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It had been roughly two months since Arthur’s capture and subsequent torture by the O’Driscolls, and he had little to show for it save for a puckered, aching crater in his shoulder and the several pounds he had shucked from his body while fighting off infection.
Apparently Hosea had decided that he should regain his freedom in small increments. First, it had been walking (with help) to a nearby tree to empty his bladder instead of pissing in the bucket stowed under his cot. Then, he was allowed to sit at the table nearest his tent to eat a meal once a day. Once a day turned into twice, then every meal was shared with Hosea, Tilly, and often Charles at the rickety wooden dinner table. After about three weeks, he was allowed to dress properly (with help, of course) and hobble around camp, finally able to pet his horse Somber, the black Standardbred.
He was ashamed to admit it, but he had needed the coddling. His fever lingered for several weeks, and he still carried a deep-seated exhaustion in his bones. Small tasks such as brushing out Somber’s coat or dressing himself left him panting for breath. He slept more often than not, needing at least an hour-long nap every afternoon, and was often awoken by hazy nightmares. As much as he needed it, though, the coddling got old fast. At least now he was allowed to leave camp by himself, much to Hosea and Grimshaw’s exasperation.
He had promised to be back to camp before sundown, but time slipped away from him. It had felt like ages since he was able to be alone with his thoughts, and a trip that was only supposed to be a couple of hours turned into several. Arthur wandered down dusty paths atop his faithful steed, leisurely sketching in his journal and watching the local wildlife graze. He had ended up perched by a lakeside, determined to bring home some food for Pearson’s supply.
He had heard Dutch grumble about low food stocks as the gang leader passed Arthur’s tent, and he felt a sharp pang of guilt stab through his gut. He hadn’t brought in any food in more than two months. He was slacking.
As he cast out into the water, though, his shoulder throbbed something fierce. Ever since his injury, he hadn’t been without pain, but it was usually a dull ache. His wound seemed to flare at the end of the day, though, and Arthur realized the sun was beginning to set.
He hastily packed up his fishing rod, wincing at the sharp throbbing of his shoulder. His hand was beginning to tingle and lose sensation, twitching and trembling as his nerves flared up. Arthur sighed. This was going to be a long night.
He pulled himself back into his saddle with a sharp grunt of effort. Somber danced on eager hooves, bobbing his head happily and pawing at the ground. Arthur huffed, feeling his remaining energy drain from him entirely, and he slumped in the saddle sadly.
“Take me home, boy.” Arthur murmured, too tired to steer. His boy was smart, and incredibly loyal, huffing an excited breath and beginning to trot towards camp. Arthur patted his wide neck and rooted through his satchel for the bottle of bumblebee whiskey he had stowed there. Ever since he awoke from the horrible fever, he had been at least half drunk. It was the only way he was able to cope with the physical and mental pain of the ordeal, not quite ready to face it head on. He hid it well, he thought, not getting too drunk until everyone else was asleep.
As Somber ambled back down the path they came from, Arthur took four eager shots of whiskey. He was no lightweight. Besides, once he got back to camp most of them would be asleep.
He slumped back in his saddle, swaying with his steed as he waited impatiently for the whiskey to kick in. His shoulder was burning and throbbing almost as bad as his first couple of weeks in recovery. He grunted, taking a long swill from the bottle in his hand, scrunching up his face and baring his teeth with a hiss as he swallowed it down. The sharp burn of it in his throat served as a pleasant distraction from the pain, and he found himself taking two more swigs before corking the bottle and tossing it back into his satchel.
Time stretched into an uncomfortable drawl, and Arthur was fully enveloped by the pain. He knew it would pass. He knew the whiskey would kick in soon. He didn’t want to feel like this anymore. After what seemed like an hour, but was most likely ten minutes, he was back at camp, slumping in the saddle in relief as they breached the thick copse of trees.
“ Who’s there?” Arthur jumped with a start. He had forgotten that the camp guards often bordered the perimeter of their caravan.
“A-“ Arthur belched loudly. “Arthur.”
“Arthur!” Damn it. It was Charles. He should have known it would be him, always volunteering to be the night hawk.
“Yeah.” Arthur murmured, spurring Somber a bit quicker to hurry past the man. Charles stepped in front of his path, arms crossed as he forced his steed to a stop.
“Where were you? Hosea said you’d be back before sundown.”
Arthur rolled his eyes, getting a bit dizzy from the action. “I was out. The lot of ya act like I ain’t a grown man. Lemme through.”
Charles let his shoulders drop to his sides, brows scrunching up as he examined the outlaw.
“Arthur, your hand is shaking.”
“ M’fine, Charles. Damnit, would you move? I ain’t got all day to stand here an’- an’ answer your dumb questions.”
Charles didn’t reply, simply stepping forward and grabbing Somber's reins that Arthur had left hanging under his chin. Charles clicked his tongue and lead the horse down the path to camp.
“God-“ Arthur hiccoughed. “God damnit- what’re ya-“
“I’m making sure you get to bed safe, Arthur.” Charles sounded tired, and quite exasperated, yet his voice was schooled and gentle. “I don’t want you passing out before you get to bed. Besides, you won’t be able to untack Somber with your arm still healing.”
Arthur tried to cross his arms in a petulant pout, forgetting the state of his shoulder. He hissed, letting his arm drop limply at his side and scrunching his eyes closed at the deep throb it sent through his entire left side.
“You’re in pain.” Charles murmured his words softly, and even though he was facing away from Arthur, there was a palatable frown in his voice.
“ Always in pain .” Arthur echoed the younger man’s murmur, huffing a deep sigh.
“You need to let us help you, Arthur.” Charles said as they rounded the bend into the clearing. The moon glistened and danced on the surface of the lake, lightning bugs flashing in intermittent bursts. Everyone was asleep save for a few stragglers slouched around the main camp fire.
Arthur was silent until Charles tugged Somber to a gentle stop at the outermost hitching post. Arthur flung himself down from his saddle with little preamble, hit with an extreme bout of dizziness as soon as his two feet were under him. It was clearly a symptom of the generous amount of drink he had consumed earlier. His eyes fluttered, and he began to stumble forward toward the unyielding ground. He was stopped short, however, by a pair of strong arms wrapped around him.
Arthur hissed at the abrupt stop, reflexive tears stinging his eyes. He panted through his teeth as he tried to regain his composure. The pain was nearing unbearable, and he was unable to feel anything other than the agony enveloping his left side.
“Hey, hey, I got you. Breathe.” Charles’s smooth voice permeated the pain for one sweet moment, and Arthur gulped in a seismic breath.
“It’s ok, Arthur.” Charles’s arms were still wrapped securely around his chest, the taller man pressed up against his back for fear of dropping him. He felt warm. He felt secure.
“Let’s go lay down, ok? You seem- have you been drinking?” Arthur groaned in confirmation, unwilling to step away from the comforting heat behind him. Charles didn’t seem eager to let go, though, stroking a large hand up and down his ribs absently.
“Need ta’ untack Somber. He still got a rash from the O‘Driscolls.” Arthur tried his best not to slur his words. He didn’t do a very good job.
Charles hummed. “I know they hurt him, but he can go a little bit before untacking. I’ll make sure to do it after we get you to bed, ok?”
Arthur growled deep in his chest, trying to turn around in Charles’s secure grip. “Need ta’ make sure-“
“Fine! Fine. You can watch me do it, ok? But you need to sit down or something. I’m not letting you collapse in the middle of camp.” Arthur had never heard Charles so frustrated, and a sharp bolt of shame twisted in his gut. He could feel his face heat up, letting Charles lower him gently to the ground with his back resting against one of the hitching posts.
“ Thank you , Arthur. You know I’m just worried about you.” Arthur didn’t answer, simply ducking his head to let his hair flop over his face. He heard Charles’s sigh combined with his heavy footfalls as he paced toward Arthur’s horse.
“Come on, boy. I’ll take care of you.” Charles rumbled. Arthur sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden burst of emotion that bubbled up in his chest. He curled his mouth in disgust. Charles was talking to his horse. His horse. He shouldn’t feel this way. Still, his body didn’t agree with his sentiment, feeling fuzzy and a bit queasy. Maybe it was the whiskey.
Arthur opened his eyes to watch Charles as he gently undid the girth, setting it down softly between Somber’s legs to avoid spooking him. He rounded to the offside, placing the girth on top of the saddle before rounding Somber again and gently lifting the saddle off of his back. Somber visibly relaxed, lowering his head and softening his muzzle.
“That feels better, doesn’t it, boy?” Charles said, returning to Somber’s side after draping the saddle over a nearby hitching post. He scratched behind the horse's ear, smiling softly as the steed nickered.
Charles finished up by pushing the reins forward and slipping the headcollar around Somber’s neck. He removed the bridle gently, leaving the horse completely free of any equipment. Somber huffed happily and cocked his back leg in approval.
Once all the equipment was stowed properly, Charles returned to Arthur, who had been sitting and gazing mesmerized at the way Charles handled the horse. Charles smiled softly.
“You look happy.”
“He’s… a good boy.” Arthur rasped.
Charles chuckled. “He is. Now, let’s get you up and moving.”
Arthur acquiesced, letting Charles scoop both arms under his armpits and hoisting him up onto his wobbly legs. Arthur fell forward for a moment, letting his forehead thump against Charles’s shoulder. He smelled good. Arthur wanted to share this thought.
“ Smell good.” He found himself muttering, voice muffled into Charles’s shirt. He felt the rumble of the man’s laugh reverberate through his rib cage.
“Thanks, I guess. Can you walk? Or do you need me to-“
Arthur straightened right up. His dignity wasn’t so far gone that he’d let Charles carry him. Although that concept did seem pretty appealing. Arthur quite literally shook the thought from his mind, twirling on his heel and beginning a drunken stumble toward his tent.
“ Woah- slow down, Arthur.” Charles jogged up to his side, slipping one hand down to grasp his hip while the other slung his good arm over his shoulder.
“ M’can walk by m’self.” Arthur groused, trying weakly to pull away from the larger man’s grasp. Charles tisked sharply.
“Not right now you can’t. Come on, you stubborn ass. Your bed isn’t far.”
Arthur couldn’t find it in himself to fight any longer, especially considering the deep, achy exhaustion washing over him. The pair stumbled to his tent, followed by the mocking whoops and hollers from the stragglers around the campfire. Charles grunted angrily, side-eyeing the way Arthur hung his head in embarrassment.
“It’s ok. Just a bit further.” Charles murmured lowly to the man. Arthur didn’t reply.
They finally breached the entrance of his tent, and Charles lowered him to the cot with a spectacular thud. Arthur groaned as it jostled his shoulder, and he felt a wide hand ease onto the middle of his chest.
“ Hey, you ok?” Charles said, eyes scrunched. Arthur nodded, reaching down with his good hand to claw at the buckle of his gun belt.
“No, let me do that.” Charles said, easily unclasping the metal closure and slipping the worn leather through its loop. Arthur would much rather this be happening under other circumstances, and he felt his face burn with the shame of the thought.
He was freed of his belt and holsters quickly, and he found Charles kneeling before him and grasping his right boot.
“ Woah- woah,” Arthur slurred, pawing at the top of Charles’s head, “ Don’ touch that.”
Charles looked up, looking mighty confused. Arthur’s hand was still buried in his long hair, shoving the long strands in front of his face
“ Your boot? ”
Arthur huffed in anger. “ Yeah my boot. Don’t want’cha to see my… foot.”
There was a long pause where Charles looked down at his boot, then back up at Arthur, then back down again. He still held the boot in both of his hands, poised to slip it off.
“Arthur, are you wearing socks?”
Arthur widened his eyes as if he had never heard such a thing in his life. His next words were almost astonished, and he let his hand slip off of Charles’s head limply.
“Why yes… yes I am.”
Charles huffed tiredly. “Then I won’t see your foot.” Without further question, Charles slipped off the black riding boot to reveal his socked foot. The second boot was no different, and soon Arthur was dressed down to his jeans and plain over shirt.
Charles evidently wasn’t done with his fussing, and instead of letting Arthur collapse back into his cot as Arthur wished to do, he lifted the outlaw’s satchel from around his shoulder, and unearthed his canteen from one of the interior pockets. He spoke as he began unscrewing it, looking concerned.
“I need you to drink some water before you fall asleep, ok?”
“Nah.” Arthur said, beginning to fall back onto his pillow. He was caught for the second time that night with a strong arm cradling his back. He felt a cold metal spout touch his lips, tilting up and letting the stale water dribble down his chin.
“Come on, Arthur. Just a little bit.” Charles sounded exasperated, and Arthur wanted to help him. He sighed, gulping down a few swallows of the stuff before turning his head away with a grunt. Charles sighed, lowering him back down onto the cot and screwing the cap back onto the canteen. He set it on the bedside table, in Arthur’s reach, and fished under the cot for Arthur’s discarded blanket. Arthur was already snoring by the time Charles tucked the thick cotton around the man, smiling softly before flicking out the oil lamp next to his bed.