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When Arthur got up before sunrise to head out hunting, he left Micah asleep in bed. His partner struggles to sleep most of the time, so Arthur didn’t wake him.
But upon returning to camp several hours later, his horse laden with game, Arthur never expected Micah to still be in bed. However, as he drops off his supplies at Pearson’s wagon, Arthur asks after Micah, and Pearson mentions that nobody has seen Micah all morning. With Baylock still in camp, though, Micah must be here. So… is Micah still in bed?
Concerned, Arthur rushes inside the house and up the stairs. Arthur eases their bedroom door open, peeking inside. Just like a few hours ago, Micah lies curled on his side, facing the wall, and Arthur wonders if he moved an inch this entire time.
“Micah? You awake?” he whispers.
Micah flinches, a dry cough bursting out of him. “No…” he mutters.
Arthur chuckles, walking into the room. He closes the door behind him, approaching the bed slowly. “Well, unless you’re talkin’ in your sleep, I think you’re lyin’.”
“I ain’t in the mood, Arthur,” Micah says, his voice hoarse from coughing.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Arthur studies Micah’s appearance. His long hair covers his face, but Arthur catches glimpses of his closed eyes, tense jaw and… flushed cheeks. “Are you feelin’ okay?”
“Yes.” Micah sighs. “Ain’t a feller allowed a rest around here?”
“Micah, it’s half ten in the mornin’. That’s way past ‘a rest’.”
“What?” Micah says. Trying to hide how much effort it takes, Micah rolls over in bed. He glances up at Arthur, frowning. “Is it really that late, Cowpoke?”
With Micah facing him, it becomes even more apparent how awful he looks. His whole face is pale and clammy, except for his cheeks, which glow an unnatural shade of red. Micah coughs hard, glancing away when he notices Arthur looking at him.
“Yeah. I’ve never seen you sleep that long. You’re really sick, ain’t you?”
Micah scoffs, tugging the blanket under his chin. “Oh, you fuss too much, Morgan. I ain’t sick.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “For some reason, I ain’t sure I believe you, Micah.”
“If you’re just here to bitch at me, d’you mind goin’ away?” Micah says, his voice lacking any real venom. He muffles a cough, squeezing his eyes shut before they can water.
“I’m not bitchin’, Micah,” Arthur says, sighing. “I’m worried about you.”
As Micah sighs too, Arthur presses the back of his hand against Micah’s forehead, needing to feel his temperature.
“Fuck, that’s cold!” Micah hisses, flinching.
Micah’s skin burning beneath his hand, Arthur says, “No, you’re just hot. You’ve got a fever, dumbass.”
Swatting Arthur’s hand away, his grip disturbingly weak, Micah says, “No I haven’t. Quit fussin’, Cowpoke.”
“I ain’t fussin’. And just admit you’re sick.”
“Never,” Micah says, smirking weakly.
“Well, I’m still gonna look after you,” Arthur says, smiling down at his sick partner. “And you can’t stop me.”