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Given how many concussions Arthur had suffered for the gang, it took him an awfully long time to realize each brain injury led to a couple days of unbothered rest and undivided attention from his fathers.
He realized that, perhaps, it was the many concussions that had slowed his brain from picking up on this little trick. He did revel in the irritation he unleashed upon the camp, namely Dutch, whenever he had to be taken care of post-TBI.
Not that Arthur remembered much of his concussed childlike behavior, but he knew how he got when his brain was rattled. Often he was a terror, less frequently he’d become inconsolably clingy.
One day, after a particularly rough attempt to break in a newly gained horse, Arthur suffered a new blow to the noggin. He’d been doing a decent job at breaking in the stallion, having finally successfully mounted the horse and hadn’t been bucked off yet. He was out in a field by their camp, just far enough away to keep from the distractions of camp life. He didn’t need the stallion getting overstimulated by the sights and sounds.
He’d been doing pretty damn good… until a distant gunshot echoed off the trees and startled the twitchy horse, the massive beast rearing back and violently bucking Arthur off his back. The outlaw fell to the ground hard and felt his skull crack into the dirt, an instant throb setting into his brain, his jaw sore from his teeth smashing together.
And the stallion took off into the woods with their spare horse tack and saddle, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to care as he rolled onto his side and groaned low.
“Goddamn,” he moaned, even the sound of his own voice too loud for his new headache. He felt sick, like he needed to roll over more and puke his guts out into the grass.
It was a damn blessing when he heard footsteps rushing his way, sticks snapping as unseen people were shouting. Voices called out and Arthur lifted a heavy hand to cover the ear that wasn’t pressed into the dirt. His head felt like it was going to explode.
“Morgan, you okay? We heard a gun— shit!”
Bill and Lenny stood feet away, almost running over Arthur, staring at his prone form on the ground. In an instant Lenny was kneeling by Arthur’s side, looking over his body and the grimace on Arthur’s face.
“Is he shot?” Bill asked, still feet away, stricken in his boots.
“I don’t think so,” Lenny said, unable to find any blood. “Probably just some hunter. I don’t see the horse.”
“Fucker ran off,” Arthur barely gritted out, regretting it immediately and inhaling sharply through his nose.
“What hurts?” Lenny asked, not mincing words to get to the point. To help Arthur faster.
It took a minute for Arthur to find his voice, throat stuck in a low rumble of pain that was arguably a pitiful whine. “H-head.”
Lenny looked up to Bill and back to Arthur. He had heard somewhere not to move someone who had hit their head, or was it their spine? Either way, Lenny wasn’t about to move Arthur from his spot on the ground.
“Bill, can you get Hosea and Miss Grimshaw?”
“What, why? It’s just his head, Morgan can walk back.”
Lenny shot him an incredulous look. “Arthur’s got a pretty high pain tolerance, do you really think it’s a good sign that he’s not even sitting up right now?”
Bill mumbled something unintelligible.
“And do you want to be the one dealing with him when we get him back and he’s all concussed and annoying?”
Bill turned on his heel and rushed back to camp. Arthur was notoriously infuriating when he hit his head.
Bill returned to the clearing with more than just Hosea and Susan; along came Dutch, Orville, and Charles. The latter carrying their makeshift stretcher, last used when they’d first arrived at Colter. Arthur didn’t seem to notice their presence, too focused on his own breathing and agonizing migraine.
“I-I didn’t think it was safe to move him,” Lenny started, thinking he was about to be reprimanded for not doing anything.
Hosea extended a hand to help the younger man stand up. “You did right, Lenny. Exactly right.”
That set the young man’s heart at ease. Arthur’s new sharp exhale of pain unsettled it again.
“What happened?” Dutch demanded, not noticing the way his voice sent winces to Arthur’s face.
“Horse bucked him, we think,” Bill replied.
“He said his head hurts,” Lenny added. “And, uh… We know how he gets when he hits his head. I didn’t want to make it worse by moving him.”
Hosea and Susan approached Arthur, both kneeling down where Lenny had been. Susan stroked hair from Arthur’s forehead, frowning when even that much caused him further pain.
Hosea softly apologized before his bony fingers starting prodding Arthur’s head and neck, whines and moans pulling at his heartstrings. Nothing felt off in Arthur’s neck, though he had a distinct bump on the back of his head (along with blood on Hosea’s fingers as he pulled back).
“Reverend, would you be so kind as to ease Arthur’s suffering?”
Susan narrowed her eyes at Hosea. “Mister Matthews, we need to check his eyes.”
“If you can convince Arthur to open them then be my guest, but I’d say that’s not happening until he gets some morphine in him.”
She sighed, defeated, and relented. Orville came around the other side of Arthur and prepared a needle with shaking hands. He’d brought a small bag with him, now discarded in the dirt as he pulled morphine into the syringe.
Luckily Arthur’s sleeves had been rolled up, making it easier to jab him in the arm and get him started on not feeling like his head was being split open by an irate grizzly.
Everyone but Arthur returned to their feet, and Charles and Bill brought the stretcher by his side, setting it down behind his back. When Arthur’s breathing calmed and his face relaxed, Hosea motioned toward the stretcher.
He knelt down again for a moment and, in a quieter tone than usual, spoke to Arthur.
“Son, we’re going to move you. We’re getting you home, and more of that morphine if you need it.”
Arthur could only grunt in response. His eyes were still screwed shut, too afraid to pry them open to the assault of the midday sun. The aching throb in his skull was easing down, still near debilitating. He wasn’t proud of the whine to escape his throat when he felt hands moving him, encouraging him to roll from his side and onto his back.
A hand was under his head before he could lay it on the stretcher. There was a flattened pillow there and Arthur could barely register Susan’s voice telling him to turn his head to the side.
The morphine kept creeping in and his head began to clear of the grips of agony. Arthur felt spacey and out of his body. He was struggling to hold onto a single thought, each notion in his head shifting to a new topic, not that he was trying to think of anything at the moment.
Charles and Bill counted to three before lifting the stretcher up. Hosea walked aside them as they returned to camp, needing to keep an eye on his son, if not for his own sake.
They made it back to camp and deposited Arthur into his cot, the man barely groaning by then. Hosea and Dutch stayed by his side, both murmuring words of comfort to their son.
Dutch sat on the edge of his cot and rested a hand on Arthur’s chest as he spoke softly. “You’re going to be alright, son. Can you open your eyes for me?”
Arthur whined softly and sloppily lifted his hand to rest it on Dutch’s. He opened his eyes after Hosea brushed hair from Arthur’s forehead, pleased to see the slight motion didn’t incur massive pain anymore.
His pupils weren’t right. His head was probably still bleeding, but the towel they’d set down on his pillow should be stopping it. His gaze was unfocused.
Dutch knew Annoying Arthur™ was coming soon.
Except he didn’t… instead, he and Hosea saw a different side of Arthur. Grabbing Dutch’s hand should have been the first hint that he was going to be needy. Clingy.
He whined again, louder, when Susan came in the tent with bandages. Hosea had to lift his head from the bloody towel while Susan wrapped the wound. They pulled the towel away before Hosea eased his head back down, directly on the pillow.
Susan had just cleared out when Arthur whimpered, “Daddy…”
Dutch’s heart stuttered, a warmness blooming over his chest. He didn’t know why he felt so warm hearing the childish name, but he wanted to pursue that feeling.
“D-daddy…”
“Shh, we’re here,” Dutch cooed, gently rubbing Arthur’s chest. “Ain’t we, Pa?”
Hosea rose his eyebrows to Dutch and the long-forgotten nickname. But he felt bad for poor Arthur and his head, so he played along.
“That’s right.”
Arthur cracked his eyes open again and blearily looked up at Hosea.
“Papa.”
Papa? He’d never been called that before. It had always been just Pa. Dutch had been Dad, when the teenaged Arthur felt like being affectionate. But Papa? That was new.
“Feeling loopy this time around, son?”
Arthur made a small noise and slowly closed his eyes. “Nooo.”
“Think you can stay awake?”
“Don’t wanna,” Arthur tiredly argued. “S’eepy.”
Dutch chuckled. “You gotta stay awake, sweetheart. You hit your head, you know how this goes.”
Arthur whined and turned his hazy eyes to Hosea. “Papa…”
Why did that name have a vice on Hosea’s heart? He sighed and leaned down to kiss Arthur on the temple. He chuckled when he heard a content sigh from his son.
“You can have all the attention you want if you stay awake,” Hosea bargained.
Dutch was laughing now as Arthur agreed with a pleased smile. “Are you our needy boy this time ‘round?”
Arthur mumbled something that sounded like “I don’t know,” and reached toward Dutch with grabby hands. “’Tention?”
“Alright, Hosea, we owe Baby Boy some ‘tention’.”
They repositioned themselves to all be seated on the cot, legs hanging off the side, backs supported against the wagon. Arthur was sandwiched between his dads, also loosely wrapped in a blanket. He was slumped against Dutch, but still required Hosea to lean against him for the contact.
“Why can’t I sleep?” Arthur whined, yawning at the end of his sentence.
“Because you hit your head,” Dutch replied.
“But whyyyy?”
“Don’t whine,” Dutch chided, turning to kiss Arthur on the head. “Does it still hurt?”
“Little bit,” Arthur slurred.
“Do you want more morphine?”
Arthur nodded his head into Dutch’s neck.
“Then one of us has to get up and grab the reverend.”
“Nooo.”
“That or I yell for him to come over, but that’s gonna hurt your head.”
Arthur made a disgruntled noise. He didn’t want either of his dads to leave him. “Okay, go, Papa.”
Hosea snorted. “Oh, so poor old Pa has to go while Daddy gets to stay and cuddle? That hardly seems fair.”
Arthur shrugged and Hosea bit his lip to keep the laughter in. He patted Arthur’s shoulder before peeling himself away from the cot to wave down the reverend.
“Would you mind giving Arthur a little more? Not too much.”
“Of course.”
They returned to the tent with Arthur still nestled into Dutch’s side, face totally buried in his neck. The reverend didn’t comment on the closeness and just prepared his needle.
Hosea approached Arthur and gently pulled one arm away from Dutch, softly reminding him he was about to get an injection—to which Arthur softly whimpered.
“Nothing to be scared of,” Dutch said lowly, hoping the reverend didn’t hear. “It’s just a little pinch.”
Arthur inhaled sharply and forced his face deeper into Dutch’s shoulder. Gauze was wrapped around the injection site and Hosea was shooing Orville back out before reclaiming his spot beside Arthur.
“Good job, baby. You were so brave,” Hosea cooed, running his hand over Arthur’s back.
“I’m brave,” Arthur repeated, voice muffled.
“Very much,” Dutch added. “Now, remember not to fall asleep when the pain’s gone.”
“But I’m tired.”
“Just a few more hours, then you can sleep,” Hosea promised. “In fact, I think Daddy will let you snuggle in his bed if you can wait that long.”
Arthur peeked his head out from Dutch’s neck and looked up at him with big, blown pupils. “I can sleep in Daddy’s bed?”
Dutch was torn between being annoyed with Hosea for suggesting Dutch share his small cot with another full-grown man, or having his heart melt at the puppy-dog eyes Arthur was giving him.
And Arthur was just being so needy and lovey… How was he supposed to say ‘no’ to that?
“Yeah, Baby Boy can sleep in Daddy’s bed. Only if you keep awake for now, got it?’
Arthur tilted his head and leaned it against Dutch, face no longer buried. “Got it.”
“Now, how about Papa massage your back because you’re being such a good boy?”
This time it was Hosea’s turn to send Dutch an annoyed look, but he just couldn’t say ‘no’ to his son. Arthur shifted a bit to have his back toward Hosea, the older man cracking his fingers before digging his palms into Arthur’s knotted muscles.
Arthur was humming with contentment and loosening up, muscles relaxing where the morphine couldn’t help. When he couldn’t massage any longer, Hosea got up to retrieve some books to read aloud to Arthur to keep him awake.
Dutch complained he didn’t bring Miller, to which Hosea replied, “We’re trying to keep him awake, not put him out.”
And Arthur giggled, short little bursts of childlike amusement at the look on Dutch’s face.
When the sun was finally setting and it became clear Arthur would not be staying awake any longer regardless of what they did, Dutch and Hosea nudged the man up and walked him to Dutch’s tent. With him on his side, and Dutch doing the same, they could just barely fit on the cot together.
Hosea helped pull the blanket over them, Dutch now incapacitated by Arthur’s needy arms. Before turning to leave, Hosea leaned down to plant a kiss on Arthur’s temple. And partially to mess with Dutch, he did the same to him. Dutch scoffed lightly and Hosea walked out, wondering if Arthur would be just as needy when he woke up in the morning.