cot and pulled his blanket over his legs. Hosea left the tent for a moment, bringing back a tin mug of something that smelled of herbs.
Arthur took it and drank the lukewarm liquid down, passing Hosea the cup before reclining back into his pillow. Hosea smiled and left, feeling smug that he’d tricked Arthur into drinking a tea to help him sleep. He set out to find Dutch by the dock and inform him of their son’s situation.
“Broke half the toes on his left foot. Boy isn’t leaving this damn camp for three weeks minimum,” Hosea said, firm on how he wanted to treat Arthur’s injury. “He’s finally coming down with the flu as well.”
Dutch whistled. “I’d say ‘poor Arthur,’ but he’s damn near insufferable when he’s sick.”
Hosea laughed. “He can’t stand not working… But I need you to back me up on this, Dutch. I don’t want Susan harassing Arthur to do chores, either. He needs to be off that foot, and preferably in bed.”
“I’ll talk to her.” Dutch turned to look toward the camp. “Is he asleep now?”
“For now, he is. We’ll have to keep on him to rest.”
“Of course. We’ll take care of our boy, no matter how much he hates it.”
Arthur woke up when it was dark out. He could hear the sounds of camp life, with Javier singing by the fire and Uncle tormenting Reverend Swanson. He could hear Sean laughing and crickets chirping. It must have been close to nine at night.
His stomach rolled and his tongue began salivating. Arthur groaned and forced himself to sit up, swinging his bare feet over the cot and pushing himself up to stand. His toes throbbed, movement feeling like a knife cutting through the muscle. He limped out of his tent, barely able to round the wagon before his stomach lurched and sent vomit up his throat.
Arthur leaned on the wagon, one hand braced on the wood, heaving onto the grass. His skin was sweaty and hot now and Arthur felt uncomfortable in his skin.
Hosea and Dutch were by his side when he was almost done puking. Arthur felt too weak and pained to fight it when Dutch grabbed his left arm, forcing it over his shoulder while also grabbing Arthur’s waist firmly to help him walk. They made it back in a few steps and Arthur was relieved once he felt his ass hit the cot.
Hosea disappeared again, reappearing with more tea. Warm tea this time, which soothed Arthur’s throat as he swallowed it down.
Dutch was sitting beside Arthur, rubbing circles into Arthur’s sweat-soaked back. Arthur finished his drink and Hosea took the cup back, setting it on the shaving table.
Arthur’s head felt hazy and heavy. He barely registered Hosea and Dutch talking in front of him about his fever and changing him into dryer clothes. He didn’t resist it when his fathers unbuttoned his shirt or unclipped his suspenders or slid his pants off his legs. He didn’t struggle or try to fight it when they laid him down and maneuvered him into a fresh, dry union suit.
He was barely awake, vaguely aware of the blankets being pulled up to his chin or the cool cloth being placed on his forehead.
Arthur awoke again in the morning, confused as to why his foot felt wet. He pried his heavy eyelids open and lifted his head, seeing his bandaged foot had been propped up on a pillow and had a cold, wet cloth across it.
His stomach rolled again and he whined to himself. Arthur fucking hated being nauseous.
“You need to throw up?”
Arthur turned his head and saw Dutch in a chair beside him, book in hand. “H’long you been here?”
“Since I woke up. Hosea was with you all night.”
Arthur’s stomach gurgled loudly and Dutch reached down for the bucket. Arthur took it gratefully before hunching over the bucket and emptying the rest of his stomach into it. He could hear Dutch standing up and exiting the tent, calling out, “Mister Smith! Would you mind finding some more of that tea Hosea made for Arthur?”
Arthur felt his skin burn with embarrassment. “You’re gonna wake the whole damn camp,” he groaned from his bucket.
“They’re already awake.”
“S’worse,” Arthur moaned and gagged into the bucket.
“Don’t be a baby, everyone was sick and had the same treatment.”
It was a small comfort but didn’t fend off all the embarrassment of being the sick one, the one who can’t do chores for the camp and needs to be taken care of like an invalid. Then, on top of that, his fucking toes were broken now and walking in front of everyone would be humiliating. He knew he’d have Bill or Sean or that rat bastard Micah calling him names. Gimpy or Limpy or Hopalong Cassidy.
Charles was coming into his view with a tin mug of hot tea. “It should calm your stomach,” he told Arthur, who took the cup with a shaking hand.
“Need to break that fever,” Dutch said aloud, Charles nodding along.
Arthur groaned as he drank in the hot liquid. He hated being talked about like he wasn’t there, and he would complain if his throat didn’t feel so raw and desperate for this heaven-sent tea.
“I could steal a thermometer from a doctors’ office.”
“Probably not a bad idea, Mister Smith. Go into town, but bring a couple of the ladies with you. I think Karen would do well.”
“On it,” Charles turned and exited the tent, calling out for Karen and Mary-Beth to come with him.
Tea finished, Arthur tries to set the tin down on his side table, hitting the edge and dropping the cup to the dirt. Dutch wordlessly picked it back up and gave a pointed look to his son.
“Feeling weak?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout,” Arthur grumbled, melting back into his cot. His pillow had never felt so soft—albeit damp from his fevered sweating.
Dutch rolled his eyes and reached for his abandoned book. “Just get some rest. Maybe Charles will bring back some medicine for you.”
“He don’t need to go through all this trouble for me,” Arthur replied, voice rough despite the tea.
“Yeah, well, we are, so shut up and go to sleep.”
Arthur hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep again until he was startled awake by a sharp pain in his toes. He groaned and felt a hand on his ankle, holding his foot still before he could try to pull it away from the prodding touches.
He didn’t even bother to question it; he was so tired and sore and nauseous that he couldn’t focus on just one irritation. He had just enough strength to roll his head away when a hand came to rest on his forehead. The same hand moved to gently cup his face and turn it back.
“Are you lucid, Arthur? I need to take your temperature. Don’t bite down. It needs to be under your tongue.”
It sounded like Hosea, but Arthur wasn’t sure. He felt something cold slip between his lips and poke under his tongue. It was uncomfortable and he wanted to turn away, but Hosea’s hand kept his face still.
The thermometer was removed and so was Hosea’s hand. Arthur bit back the new wave of nausea rolling over his stomach. He felt Hosea’s hand on the back of his head, lifting it to meet a cup being held by Charles.
Arthur finally cracked his eyes open and saw the cup being pressed to his lips. He let them slide back down and parted his lips, expecting tea—disappointed greatly when it was bitter medicine. He tried to pull back, held in place by Hosea, and whined at the taste.
“I know, but you gotta drink it if you want to feel better.”
Arthur wanted to argue that he was just going to throw it back up in a minute but instead drank down the nasty liquid. The cup was removed and he was eased back down. Hosea’s hand moved to run fingers through his hair and he, for once, leaned into the touch.
His toes were being touched again and Arthur barely pieced together that Charles must be re-wrapping his broken digits together—which he did, having had asked the doctor a few genuine questions while the ladies snuck around and robbed the office for a few small supplies. Thankfully Arthur had still been out when Charles informed Dutch and Hosea that the medical professional said it would take six to eight weeks for the toes to heal.
Charles finished carefully tying Arthur’s toes together and rejoined the camp, setting his sights on a few chores he knew Arthur would have done if he had been able. Hosea kept his seat, playing with Arthur’s hair, hoping to ward off the nausea Arthur was fighting. What a waste it would be if Arthur threw up the medicine they just stole.
Dutch strolled back into the tent some time after Arthur had fallen back asleep. He sat a hand on Hosea’s shoulder and looked over his bedridden son.
“He doing okay? Mister Smith said they scored a few things for him.”
“That they did. He should start feeling better as long as he doesn’t puke up the medicine. He just fell asleep, so things are looking good in that regard.”
Dutch sat down next to Hosea, occupying an abandoned wooden chair they had dragged in earlier. “How about you? You’ve spent all your waking time here.”
“I’m fine,” Hosea brushed off Dutch’s concern. “I got a boy to take care of.”
“Just remember to take care of yourself.”
Hosea smiled. “I appreciate the concern, Dutch, but it’s better directed at this sorry sight,” he tilted his head toward the unconscious form on the cot.
“I suppose so. Has he driven you mad yet?”
“Not yet, but the fever has yet to break.”
Across from them Arthur mumbled in his sleep. Dutch looked at his son, from his pale face down to his exposed foot.
“Two months,” Dutch mused, eyes on those crooked toes. “He’s going to hate that.”
“They say it starts feeling better after two weeks,” Hosea commented. “Knowing Arthur, he’ll keep walking on them until something else snaps.”
Dutch shook his head. “Any of that medicine strong enough to put him out until then?”
“You’ll need to ask the Reverend for something that strong.”
“Ugh. Even when he’s asleep he’s difficult!”
Hosea couldn’t help but laugh at Dutch’s frustration. “Let’s wait until Arthur is the one kicking up a fuss before we get worked up over anything. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll take it easy without complaint.”
“Sure as the sky is green and pigs soar overheard.”
“Point taken… I know where Arthur gets it from now.”
“Gets what?”
“His sass,” Hosea smirked. “His sarcasm. You’ve been a terrible influence on the boy.”
“Well, I did teach him how to read. I had to balance it out somehow.”
They laughed to themselves, almost forgetting about Arthur… until the man woke up, bolted upright, and vomited over the side of the cot. Hosea sighed to himself and got ready to stand and refill Arthur’s cup. Dutch kicked some dirt over the puke and looked for a rag for Arthur to wipe his mouth with.
“Good thing Mister Smith got three bottles,” he said to himself. “Arthur, think you’re up for another mouthful of this alleged anti-nausea snake oil?”
Arthur’s response was a simple, succinct retching over the side of the bed.
“Alright, we’ll try a little later then.”