Chapter Text
Moose truly are majestic creatures. Thought to be a relic of the last ice age, they are incredibly hardy animals, able to survive and thrive in some of the harshest environments to be found in North America. While the American Bison is technically the larger animal in terms of sheer mass, the moose comes in at a very close second, with the larger males standing seven feet at the shoulder. Their sheer size, long, graceful legs, broad, noble heads, and truly incredible antlers all bring to mind some bygone era when giants roamed the earth. They really are awesome, magnificent creatures to behold.
“Okay, but how the hell can something that big be so goddamn hard to find?!”
“Language!” Arthur calls from up ahead.
“I’m almost fifteen, Pa!” Isaac calls back, rolling his eyes.
“Trust me, kid – word ever gets back to Susan Grimshaw I let you cuss like a sailor, we’re both gonna be in trouble!”
Isaac just grins and shakes his head before turning back to Albert.
“Seriously, I don’t get it – if they’re so big, how do they even get around in thick forest like this? Shouldn’t we be looking in more open places?”
“A perfectly logical assumption!” Albert praises, eager to keep their little adventure party in high spirits; it is his fault they’re riding through over a foot of snow up in the foothills of the Eastern Grizzlies, after all. “But, as I said, moose are highly adaptable creatures – they use forests to shelter from the elements and predators, even backing themselves into especially dense conifer patches to protect their rear so they can face wolves and the like head-on.”
“Clever.”
“Quite! Not to mention they’ll eat the foliage, and even the bark during leaner months-”
“And trees make for a nice spot to scratch your antlers,” Arthur calls back. They both look up to see he’s halted, pointing at a tree by the roadside. Sure enough, when they get close they can see the gouges in the bark.
“Whoa,” Isaac breathes, standing in the stirrups to get a better look. “They are tall.”
“Sure are. Now this here is old – but if you see fresh marks like this with the sap still coming out, you gotta be real careful, ‘cause it means a big bull moose is around, and he’s not gonna take kindly to anything except a lady moose. They’re mighty impressive, sure, but they’ll come at you fast as a train and hit just as hard – and cows with little ones to protect are even worse. It’s only the fellas who grow the antlers, but there are other signs to look for...”
Albert leans on his saddle horn, content to watch the lesson. True, Arthur’s impressive knowledge of animals and how to track them may come from hunting, but Albert’s decided he doesn’t care – many of his best photographs from the past few months are owed to Arthur’s tracking skills, after all. But there’s also something especially... endearing about watching the man get excited about passing those skills on to his son, and Isaac’s equal excitement to learn from him. It’s been almost six months since that day at Clemens Point; six months since father and son were reunited, after ten years apart. At first, they were a little tentative, as if they were unsure how to interact with each other. But they’ve quickly grown close, both seeming determined to make up for ten lost years, and it makes Albert’s heart squeeze just watching them.
He’s glad he pulled his scarf up earlier to protect his face from the cold; it hides his fond smile. But perhaps his eyes give him away – because when Arthur glances up, he catches Albert’s gaze, giving him a warm smile in return.
And Albert’s heart squeezes for entirely different reasons.
It’s been almost six months since Arthur hesitantly agreed (and only after a lot of encouragement from Mr. Matthews) to join Albert as his official ‘guide’ for a few photography expeditions for the Geographical Society, with Isaac acting as their assistant. For almost six months, they have travelled and worked together in the closest of quarters, sharing tents and meals and, on one memorable occasion, a bath (well, almost – not realising the bathroom was already occupied, Albert had opened the door just as Arthur was stepping out of the tub. Water droplets glistened in the lamplight as they ran trails down the man’s body, and Albert couldn’t help but follow them with his eyes for a second. Possibly two.)
For almost six months, Albert has been telling himself sternly, emphatically, desperately, that he is absolutely capable of viewing Arthur Morgan in strictly platonic and professional terms; that he is lucky and content to have the man as a friend and a colleague, nothing more. That any moments between them – when their eyes meet or when fingertips brush or hands linger on shoulders just a little too long – mean nothing at all, their significance exaggerated by a school-boy crush that he will surely get over any day now.
In another six months, maybe he’ll even believe it. Goodness, he hopes so.
“Come on,” Arthur says, picking up his reins. “Said in that telegram we’d try to be at the Balfours’ before dark – don’t want those two out lookin’ for us, no matter how good they say they’re gettin’ with a rifle.”
“When’re you gonna teach me how to use a rifle, pa?” Isaac asks hopefully.
“When you’re a bit older,” Arthur replies noncommittally, urging Atlas forwards. He’s been riding ahead on the Ardennes, since following in the tracks of his massive hooves makes it a little easier for the smaller horses to get through the snow. Isaac follows behind on Beagle, though, as he keeps casually mentioning, he’s starting to outgrow the pony. Loosely tethered to Beagle’s saddle horn is Freyr, the Arabian they found in the wild a few months ago while trying to get a shot of Bighorn rams clashing during the rut season. According to Arthur, she’s young and in good health, and with a brindled coat to boot, she’ll fetch a high price once he’s finished training her up. For now, she makes for a perfectly good packhorse, content to follow along carrying their camping equipment – a fine example of the Arabian breed’s surprising strength.
Unfortunately, this leaves Albert to bring up the rear. Which means he has an excellent view of Arthur’s back, and the way his winter coat accentuates the broadness of his shoulders.
Albert allows himself a sigh, breath clouding in front of him despite the scarf.
Good Lord, he’s doomed.
“Cal! Cal, they’re here!”
After the long, cold ride up from Annesburg train station, Willard’s Rest, with its windows aglow and smoke pluming from the chimney, is truly a delightful thing to behold. But not as delightful as Charlotte and Cal Balfour running out to meet them with big grins on their faces, ushering them inside even as they ask about the journey and exclaim how Isaac’s grown in just a few months.
They hadn’t originally planned to take the Balfours up on their offer of hospitality after Arthur saved Cal Balfour from a grizzly bear during the Bighorn expedition. But then Mr. Harper had written about an idea for a feature article focusing on natural variation and mutation in species, requesting Albert track down and photograph unique specimens displaying albinism, melanism, or other unusual appearances. Arthur had produced a map of so-called ‘legendary animals’ and (after sheepishly explaining why some of them were no longer available to photograph) suggested they try looking for the white bull moose rumoured to live near Brandywine Drop. When Albert had written to ask, the Balfours had not only insisted they were welcome to use their homestead as a basecamp, but said they had actually seen a white moose themselves across the river nearby several times – and he still had his antlers. Albert had booked train tickets to Annesburg immediately, unable to believe their luck.
After a delicious supper of rabbit stew (all Charlotte’s doing, Cal declares proudly – they’ve both been working on their marksmanship since Arthur’s initial lessons, but she’s a much better shot than he is), Albert once again tries to broach the subject of paying them for their hospitality, which they steadfastly refuse.
“We’re the ones who should be repaying you. If you three hadn’t come across us when you did – oh, I don’t want to imagine what would have happened,” Charlotte says, pressing her face into Cal’s shoulder for a moment.
“Exactly,” Cal agrees, wrapping an arm around her. “Besides, it’s almost Christmas – we’re glad to have the company! Although... there is one thing you could help with, Mr. Mason...”
“Name it.”
“Well, this is our first proper Christmas together,” he says, sharing an adoring look with Charlotte. “So, we were wondering – could you take a picture of the two of us? Tomorrow, of course, once it’s light-”
“Oh, certainly! I’ll take as many as you like! And no need to wait – I have a new flash device that works wonders, even in dim settings. Now, don’t be alarmed, it looks a like a pistol; but it only fires light and a bit of powder, and it’s much more reliable than the traditional flash rods,” Albert assures them as he hurries to unpack his camera equipment, glad to have some way to thank them for their generosity. And as he directs the two into position and starts taking photos, Albert can’t help but feel an immense sense of joy and satisfaction, not to mention excitement for the days ahead. They have a lovely place to stay, with delightful company, and confirmed sightings of their quarry in the area. It’s all working out perfectly.
That notion lasts until it comes to discussing sleeping arrangements.
“Now, the bed in the spare room is only a single, so Cal and I will share that one,” Charlotte announces. “That way, two of you can use the double bed.”
“Hold up, we ain’t gonna turf you outta your own bed!” Arthur protests. “I can just sleep on the floor-”
“Absolutely not,” Cal says cheerfully but firmly. “After all you’ve done for us, the least we can do is make sure you fellas can get a proper night’s sleep! Besides, we don’t mind cuddling up together, do we, honey?” he adds, tugging Charlotte close.
“Not at all,” she smiles as Cal plants a kiss into her hair. “And I’ll make the couch up each night with blankets and pillows – it’s a little on the short side, but it should be cosy enough, especially since you’ll be out here with the fire.”
“If you’re sure...” Arthur says hesitantly. But Albert’s frowning in confusion; Charlotte was looking at Isaac as she explained the couch situation. Surely she’s not suggesting...?
“Of course we are! Here, I’ll help you move your and Albert’s things into the main bedroom-”
Good heavens, she is.
“Why thank you, that’s an excellent idea!” Albert blurts hurriedly. “My camera can withstand a bit of temperature fluctuation, but the glass plates are best kept in a cooler room away from any smoke or steam. I hope you two don’t mind if part of your room is taken up with photography gear?” he asks Arthur and Isaac, hoping he doesn’t sound as panicked as he feels.
“Wait, you wanna sleep on the couch?” Isaac asks doubtfully.
“Well, of course! It looks very cosy indeed!”
“Are you sure? You’re quite tall, it could be a bit cramped...” Charlotte says worriedly.
“Not at all! You needn’t worry about me, truly – I’ll be snug as a bug in a rug. Honestly, compared to some of the places we’ve slept while out in the field, it’s complete luxury!”
He looks to Arthur and Isaac for confirmation. But Isaac is still giving him a perplexed look, while Arthur’s expression is... oddly blank.
“If you say so,” he says gruffly.
Beyond bidding them all a good night, it’s the last thing he says before he retires to his and Isaac’s room – leaving Albert to puzzle over the words. Because for some reason, Arthur had sounded... hurt.
But for the life of him, he can’t work out why.
He doesn’t think he will ever tire of sleeping in the wilderness. Even through the thick and sturdy walls of the cabin, Albert can hear the rustle of the trees, the hoots of owls, the occasional distant howl of wolves...
And an awful lot of cracking and popping every time he shifts. Good grief, he misses his twenties.
The epitome of kind, considerate hosts, the Balfours had apparently ordered the couch especially in anticipation of their arrival – and Albert’s loath to complain. But Charlotte was right – it’s rather on the short side, and he has the distinct feeling of a Jack-in-the-box with the lid shut. And moving around just makes things worse. He’s sure his joints didn’t use to make so much noise...
He doesn’t know how long he’s been tossing and turning, but it must be the early hours of the morning when he hears a door creak open. He lifts his head, and in the glow of the fire embers he can make out a short figure shuffling out of the left-hand bedroom.
“Isaac? Are you all right?” Albert asks softly.
“Mmf, jus’ gointa outhouse,” Isaac mumbles, rubbing his eyes. But then he appears to properly look at Albert, and does a double-take.
“Damn, Mr. Mason, are you all right?!” he whispers.
“Me? Of course! Perfectly comfy-”
“Pfft, you look about as comfy as a shire in a sheep stall,” Isaac declares, with an expression remarkably similar to his father’s every time Albert tells him he wants to photograph another predator species: a mixture of exasperation and disbelief.
“I’m snug,” Albert insists again. Isaac raises one eyebrow.
“Sure...” he drawls, but relents, crossing over to the door to pull his boots and coat on.
“Be careful – and listen for anything outside before you leave the outhouse again,” Albert reminds him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Isaac yawns, hissing as he opens the door and disappears outside with a blast of cold air. But Albert still sits up, waiting until the boy is safely back inside and dusting the snow off his coat before he lies back down and tries to get into a position that looks halfway comfy. But to his dismay, instead of heading straight back to his and Arthur’s room, Isaac pauses in front of him, hands on hips.
“We need to swap,” the boy says bluntly.
“Sorry?”
“I’ll sleep there, you go sleep in the bed.”
“Oh, no, there’s really no need, I’m fine, truly-”
“Horseshit.”
“Language,” Albert protests weakly on Arthur’s behalf. But Isaac just rolls his eyes.
“Come on, my back hurts just looking at you! And the Balfour’s bed is nice and comfy – it’s got a proper mattress and everything!”
“Yes, but, I can’t very well share a bed with your father, can I?”
Isaac gives him a puzzled look.
“Why not?”
Oh, to be so young and innocent.
“Well... it’s not exactly, er, proper, is it?”
“Pssh, who cares?” Isaac scoffs. “Pa won’t. Besides, ain’t no different to sharing a tent, and you done that heaps of times!”
Albert has to keep himself from barking out a nervous laugh. Certainly, he’s shared a tent with Arthur plenty of times while out in the field, when the hour was too late or the weather too abysmal to bother with setting up three tents. But on those occasions, they’d each slept in their own bedroll, with Isaac in between them to keep the boy warm. But to share a bed – to be lying right next to each other, under the same covers, with nothing between them but the thin fabric of their union suits-
Goodness, is the room getting warmer or is it just him?
“Ain’t we gonna be tracking a moose all day tomorrow?” Isaac asks, apparently changing tactic – but he’s still got that same mulish expression.
“Well, yes, but I don’t-”
“So that probably means another looong, cold day in the saddle.”
“Probably, I’m afraid to say. But you don’t need to come along if you-”
“Oh, I wanna come. But you gonna try using bait too?”
“That’s the plan,” Albert confirms, having already come up with a dozen ideal compositions he would be delighted to pull off if they can find the creature. “It’ll be hard to get a good shot in the trees, but if I can bait our fellow into the open, his white fur will contrast beautifully with the tree trunks! And if it’s snowing we could even-”
“So that means when we ain’t riding, we’re gonna be wandering around in the snow, and sitting around waiting,” Isaac muses. “Hunched over, having to hold still, probably in uncomfortable positions. Cold getting into your bones...”
Oh bugger.
“All right, all right, I take your point,” Albert concedes defeat, sitting up. He can’t very well take good pictures if he’s so stiff he can hardly move – and the work must come first, above any of his own silly feelings. “But, er, are you sure Arthur won’t mind...?”
“Pfft, no. Probably the opposite...” Isaac mutters.
“What?”
“I said ‘don’t worry about it’!” the boy says brightly, practically diving onto the couch as soon as Albert has stood up – probably to escape the cold.
Though Albert has a suspicion it’s to stop him from changing his mind.
“Night!” Isaac says cheerfully, burrowing under the blankets. And Albert has to admit the boy looks far more comfortable – while he’s already grown at least an inch or so since Albert met him, he’s still small enough to be able to lie across the couch with only a slight bend to his knees.
“Good night,” Albert says hoarsely, turning towards the bedroom door. Right. This is purely a practical move. After all, there’s nothing wrong with two colleagues sharing quarters when the circumstances require it. He’s being strictly professional!
And yet, by the time he manages to reach the door and open it, his heart is beating so loudly he’s worried it will wake Arthur. He can just make out the man sprawled on the bed, covers slipped down to his stomach despite the chill. Isaac has complained more than once when they’ve had to share a tent in the warmer months, shimmying over to Albert’s side, grumbling that sleeping next to his father was like sleeping next to a furnace. Albert wonders what it would be like – to be able to share that warmth, to be able curl up into-
Stop it, you fool! he scolds himself. This is strictly professional! Platonic and professional, platonic and professional...
He repeats the words in his head as he gingerly sits on the edge of the mattress, watching Arthur for any sign he might wake, ready to blurt out apologies and explanations. But the man doesn’t stir. Carefully, Albert inches himself under the covers, keeping as close to the edge of the bed as he can. But Isaac was right – it is comfy, and he has to suppress a groan of relief once he’s lying down, lower back and shoulders sagging gratefully, even if he has to keep his left arm across his stomach to stop it from dropping down to the floor.
This is fine. This is a practical, perfunctory arrangement, ensuring everyone in their little expedition party gets adequate rest in order to do their work. There’s a respectable six inches or so between himself and Arthur – except at the shoulder, but Arthur is a broad man, so that can’t be helped. This is fine. He’s fine. It’s all fine-
Arthur stirs, and Albert holds his breath-
Then squeaks as the other man mumbles in his sleep and rolls over, slinging his arm across Albert’s middle and tugging him closer, pressing his face into Albert’s shoulder. Albert remains frozen, waiting for Arthur to register that the body he’s cuddling up to is too big to be Isaac, for the man to sit up and demand to know what the hell he thinks he’s doing-
But Arthur’s breaths deepen and slow once again, and despite himself, Albert soon finds himself following suit. The warmth radiating from Arthur is a soothing balm, chasing away the last of the chill and making his eyelids heavy. And, after all, it’s the twenty-fourth of December in the mountains – there’s nothing wrong with two men sharing body heat in a purely platonic and professional fashion!
This is fine. This is absolutely fine...
He wakes slowly, feeling impossibly warm and well-rested, despite all his hours tossing and turning on the couch. Eventually he cracks an eyelid open – only to find himself staring into a pair of blue-green eyes, glassy and half-lidded with sleep. Albert allows himself a smile. He has been lucky enough to see many beautiful sights and wonders of the natural world during his photography trips, but perhaps none so beautiful as those eyes. He thinks he could stare at them forever-
Then blue-green eyes blink, brows above them lowering in a confused frown. Arthur blinks again, eyes coming into focus at the same moment Albert remembers where he is. They both jolt-
“Ack!”
And with a yelp, Albert tumbles off the bed in a tangle of blankets.
“Wha- Albert?! Shit, you okay?!”
“Sorry! Isaac thought we should- since we’ll be tracking the moose all day I thought- sorry, it seemed like a practical course of action, but, I, truly Arthur, I’m very sorry, I’ll just-”
“Albert.”
He pauses his flailing against the blankets to finally look up. Arthur is peering down at him over the edge of the bed, eyes still bleary and confused.
“You okay?” he repeats.
“Oh, err, yes. Right as rain. And, again, my apologies – it, uh, turns out that couch was a little too cosy, so Isaac and I decided we should, errm, swap. But, I’m sorry, I truly didn’t mean to invade your personal space-”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Arthur mumbles, rolling away out of sight.
Albert lies on the floor for a moment, wondering if he was imagining hearing that hurt tone in Arthur’s voice again. Shaking his head, he finally manages to untangle himself and stand upright. Arthur is sat up on the bed, rubbing his eyes.
“Ngh, sorry,” he grunts.
“Whatever for?”
“I know I’m kind of a... clingy sleeper. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“I wasn’t,” Albert blurts. “Uh, that is, compared to the couch, I- it’s fine. Truly.”
“Right.” Once again, Arthur’s face is carefully blank. Albert gazes back at him for a moment, unsure of what to say, before clearing his throat.
“Right, well, yes. I’ll errm, go find my things and get dressed.”
Arthur just nods, before kicking off what blankets remain and shimmying over to sit on the edge of the bed. And Albert is intent on heading out and grabbing his clothes, truly he is. But Arthur yawns again, stretching his arms, and his union suit is clearly and old one, fabric worn thin with use, and it’s a little too small for him besides, clinging to his shoulders and hips, and the movement only accentuates-
“...You, uh, forget somethin’?”
Oh good heavens, how long has he been staring?
“I, er, yes, just forgot to add – Merry Christmas!” Albert says hastily.
“...Same to you,” Arthur replies, bemused. Desperately hoping his cheeks don’t look as red as they feel, Albert retreats into the main room, creeps past a still-sleeping Isaac, pulls on his coat and boots and escapes outside. The sun has yet to break the horizon, and in the predawn light the world is as still and colourless as one of his photographs. Despite the lack of wind, the cold is still fierce enough to take his breath away as he trudges across to the outhouse.
But he’s grateful for the chill; it means he can blame the swirling feeling in his chest on the cold air, and not the fact that he woke up in Arthur Morgan’s arms.
You fool, he thinks again miserably.