Work Text:
Arthur
hates
John. It’s written on his face, never quite good at hiding his emotions. Sure he can mask it behind sarcasm, jokes and bitter banter than he’d learned well from Dutch and Hosea, but he's always honest in it. Even in his snark there's a kernel of truth to be told. He’s always blatant and cruel, but maybe it's a kindness in directness. You never have to wonder what Arthur thinks of you, never have to squirrel your way around to primp and preen for praise or glower with the uncertainty after any ultimate failure. Good or bad, he always lets you know what you’ve earned.
And, by god does he let John know.
Yet there they are, sat ‘round a fire just the two of them. By decree of Dutch, of course – Arthur has a terrible time saying no to Dutch – but by god they’re sat around that fire like it’s about to burn them itself as a witches pyre. John’d rather freeze than feel the unholy heat of sparks that draw them together unwillingly in the cold of night. Arthur looks about the same. But, someone needed to hunt, to gather food for the winter that came to Ambarino too soon, and who better than the Van der Linde prize jewels.
Maybe it’s a failed attempt to chain them together, to try and get along like they had before John had gone and mucked up the situation with his pride, idiocy, and short sightedness. Alas, their bitter rivalry does not end at the edge of the firelight like it does with most cold and angry men – like Dutch and Hosea had likely planned. Instead it only muddied the waters more as they sat in silence, no arguments need to be made when eyes do all the talking. John hated fatherhood more than most things on earth, he was not built for the kindness it required, but he would once again joyously press his face to Abigail's bosom as a supplicant to the familial ties if it meant Arthur would stop glaring at him through this fire like he’d murdered his only son.
Arthur does eventually turn away. He digs through his satchel, and John only wishes it’s to pull a gun and end his misery now, but that would require so much luck and they both know he has none to spare. He pulls a glass bottle that glitters in the campfire like a gem half empty with booze, and rips a hunk of bread from what he had stowed away. Arthur always was careful at planning, making sure things were to be perfect before taking any risks – hunting no exception to that rule. Where John had gone and lost his supplies, Arthur had kept his close and safe because more than anything to an outlaw, food was your lifeblood. Without your gun you've at least got your wit to live by, but without food you're weak and miserable and better than dead to any idiot to stumble across your sorry self. John expects to watch in misery while Arthur rubs what might as well be a feast in his face.
Instead, he tears the bread once more, passing a piece to John, the bottle of whiskey short to follow after he himself takes a quick swig. John accepts them like communion, a blessing, a gift – it ain’t forgiveness, he knows he doesn’t deserve that, but it feels so unbearably close to it. He could leave John to starve on his own stupidity, let his fingers go numb with the cold because there was no true danger of frostbite – the weather had yet to get that bad. There was easily a lesson to be learned here through mild suffering, one that Arthur is usually quick to point out before laughing at someone's misery. But, he offered kindness instead. John is skeptical yet devours what little he is given like a rabid animal before it can be taken away in some cruel joke. Arthur does not joke, he does not mock or rant to John like usual. He is steady and silent and chooses to look at John no more, which somehow burns worse than the glare he was given earlier. When John could barely keep his eyes open as the crackle of logs in the fire lulled him off to sleep, Arthur willingly took the first watch, practically letting him rest until dawn before giving in to his own exhaustion and having to swap.
The low rustle of leaves and burning coals of the fire dying out leave too much room for thought while John sits guard over their small camp of two men and horses. He watches as Arthurs chest gently rises and falls, traces the wrinkles on his eyes and the softness in his brow that feels like a new discovery never before seen by man. Arthur Morgan keeps his heart on his sleeve and each emotion carefully written on his face to be read by the world at large leaving little left to guess at, but in the still silence of the early morning John has to wonder if he ever really learned how to read.