Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She cleared her throat, the scratching sound of turning pages following suit. “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in their own way—“

Mary-Beth’s soft, distant voice kissed at Arthur’s eardrums like raindrops, relaxing in the worst of times and grating at the best, with this instance falling into the ‘best’ category in Arthur’s opinion. Begrudgingly, he opened his eyes to assaulting, blinding sun rays. He grunted from the invasion, quickly snapping his eyes shut to rub at them with scarred, calloused fingertips.

Arthur felt a hefty breath against the back of his neck and turned to see a much nicer, darker shade of warmth. One of which was lipping at his satchel in search of food.

“‘M surprised you held off ‘fer this long, girl,” he muttered, one hand reaching into his bag. He pulled out a couple of sugar cubes and brought his flat palm to the mouth of his deep red chestnut Turkoman, Boadicea. She made quick work of the sugar cubes, gently nibbling and lipping at his palm. She sniffed around, and after realizing there was nothing left, she turned to graze on the patches of grass in front of her. He felt a big exhale against his back of what he hoped was content, as they lounged together in the grassy outskirts of camp. He patted at her flank, turning his head forward to face the rest of camp. “Good girl, ‘Bo.”

He had a view of the whole camp from where he sat. With that, he watched the other members of camp mull about.

Off to the left, Mary-Beth was reading aloud what Arthur could only assume to be one of her romance novels to Tilly and Karen. From where he was, he could hear their giggles and sloshing water from laundry buckets. A little bit away from the girls’ tent, Mac and Davey were in the middle of an intense game of five-finger filet, and from the looks of their bloody knives, Arthur couldn’t tell who the hell was winning or losing. Bill, Sean, and Javier watched intently, each continuously adding coins to their betting piles. Pearson, Reverend Swanson, Uncle, Miss Grimshaw, and Strauss sat nearby, all seeming to be in half a conversation and half paying attention to the match going on next to them. Further from the little group, Lenny and Jenny were sat, looking deep in conversation, yet were both sporting some lovesick grins if you asked Arthur. Oppositely, he caught sight of Abigail and John having a hushed yet biting conversation, a venomous look on her face and a sharp finger jabbing into John’s chest to match. Arthur didn’t blame her in the slightest when it came directed towards his idiot brother. Their boy, Jack, played by himself in the dirt on the opposite side of camp, though thankfully seemed to be enjoying his own company enough as his laughter echoed the space.

Arthur didn’t see Micah, which would’ve been worrying had he not known he fucked off into town, probably looking to get drunk and get into some trouble that Arthur would have to later clean up.

Lastly, he spotted Miss O’Shea, who was touching up her makeup in her and Dutch’s tent, and Dutch and Hosea sat outside the tent in light conversation, with Hosea’s nose in a book, and Dutch with his own book in one hand and a cigar in the other.

Which, if Arthur was counting correctly, only left one person unaccounted for.

He wasn’t unaccounted for long, however, as Arthur turned straight ahead and caught a glimpse of him in the trees clear across to the farthest outskirts of camp, chopping a heap of firewood.

Charles Smith.

He didn’t know how to feel about Charles. On one hand, he was skillful, always coming back from hunting trips with big game and herbs, easily enough to feed the gang and then 20 more people. He was also extremely helpful in the grunt work, unshaken, and never complained. Arthur couldn’t help but appreciate it.

On the other hand, he kept to himself, Arthur supposed, more than the average loner. Of course, this wasn’t a bad thing to Arthur, as he would consider himself a hypocrite to criticize someone for that, but he still found himself frustrated.

Arthur squinted, watching the other man bring the axe down onto a piece of firewood with such force its splinters splattered around the working area like blood. Arthur couldn’t help but think of a head exploding under the pressure of the blade, and he wondered if maybe Charles thought the same. If he did, he wondered if he felt shame too.

He wrote this much into the new journal he pulled from his satchel a moment prior, and then some:

We met Charles in the thick of winter in ‘98, up in the western foothills of the Grizzlies. Unlike many of us other folk, myself included, he didn’t appear in some grand sort of way. It was just that. Just one day he was there in the early morning, speaking with Dutch, about nothing that concerned me. It was one of those mornings where everything was quiet and unmoving, the rising sun making the grounded snow blinding and biting, yet making Charles glow . Now that I think of it, he reminds me of Boadicea’s coat. Easy to look at, I think is the best way to describe it. Very easy, as the rising sun set his skin ablaze in lovely, fiery embers.

An enigma, that man.

Arthur paused his pencil against his page, staring at what he wrote. Deciding he had nothing more to say, he looked up and found Charles again, still by himself but this time sitting closer on a log around one of the unlit campfires, carving something with his knife into a piece of dark wood. Arthur studied him for a moment before looking down at this journal and sketched the other into the empty page next to his writings. He took time with the drawing, getting the dips and curves of the man’s face as accurate as his hand would allow. He shaded in the dark of his skin and applied more pressure to his charcoal pencil to get the darker hue of his long hair.

“Whatcha got ‘ere, cowpoke?” Arthur snapped the journal shut at the raspy voice assaulting his quiet, and glared up at the intruder, high on his horse. He was surprised the man didn’t take the opportunity to trample him and Boadicea then and there. He supposed he had made a mistake resting by the entrance of the camp.

Micah Bell. An ever incessant pain in his ass since Dutch took a liking to him in a nameless saloon and plucked him up to add to their band of outlaws.

Micah was different, and not in a good way. He was brutal, a pure sadist who took pleasure in making women into widows, children into orphans, and men into beggars at the end of his barrel. Maybe this mindset made him a hypocrite, depending on who you asked, but regardless, Arthur could feel his blood boil as he eyed up the man with the disgusting, toothy coyote-like grin.

“‘None your damn business. Get lost,” Arthur replied lowly, his tone drastically close to yelling by the time he reached the end of his warning. He got up from his spot, and Boadicea followed quickly after, ears pinned back tightly against her skull.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Morgan! I thought there were no secrets between us gang members,” Micah cackled as he dismounted Baylock, a steed almost as mean as him. Arthur patted Boadicea’s neck and handed her a carrot, letting her make a silent exit over to where some of the camp’s other horses grazed.

He didn’t dignify Micah with a response. Instead, he stared him down with a glare that had made countless men of his past cower before him. Micah’s smile twitched ever so slightly, falling into a grimace, before switching back, and stalking past him towards Dutch. “Dutch! ‘ve got a proposition for ya,” Arthur heard faintly. He watched Micah swing an arm over Dutch’s shoulder and lead them behind the now-closed tent flaps of Dutch’s tent.

———

It’s good to be running scams again. Hosea is a born huckster. He is getting anxious, worried that by lingering in town, we are going to bring undue attention on ourselves.

Dutch thinks he is also onto something big, his words, not mine, bank money being brought in by boat, apparently, so for now, we are working on both things and seeing what happens.

Plan is to flee west into the desert country someplace if we can.

For once, I am not getting involved in the job. Hosea and I are too taken up with our business, which I believe could go very well. and Dutch seems confident that with the group assembled, all will be okay.

Arthur shut his journal and stuffed it into his satchel, careful not to smear the fresh charcoal sketch of the ferry boat in the process. Hosea and him stood along the pier, watching as a ferry took off, carrying simple pedestrians and horses out East.

“Somethin’ ‘bout the ferry job don’t seem all that right, Hosea,” Arthur muttered, his arms crossing over his chest. Hosea sighed.

“So I’ve said to Dutch. But you know him, whatever Dutch plans Dutch pulls off, and it hasn’t failed us yet,” Hosea replied, patting him on the shoulder. “Plus, the sooner he gets his fix, the sooner we get to head out West.” Arthur shrugged, kicking at the worn wood of the pier, watching as dust clouded around his boots.

“Can’t argue wit’ that.”

“Now come on, son. We’ve got a scam to plan,” Hosea chuckled and guided him by the shoulder towards the streets, and Arthur let him, feeling lighter.

———

Plan is for them to carry out the job, then flee into the wilderness out to the West. The next day, Hosea and I carry out our scam and join them.

Dutch seems happy and excited. He’s talking again about California, but he’s also talking about a lot of other places.

His and Hosea’s scam was planned to the most extreme detail. All that was left now was to wait until the ferry job was done. The act of waiting was torturous alone, as he was anxious for a job done right, so he turned to other means of distraction, such as sketching what he saw around him from his opened canvas tent at camp. He sketched Dutch and his team, all surrounding a table in the middle of camp, discussing the ferry job. He sketched Tilly sewing up a heap of garments underneath a nice big oak tree, looking as peaceful as ever. He even sketched a couple of flowers stemming from the base of a tree stump nearby, before his eyes fell upon a much more interesting subject.

Charles rode in on Taima, obviously having just come back from a successful hunt as a whitetail deer lay dead upon Taima’s flank. His hair bounced with each slowing gallop of his dusty Appaloosa, and Arthur quickly worked to sketch, his nerves growing more content with each pencil stroke.

Life was good.

———

Dutch, John, the Callander boys, Javier, Jenny, Micah, and Sean all rode out early the next morning.

Camp was quiet, and Arthur found himself standing by Charles in the early afternoon, who was also caring for his horse. He brushed Taima in silence while Arthur finished picking out Boadicea’s back left hoof.

The silence was comfortable, surprisingly enough, as the sound of gentle, rustling leaves filled what Arthur and Charles didn’t.

Arthur gently hummed under his breath absentmindedly as he began to change out his horse’s last horseshoe.

“What is that?”

Arthur snapped his head towards the voice, and Charles looked at him with a neutral yet expectant expression.

“Huh?” He replied dumbly.

“The song. What were you humming,” Charles asked, raising an amused brow. Arthur staggered and cleared his throat to find his voice.

“Oh I- .. ‘m not sure. One of the girls was hummin’ it this mornin’.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, cheeks feeling slightly warm. He blamed it on the horse maintenance.

“It’s nice,” Charles replied, before turning back to brushing Taima.

“Oh- Uh- yeah..” Arthur replied. He cleared his throat and tilted his hat over his eyes. He hammered the new horseshoe into Boadicea’s hoof.

A beat of silence.

“Y’know, when someone compliments your humming, it usually means they don’t want you to stop,” Charles said, a sliver of amusement in his tone. Arthur felt his cheeks burn from embarrassment.

“Oh. Yeah.”

They worked in silence for a good few minutes, with only the leaves and Arthur’s humming filling the air.

“Help!”

The stomping of quick hooves made the peace of camp stop like frigid water being doused over a burning fire. Everyone’s heads snapped towards the entrance from all angles of camp, with Charles and Arthur being the closest.

Arthur shoved Boadicea’s horseshoe into his bag without thinking before hovering his hand over his revolver.

Immediately, John appeared in camp on his Tennessee Walker. He pulled its reigns and it reared back on its hindquarters, eyes wide in panic.

“What the hell happened?” Charles questioned, heading towards the horse to calm it down as Arthur pulled his brother off the creature. Blood gushed onto Arthur’s hand from where he grasped John’s leg, eliciting a curse.

“Ferry job. It went sour,” John bit out, slapping his hand onto his bleeding wound. Miss Grimshaw ran over with Reverend Swanson and Abigail, and each of them started leading him towards the medic tent. “The rest of ‘em. They need help and lots of it. Young Jenny’s been shot dead by Pinkertons.” Arthur heard a guttural, pained noise from Lenny on his left. He internally held his sorrows for the girl as he gripped John’s shoulder and yanked him around.

“Were you followed?” He barked, brows furrowed and jaw tight. John glared at him in offense.

“You think I’m stupid? Of course not!” He growled. “Now go! They need our damn help!” He pushed at Arthur’s chest, though he didn’t stumble in the slightest. Miss Grimshaw and Reverend Swanson continued to carry him over to the medic tent with Abigail following close behind, face lined with worry.

“Alrigh’ listen up the rest of you,” Arthur shouted, turning to face the crowd consisting of the rest of camp, catching the attention of everyone. “Mr. Smith, Mr. Summers, Mr. Williamson, mount up! The rest ‘f y’all, pack up ‘nd tear down, we don’ got much time.”

“Hosea,” he quickly caught the man’s arm as the rest of the group wasted no time getting to work, Lenny and Bill having already rode off ahead and the girls beginning to pick up barrels and crates scattered around. Arthur was thankful people weren’t hesitating, as for himself, worry was punching him from the inside out. “Your choice. Comin’ or stayin’?” He asked a in a softer tone. The older man patted his arm with his other hand.

“I’m comin’ with,” he replied with a nod, to which Arthur nodded back.

With that, the two of them mounted their horses and rode off, Charles following right behind.

———

The sun held high in the vast, cloudless sky, shaded the most brilliant of blues Arthur had ever seen, a stark contrast to the vibrant crimson that colored the docks of Blackwater.

It was a massacre by the time they made it. Pinkertons and civilians alike litter the streets, differentiating appendages shot open, all of which painted the bottoms of their horses’ hooves red as they galloped through the sea of bodies.

Almost immediately, Arthur heard shouts and bullets began to whisk through the air, causing Taima and Silver Dollar to grunt and race around as their riders dismounted, weapons drawn and shooting at their assailants. Charles swatted both horses on the rear to flee.

“Cover me,” Arthur shouted over the chaos atop Boadicea, who remained strong despite the danger. “‘m gonna go find the others!” He whipped out his revolver and shot as he snapped at Boadicea’s reigns, urging her into a full sprint. Hosea and Charles acknowledged him by pushing through harder to shoot at the opposing side.

Arthur shot at faceless Pinkertons as he rode along the coast of blackwater. He searched for any sign of a ferry boat, and it didn’t take long to find it docked and ablaze, as well as the rest of his gang shooting at countless lawmen.

There were no signs of Sean nor Mac, and Jenny lay dead next to a trembling Lenny, who used a shipping crate for cover as he ducked over her lifeless body, screaming in agony.

Dutch was yelling something to Micah, who were both atop their horses, guns blazing at lawmen who dropped dead seconds later. Javier and Bill were on the opposite side, doing the same.

This is a fucking disaster.

Arthur charged towards Dutch, shooting any chance he got at lawmen. “What the ‘ell, Dutch?!” he yelled as he shot a Pinkerton in the face.

“Nice of you to join us, Arthur! We were just leaving,” Dutch yelled, and Arthur couldn’t help but notice the crazed look in his eyes. Micah grunted.

“What about the money?” he shouted, cackling as he shot 2 bystanders dead for the hell of it.

“Screw the damn money,” Arthur replied, a bite to his tone. He saw Hosea and Charles running towards them, taking cover behind different obstacles to continue shooting at the unrelenting army of lawmen. Dutch circled him on The Count, who looked ready to take off with his owner at any second.

“There’s too many of ‘em, Dutch,” Arthur growled, reloading his revolver. Dutch grunted in agreement.

“Boys, it’s time we make our leave! Micah, grab Lenny,” Dutch instructed, still keeping his composure under the fire. Arthur watched Micah dismount Baylock and yank Lenny up to get him onto Maggie. He sobbed as he fought Micah’s cold grip, reaching for Jenny. Arthur turned and noticed Javier carrying a bleeding, hopefully unconscious Davey on his saddle, and saw the others begin to either flee or mount their horses.

Suddenly, everything was moving sideways as his body fell through the air before he slammed into the bloodied ground

He was face to face with his beautiful Boadicea, whose face was contorted as she whinnied and wheezed in pain. She remained moving, until she didn’t. Her head beat onto the wooden floor of the pier one last time. Arthur looked into her glazed eyes like his world was in slow motion until everything caught up with him at once, his body being thrust up off the ground by a hastily wrapped hand and onto the back of a horse.

Arthur was forced to grip the waist of his savior, though he didn’t care to see who. Instead, he watched his dear friend grow smaller and smaller until she disappeared forever from his vision.

“Oh, Arthur…I’m so sorry.” He barely registered the voice. A deep, warm, comforting voice. Like a fire. Boadicea’s the color of fire. Was—

Charles.

He was on the back of Taima, gripping the waist of Charles, and only then, once he knew these two things, he allowed the tears to spill down his cheeks in quiet, gentle, trickling streams.

Oh, my girl. I’m so sorry.

Charles said nothing more, and Arthur was grateful as he seemed to ignore the spots of wetness staining the back of his shirt.

Chapter Text

We have been running for weeks, I mean running more than usual. The job they was pulling in Blackwater, robbing that ferry, it turned into a disaster.

Young Jenny got killed, poor thing, while Sean and Mac both got arrested, or killed, nobody seems sure which.

Dutch shot a girl, I am not too sure if by accident or design, and seems like it might have been a set up. We took to the hills in an almighty scramble, leaving money and most of our things behind.

The past week had been a blur to Arthur, as nothing seemed to ground him from the storm of his racing mind. Boadicea was dead, as was little Jenny. Poor Lenny was a wreck, and Davey was slowly bleeding out two wagons behind him. Sean and Mac were either dead or arrested, and if arrested, Arthur thought, were realistically set to dawn rope neckties by the end of May. 

Most of their things, all their money, were left in Blackwater, most likely never to be seen again, which Micah constantly reminded them of. 

“We’ve gotta go back, Dutch,” Micah muttered, riding Baylock right up next to Dutch on The Count. 

Arthur was torn from his thoughts, cutting off Dutch before he could speak. “We ain’t gotta do nothin’,” he replied sharply. He tightened his fists around the reins he held as he drove his wagon. “None’ve us are askin’ for bodies full’a lead ‘sides from you, so I’d suggest you keep those thoughts to y’reself, now.”

“That’s a lot of money just to be sittin’ there and you know it, Morgan,” Micah replied with annoyance.

“Well, Mr. Bell, if an extra hole in y’re head’s what ‘re lookin’ for, I’d be happy to do it, myself,” he replied, venom coating his tongue and throat. 

“You threatenin’ me, Mr. Morgan?” 

“Up to you–”

“Enough,” Dutch shouted. The Count huffed with the sudden rise of his owner’s voice. “I say when we go back. Aside from that, no more discussing the damn money.” Dutch trotted a little further ahead. “Micah, come with me to scope out the trail.”

Micah sneered at him, and Arthur sent a stone-cold glare back at him as he rode ahead with Dutch. 

The sun was beginning to set below the horizons of the steep mountains up ahead, yet they couldn’t afford to stop.

“He’s gonna get us killed one of these days,” Charles said to his right. Arthur startled ever so slightly and turned to face the other man, who was upon Taima’s saddle and staring down Micah’s retreating form.

“You think?” Arthur looked towards Micah and then back to Charles. The dipping sun rays were hitting his dark hair in such a way, that each strand shone white in certain areas. It reminded Arthur of shiny, dewey spider silk you’d find at morning’s light. 

“I don’t know, but he’s bad news.” Charles looked up to face Arthur, sporting a slightly hardened expression. 

“You ain’t tellin’ me nothin’ new there,” Arthur replied with a shake of the head, a small smirk finding his way onto his features. He faced forward to the trail. It was darker now, and the temperature dropped at least 10 degrees during their brief interaction. 

“Hey, slow up. I’ll hop on and drive and you can get your winter gear. ‘ve got a feeling you’re gonna need it,” Charles said, already beginning to dismount Taima before Arthur could have a chance to object. 

“Er- Yeah, ok. Thanks, Charles.” Arthur tightened the reins a little as the other man hopped up onto the wagon and took it from him, their hands brushing. Charles was warm to the brief touch despite the bandage around one of his hands, and he found himself hovering ever so slightly. He never asked how it happened. Charles raised his brow.

“Well, gonna get off or what?”

Arthur felt his cheeks warm. “Yeah, jus’ makin’ sure you had the reins was all,” he muttered, tipping his hat over his eyes as he climbed down the wagon and towards the back. 

He blamed his embarrassment on his racing mind and thought nothing more of it.

 He grabbed his gear from his trunk, which was packed near the back of the wagon, and made quick work of changing. He pulled on warm wool gloves, and shoved his arms through his long wool coat, buttoning it up as much as he could. The winds were steadily picking up as they crept closer and closer to the steep Grizzlies, and he couldn’t ease the sense of pitted dread it caused. 

This was Hell.

Well, Hell if it had frozen over. 

Arthur found himself alone atop Taima, scouting ahead for any signs of something they could call a shelter. 

The visibility was nonexistent. Snow shot into his face like unrelenting rounds of bullets, and the wind felt as if it were fileting his skin off with each round of biting breeze. 

His only light source was his tiny oil lantern, which he shakily held up in front of him to check for any signs of structure. It hardly helped. 

As he thought about turning back, he spotted a wooden, rotted dilapidated fence post. “Alright, just a little bit longer, girl,” he muttered to Taima, who huffed. He clicked his tongue and tapped her with his spurs, urging her into a quicker trot. 

He held his light out and squinted his eyes into the white blindness. There were a few buildings from what he could gather, some more run down than others, but offered more than enough space for the gang. 

He dismounted from Taima and trudged through the knee-high snow. “Hello?!” He shouted near a few buildings and went and opened a couple more doors, ensuring the town was abandoned. 

Once satisfied, he mounted and rode back down the trail towards the caravan, a sense of relief washing over him. 

As we were fleeing east over the Grizzlies, an almighty storm hit us.

Davey Callander, who had got shot in the gut on the raid, passed away. It was brutal to watch, and the rest of us nearly froze, but we found shelter and have been resting here in some old, abandoned mining town while we await the thaw.

Davey ​ ​†

Hardly the spring I had been hoping for. Hosea and I had been planning a robbery of our own in Blackwater, but I guess that’s been abandoned along with most of what I owned.

I am profoundly concerned as to what happens next, once we leave this place or the law finds us cowering up here.

Found a girl, well a woman I should say. Her husband had been murdered by some of Colm O'Driscoll’s boys. - nasty business.-

“You’re alive! Oh, you’re alive!” Abigail shouted, hands clasped together as unshed tears of relief threatened to spill down her red cheeks. Her breath puffed against the sharp, bitter air. 

“Careful, idiotas ! It’s his leg!” Javier shouted as Bill and Lenny hauled John off of Boaz, the man groaning in pain. They all walked into the common cabin with Arthur and Javier in tow.

“Thank you, thank you both,” Abigail said, her voice dripping with relief. Javier nodded.

“Jus’ get him warm.”

Hosea stopped the two as the others doted on John, much to Arthur’s annoyance. “Thank you both, it’s good to see the idiot alive.”

Arthur tsked and rolled his eyes. “You got any other lost maidens need savin’?” he asked sarcastically, to which Hosea chuckled.

“Not today.”

We have been running for weeks. We found shelter and been... resting here in some old abandoned mining town... while we wait the thaw. Hardly the spring I had been hoping for.

Arthur closed his journal and left his chambers, making his way over to the entrance of the cabin. He said brief good mornings to Dutch and Hosea who sat discussing quietly with each other by the warm flames of the fireplace. He opened the door and promptly stepped into the chill, grimacing as he fell through the snow up to his knee. 

Trudging through it, he managed his way over to his new horse, who he refused to name. 

“Hey horse,” he grunted, patting him on his white-striped snout. Like his reluctant owner, the horse grunted in reply, frosty puffs of air escaping his big, pink nostrils. “You did good up there.” He muttered, glancing up towards the higher mountain peaks where they had found John. Arthur gave the horse another pat as he extended an oatcake to the creature's mouth, which he graciously took. 

“You named the creature ‘Horse’? Little bit on the nose don’t you think?” Arthur startled.

“Christ!” Arthur shouted, clutching his holster out of instinct. He whirled around to find Charles atop Taima, his eyes widened in surprise at his outburst.

“Warn a man next time,” Arthur grumbled. He removed his hand from his revolver and tipped his hat down over his eyes. He caught a ghost of a smile that graced Charles’ lips. He blamed the heat in his cheeks on the cold. Taima’s right hoof shoveled at the snow.

“I thought cowboys were supposed to be privy to sneak attacks?” Charles asked coyly. He cocked his head slightly as he looked down at Arthur. 

Arthur stuttered, looking up at the other. Charles’s body blocked what little sunshine there was, forming a halo around his form. He couldn’t see his hair from underneath his winter gear, which he felt particularly disappointed by for some reason. Despite this, the man looked ethereal. 

He stood there, mouth open as if to say something, yet nothing came out. He felt his cheeks growing hotter and hotter. Before his stupid brain could come up with a retort, Charles cut him off. 

“I’ll stop you right there since you look like you’re thinkin’ too hard there, cowboy.” Arthur couldn’t help the unimpressed look that invaded his features. “Pearson needs men to go hunting. I can track, but I can’t hunt with my hand the way it is. I was wondering if you wanted to go with me?” Charles watched him expectedly. Arthur snapped out of it.

“Yes-Er– Yeah. ‘d love to—wait. Shouldn’t you be resting,” Arthur replied dumbly. Charles frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in annoyance. 

“You think this is rest?” He asked, gesturing with his bad hand around at nothing, really. Arthur knew what he meant.

“Yeah ok, fair.”

“Great, then mount up on ‘Horse’,” Charles replied, that ghostly smile back. It was gone in a blink. 

Arthur mounted the horse and readied himself to set off, but Charles stopped with an extended hand.

He held a bow.

“Here, you take this. I can’t use it and you’ll have to,” He said, Arthur couldn’t hide his disagreeable expression.

“Oh, you’re joking…”

Charles gave him an unimpressed look. “Don’t be childish. Use a gun and we’ll scare off every animal for miles around.” He handed the bow to a reluctant Arthur, who then stowed it on his horse’s saddle. “You’re never too old to learn. Well, I imagine.” Arthur rolled his eyes.

“You lead the way.” Charles nodded and tapped Taima, who began in a steady cadence despite the snow. Arthur’s horse followed after.

Soon enough, they were surrounded by snowy pine trees, whose branches threatened to break under the weight of the white powder. Arthur and Charles rode nearly side by side, but the latter remained leading the way.

“How’re you holdin’ up,” Arthur asked, turning his head to face the other. Charles remained looking forward. He was searching for tracks, if Arthur had to guess.

“I’m okay, apart from this hand. Stupid mistake.” Charles frowned.

“I never asked what happened,” Arthur muttered. 

“When you told us to cover you, a couple of Pinkertons ambushed us from behind. I grabbed a lawman’s barrel as he was shooting at us. There's not much to it,” the other man replied with a little shrug. Arthur nodded. 

“We’ve been out here for a while. Still that bad?”

“Should be okay in a day or two. Just can’t pull a bow right now,” Charles replied pointedly. Arthur groaned softly. 

“Sure hope I can. Never really got the hang of it. Never really had to, honestly.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Arthur inhaled and let out a slow exhale, basking in the brief quiet. Unlike with others, he found that he enjoyed Charles’ company the most. Though most importantly, he enjoyed the things the other had to say. With that said, Arthur’s brain was going into overdrive trying to come up with new conversation topics that would hopefully pique Charles’ interest. 

“So…reckon we’re gonna find somethin’ to kill that ain’t an O’Driscoll?” Arthur inwardly kicked himself. 

“There’s meat up here for sure. Pearson doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Now the weather’s eased off a bit, they’ll be needing to feed.” Charles moved Taima’s reins towards the right, which Arthur followed. “We’ll head up this way. Find some higher ground.”

“What’re we hopin’ to find up here?” Arthur asked, watching as his cold breath formed gentle, transparent clouds in front of his face.

“Hopefully a deer. Two if we’re lucky,” Charles replied, eyes squinted towards the ground.

“Been a wild few days alright,” Arthur muttered, looking at the other man’s side profile. “That ride north from Blackwater, getting stuck in this storm, going out for John…” 

“You’ve had a lot put on you. I wish I could have done more.” Charles looked up and faced Arthur, looking into his eyes with hardened sincerity written over his features.

Arthur’s cheeks warmed and quickly shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that! Just… a lot to think back on, I suppose.” Charles blinked once and nodded, turning back to the snow-covered ground, his expression contemplative.

“I still don’t really know what happened on that boat.”

“Me neither… well, Javier told me a bit, but… it sure weren’t good.” Arthur frowned as he chewed at his chapped bottom lip in thought.

The quiet overtook them and Arthur let it this time. He attempted to be helpful as he looked out around the area for any signs of life. Naturally, he didn’t find anything.

He was torn away from his thoughts when Charles spoke up. “I see some of the ground uncovered. Come on, let’s try this way,” he said, leading the two of them down the mountain slope until they reached a small valley. It was snow-covered but less so than Colter. “Keep your eyes peeled for movement. The wind’s died down too.” Arthur followed Charles’s orders and traced his eyes over the horizon for movement. 

“And that’s good?” He asked, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“No wind at all is bad, but if it’s too strong, they won’t move. Now, shh… stay quiet,” Charles muttered. He dismounted from Taima, and Arthur took an embarrassingly long time to follow suit from his horse. 

“Deer’ve been here recently.” Charles crouched and stopped Arthur with his good hand. It was warm against his chest, a nice change from the chill incasing everything else.

Arthur looked around expectedly. He spotted nothing.”How can you tell?”

“How can you not? Go grab that bow from Horse.”

“His name isn’t Horse,” he grumbled as he complied, yanking the bow and quiver from his horse’s saddle. He slung the quiver over his shoulder and held the bow. 

“Whatever you say, cowboy. Now, as quietly as you can. Stay low and move slowly.”

Arthur slowly moved through the snow in front of Charles. “You see the tracks?”

“Can’t say I do,” he admitted, to which Charles moved up behind him.

“Focus.” Arthur’s ears felt warm. He pointed down at the tracks once his eyes trained on the deer prints.

“It’s easiest in the snow, but once you get an eye for it you can track in any terrain,” Charles mumbled.

“Y’know, cowboys aren’t much known for their trackin’ abilities,” Arthur replied, looking back slightly with a gentle, teasing smile. Charles rolled his eyes, the ghost smile making an appearance again. He gently pushed at his back.

“Then I’ll make a shit cowboy outta you. Now shut up and keep tracking.” Arthur’s stomach gave a little flip.

They moved through the ankle-high snow at a snail’s pace, not wanting to startle anything off and lessen their chances for a good hunt. After about ten minutes of nothing but the crunching of snow and gentle wind to keep Arthur entertained, Charles suddenly grabbed his arm from behind. He didn’t startle this time. Charles pointed ahead to a small group of doe quietly grazing on the freed green grass. “ Shh, down there. You see them?” Arthur nodded and quickly pulled out his bow. He rested an arrow against the bowstring. 

“Try to hit them in the neck or head. Quick and clean.” Charles moved closer from behind, and Arthur could feel the other’s body heat radiating off him and heating Arthur’s back. He tried not to focus on it. Instead, he opted to listen to Charles’ instructions, albeit with difficulty. “You can pull back quite hard.” Arthur held up the bow, aimed at the closest doe, and pulled the arrow back against the string, using more strength than he thought he would. 

“You’ll feel when it’s too much.” Charles’ breath kissed Arthur’s ear, and his throaty voice sent shivers down his spine. This may kill him. 

He let out a shaky breath and did his best to focus. He let the arrow fly, and it hit the doe square in the head. The two other deer ran off. The warmth from Charles’ body disappeared as quickly as it appeared, Arthur watching the man stand. “Nice shot. Let's try for another.” Charles moved past him, focused on more tracks ahead. Arthur nodded in reply, though he knew Charles didn’t see it since he was about five feet ahead of him by the time he could offer a reply. Arthur followed from behind, thoughts racing. It felt like he had just swallowed a whole jar full of molasses, his mouth sticky with saliva acting like glue.

What the hell was his deal?

“You sure your hand’s okay? I can get it if you need,” Arthur said with a grunt as he stowed the heavy doe on the rear of Horse. 

“It’ll be fine once I get it on my shoulder,” Charles grumbled. He hoisted the doe up onto his shoulder after a bit of trial and error, but Arthur didn’t watch out of respect. Charles whistled for Taima, who whinnied in reply as she galloped over next to her owner. He stowed the deer as Arthur mounted his horse. 

“‘M ready to head back when you are,” he muttered quietly, head still stuck back 20 minutes ago when Charles was up against him all warm. Charles nodded and mounted Taima, clicking his tongue to get her to head back up the mountain. Arthur followed, patting the neck of his horse in the process.

“You did good, Arthur,” Charles said, which broke Arthur away from his thoughts. “Should be enough meat here to last us a few days.” 

Arthur blushed, looking off to the side nonchalantly. “You found ‘em.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. I knew you’d be okay with that bow,” Charles replied. He sounded lighter, and Arthur supposed he should be feeling that way too.

“Well, it’s easier when they ain’t shootin’ back.” Arthur retorted, to which Charles chucked. What a beautiful sound, Arthur couldn’t help but latch onto it. 

“You should do that more often,” Arthur found himself saying, and Charles looked back at him in surprise.

“Do what?” 

Arthur was sure his face was as red as a ripe apple in Autumn. He coughed and looked away. “Laugh. ’s uh… nice to know you find stuff funny sometimes, I guess.” Arthur wanted to die. 

Arthur looked back to the other and found Charles looking at him, not saying anything. Then, that ghost of a smile graced Arthur with its presence.

“Give me a reason to laugh and you’ve got a deal, cowboy.”

Chapter Text

Arthur Morgan often saw things in black and white. Some may call this a flaw, something to criticize and sneer about changing his tune, but he saw it as a strength—his own personal superpower, even—his survival. Thus, he had learned to take it in stride.

A man tries robbing him of his hard-earned money while returning from a grueling job? Bullet to the head, quick and easy. 

A lone wolf startling his horse hoping to find a bite to eat to quell its growling stomach? Put down like an insufficient hunting dog.

It was easy, turning off the default human morals that plagued the world's good people. Maybe this should deeply disturb him, make him hate himself. And while the latter he thought was certainly true, he wasn’t– couldn’t be disturbed, because the fact was, he wasn’t a good person. He was rotten to the core, a man beyond redemption nor saving, and it was okay . It had to be okay. Because being okay with it made the job easier, and additionally, it made Dutch happier, and that’s all Arthur could possibly ask for.

So, when a man, with all the wealth one could own and then some, runs a train through a remote part of the mountains? Well, naturally, he had to rob him for all he’s worth.

Leviticus Cornwall was a stupid man in Arthur’s opinion, but he sure didn’t find himself complaining about said stupidity as they stood atop the hillside of a train tunnel, watching Bill lace dynamite through the tracks. He could taste the metal coins and salty papers on his tongue already, fortunes for their family were just around the corner of luck. 

“He says he’s all good, Dutch,” Arthur muttered as he slid his black bandana over his nose. The sound of a sharp train whistle in the distance cut through the quiet of nature like a bullet. The screeching tracks made Arthur inwardly cringe. 

“Alright, Gentlemen. It’s time,” Dutch shouted over the blare of another whistle. Arthur watched the train turn the corner, yet found his gaze lingering towards Charles on the far end, who remained focused on the train with strong, furrowed brows and sharp eyes. He couldn’t help but watch him, for what he knew was only seconds yet felt like so much more. He let his eyes trace his figure, catching every minor flex of covered muscle and every strand of hair as the breeze took it to flight around his shoulders. His face was covered with his mask, but that didn’t change the fact that the man was truly a sight to behold, and no, it wasn’t odd to think such a thing. Hell, a man could admire another man’s attractiveness for Christ's sake, nothing wrong with that. A completely normal thing, at least that’s what Arthur told himself.

Suddenly, Charles’s eyes snapped towards his, and he felt his mouth go dry at the questioning look lacing his masked features.

Thankfully for Arthur, he was saved by a way, way stupider man than Leviticus Cornwall. 

Dutch yelled and snapped at Arthur. “Damnit, Arthur! You said he had this!” 

Arthur whipped his head and squinted forward. Bill was throwing a fit in the distance and kicking the detonator, the train tracks completely intact with the train moving on as normal. Leave it to Bill to fuck up a perfectly good plan.

Arthur cursed under his breath and jumped off his horse. “Oh, so it’s my fault now!?” He bolted forward, flanked by Javier. Arthur snapped his gaze to the left and found Charles sprinting next to him, clumps of wet grass and snow flying with every step. He blamed his increasingly racing heart on the adrenaline of the situation. Nothing else.

He found himself airborne for a split second as the three of them jumped from their grassy tunnel pedestal and toward the top of a black train car. Arthur’s arms flailed at his side, and the northern wind gnawed at what little of his face wasn’t covered by cloth, making his eyes squint and water.

Despite bracing for impact, Arthur slammed into the metal surface, his body having no choice but to tumble forward and roll along the train car. 

He choked and heaved from the wind being knocked out of his lungs, but quickly caught his bearings as he maneuvered onto his hands and knees. 

The frigid metal of the car burned his gloved hands, and the icy wind whipped around his bundled body, yet he paid both no mind as he watched Javier roll off the side with a shout and plummet toward the rapidly moving ground below. 

He startled for a moment and held his breath, only releasing it a second later when the other man sat up in the growing distance and waved him off, seemingly fine. 

“Arthur!”

Arthur chased his senses toward the voice, scanning the horizon rapidly with wide eyes. He choked on his breath when he saw Charles clinging to the train car edge, not exactly with ease. 

“I’m slipping! Help me up,” Charles shouted over another screeching train whistle. 

In hindsight, it was embarrassing how fast he made his way to his feet. 

He hurtled toward Charles and subsequently tripped, nearly losing his balance and throwing himself over the side. With corrected footing and a racing heart, he stumbled toward the other man. He reached down just as Charles was losing his grip and grasped his arms tight before hauling him up from relative danger.

The two tumbled against the train car top and onto their backs, their breaths huffing together in sync. Arthur watched their puffs of clouded breaths intermingle, embracing each other and forming into one. He sighed softly, transfixed by the contrast between their exhalations and the night's star-scattered sky. It felt like an eternity as they lay together, backs pressed against uncomfortable metal as snow-covered branches passed through his periphery.

He was shot back to reality as Charles sat up with a grunt. Arthur watched him, the man’s brows were furrowed and his eyes were clouded in pain. Arthur’s eyes danced around the other’s form worriedly until his gaze caught onto Charles’ once-injured, still-healing hand grasped in his other hand. 

“Charles, your hand–”

“ Don’t. Let’s just get this over with,” the other man growled. He didn’t dignify Arthur with a second glance as he rose and ran towards the gap between the cars. 

“Damnit, Charles– wait up!” Arthur shouted. He shot to his feet gracelessly like a newborn fawn, swiping his hat up off the car surface in the process, and followed Charles down onto the derelict coupler. 

With a muffled grunt, he jumped into the car and took in his surroundings. Charles was ahead of him, slitting the throat of a lone guard behind a stack of crates. 

The inside was unceremonious. Only filled with hay and crates, as he expected all of the other cars to look like aside from Cornwall’s. Nothing seemed to be amiss aside from a dead guard and two burly masked outlaws.

“Come on, we’ve gotta stop this train,” Arthur waved a hand forward as he moved down the car. The roaring rails echoed through the space, the only sound to be heard aside from Charles patting down the dead guard and making quick work of pocketing any findings. Quickly, he flanked Arthur, sawed-off shotgun at the ready.

Arthur pulled out his revolver and aimed it ahead at the first sign of guards. The train whistle blew in time with Arthur’s shots, three guards going down without a fight.

“I’ll go ahead and stop the train,” Charles said, moving forward and passing Arthur, who grabbed his arm to stop him.

“No, ‘ll go. Stay behind me ‘nd catch any stragglers.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed, serious brows pointing towards a frown underneath his mask. Oh, how he wanted to reach out and—

Arthur coughed and gave him an easy look, thankful for the mask covering his heating cheeks. “Cover me.”

With a nod and nothing more, Charles backed up. Arthur offered a single nod in response before turning and running off down the cars. 

It was easygoing at first. Arthur saw a guard, and he shot. Like he was trained to do. He didn’t worry about the morality of it all. He was an outlaw, there was no time to worry if the man he just shot in the head had a wife and child at home. 

There was no time to think about the photo of a dog he looted off a man he shot in the stomach, who was clinging to life until Arthur took his knife and stabbed him in the throat to save a bullet.

There was no time.

Charles wasn’t far behind him, shooting where Arthur couldn’t. His kills were clean, and Arthur wondered if he didn’t think about it too.

Arthur met a dead end and climbed up onto the coal bunker car in front of him as Charles stayed behind to gather whatever valuables he could find. Huffing a breath, Arthur continued forward in a steady sprint in pursuit of the engine car. 

Suddenly, his face slammed full force into the head of a shovel.

He stumbled back. He could feel a familiar warmth trickle down from his nostrils and onto his mouth before ending up on his blue wool coat. His mask clung to his face, the flooding wetness acting as glue for him to begin receiving a more fucked up version of waterboarding. Bringing his hand to his mask, he ripped it down, it ended up frumpled around his throat, and touched his nose.

His gloved hand was coated in dark, thick red, but he didn’t have time to register it as the conductor jumped from on top of the coal bunker and grappled him.

He growled and twisted out of the man’s surprisingly strong grip and threw a roundhouse punch, clocking the man in the face. 

The conductor didn’t relent, however, as he delivered a cutting punch of his own and pushed Arthur onto the railing of the car in an attempt to either throw him off over the edge and into the ravine below or choke the life out of him.

Whatever it was, Arthur would never know. He heard the bullet before he saw it.

A bullet kissed the side of the man’s temple before shoving its way through his skull and piercing out the other end. 

Arthur watched as the light left the man’s eyes. The cloudy, milky gaze of a fresh corpse stared him down, straight in the eyes, as the body on top of him went limp. And it was okay.

Arthur wordlessly tossed the corpse over the edge and watched as it disappeared into the dark, foggy ravine below. 

Did he have a frail, dying mother waiting for him to return home before she could go?

“You okay?” Charles shouted. Arthur looked over at him, and the man still had his gun raised like he was surprised at what he had done himself. Yet, his worry was unable to be hidden behind his mask.

Wife. Children. Mother. Dog.

It’s okay.

“Yeah,” he choked out. “Thanks.”

“Your nose–”

“ It’s fine,” Arthur barked. Charles didn’t reply.

Arthur didn’t warrant the other man with a glace as he turned and jumped down from the car and into the engineer’s station.

With a yank, he pulled the lever to stop the train. The screeching of train tracks grated against his temples, an intense headache making its home behind Arthur’s eyes. 

With the train stopped, Charles and Arthur jumped off the side and onto the squishy grass and wet stones below. Yet, before they could relax, bullets whipped passed them and plummeted to the ground near their feet. “ Shit, more guards comin’ out that train car!” Arthur shouted, and they both found themselves hiding behind a nearby boulder .

Arthur quickly drowned himself in killing. His bullets burst from his revolver in rapid succession, none missing its targets as guards flooded out of the train like angry bees and subsequently dropped in time with his shots.

He could taste his own thick and clotted blood in his mouth, thinning out as it mixed with his saliva. It was the only thing keeping him relatively grounded. His vision was tunneled. It’s okay.

The rest of their men showed up on horseback, his horse and Taima following after. Their guns were blazing, and Arthur found himself shooting an already dead guard. Repeatedly. 

“Arthur–Arthur! Stop!” 

His wrist was grasped tightly and his revolver was yanked from his hand. “What the hell is wrong with you? He’s dead.” Charles’s voice was stern, but not exactly angry. He couldn’t place it. 

He looked to the other man and then back to the guard. He was right, if he weren’t dead when he shot him first, he certainly was dead now due to the 12 bullet holes in his gut.

“Thought I saw ‘em twitch,” Arthur replied tightly with a frown. God, what the hell was his problem?

He didn’t get much time to dwell or thankfully get asked questions by Charles, however, as Dutch and the rest trotted over to the two.

“Great shootin’, boys!” Dutch let out a throaty chuckle. “Nice face paint there, Arthur. You two alright?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Charles eyed him for a moment before answering. “We’re fine.”

“Yes jus’ fine,” he replied sarcastically, thumb swiping under his bloodied nose. “There better be some damn money at the end ‘f this,” Arthur grumbled, holstering his revolver as he stalked towards Cornwall’s train car. 

“Oh there will be, these men were guardin’ something,” Dutch replied as he dismounted his horse, the rest following suit. “But, we’ve gotta deal with the fellers holed up in this car first,” Dutch laughed.

“Ah, shit,” Arthur grumbled. Charles made a subtle noise of agreement from beside him as the gang crowded the private car. The blood on Arthur’s face was growing cold, causing him to shiver.

“What do you boys plan on doin’ in there?” Dutch called out. Leaving no room for an answer, he continued. “Listen to me, we don't want to kill any of ya.” He turned towards the rest of them with a wild smile. “Well, any more of ya.” The rest of the gang let out chuckles. Dutch turned back to the car. “I give you my word, but trust me... we will.”

There was silence, and suddenly a voice called out from the inside, muffled, but still coherent.

“We work for Leviticus Cornwall! We’ve got our orders!”

“Christ, fellers! Don’t you ever get tired of bein’ bootlickers?” Dutch rolled his eyes. Arthur watched on quietly, ready to go back to camp. 

“Listen, boys. I’m feelin’ nice. I’ll give you until the count of five.” Dutch chuckled, holding up a splayed gloved hand. 

No reply.

“Five!”

“ We ain’t opening this door!”

“Oh ho, you will. Four!” Dutch laid down a finger.

Silence.

“Three…” Three fingers.

“Two…” Two fingers.

“One.” And one finger.

Dutch tsked and casually pulled out his gun. “Seems our friends ‘ve gone deaf.” He aimed his gun at the door of the car. Everyone else followed and Arthur was no exception.

“Let’s wake 'em up a little!”

Bullets blasted against the door in bright, hypnotizing bursts of oranges, reds, and yellows, yet the doors didn’t budge.

“We ain’t coming out! You got no way in here!” 

“That’s enough!” Dutch yelled, and the bullets stopped as quickly as they started. 

“Mr. Williamson, give Mr. Morgan and Mr. Smith some dynamite. You two boys go blow that door open.”

Arthur took the dynamite from Bill’s outstretched hand and stalked over towards the doors of the car, Charles in toe. The two of them stuck the sticks on with ease, and Arthur grabbed his matches and struck two against the sole of his boot. He handed off one of the matches to Charles.

“Seems good enough to me, let's light ‘em,” Charles muttered lowly. A meaningless conversation just for the two of them.

“You got it,” Arthur replied, and the two did just. They ran off toward the rest of the gang, all of which took five good steps back. 

“Now don't matter too much to us, but you boys in there, might wanna take a step back,” Dutch shouted, the sizzling of anticipatory rope filling the space.

With a loud bang, the doors burst open. Shrapnel littered the surrounding area, and Arthur couldn’t decide if not getting taken out by a rogue car door was a good thing or not.

“What did you find?” Dutch asked. He was slouched against a rock by the three Cornwall employees, who all still had their hands up. Micah and Lenny were climbing down for the car after him.

“These…bonds. They worth anythin’?” Arthur asked, handing off the pile of bonds to Dutch, who skimmed through them with a growing smirk.

“Oh, sure…bearer bonds. Hosea can probably sell these pretty easily,” Dutch stuffed the bonds into his deep coat pocket. “Well done, son. Now, get rid of all this, would ya?” Dutch gestured to the train with a finger as he began to step off toward his horse. “Mr. Smith!” He pointed over to Charles, who looked up from petting and feeding Taima. “Kindly assist Mr. Morgan in clean up!”

Charles nodded and began his short distance over to the two. 

“What about them?” Arthur asked with a nod of his head in the direction of the quivering employees.

“What do you think?”

“Is this a trick question?” Arthur asked, brows furrowed. “I dunno.”

“Up to you, son,” Dutch replied, mounting The Count. “Kill ‘em, leave ‘em here, bring 'em with you on the train, doesn’t matter. Just make sure they don’t send no law after us. Now, we’ll see you two back at camp.” Charles made it over and stood by Arthur. “And Arthur,” Dutch met his eye. “Wash up before gettin’ back. Don’t wanna scare little Jack.” He gestured to Arthur’s bloodied face. “The rest of you! Let’s ride!”

With that, the rest of the gang was gone, leaving Charles, Arthur, and three terrified workers. 

Charles looked at Arthur. “What did he say to do about them?” he asked, gesturing towards the men.

Arthur sighed slowly and pulled out his gun. 

“He said to kill ‘em.” 

The ride back to camp so far was deadly quiet aside from the steady sound of hooves against ground.

“How’s your nose,” Charles asked about halfway back to camp. Despite his best efforts, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to avoid his gaze.

“Honestly? Hurts like a bitch,” Arthur grumbled out. He ducked under the brim of his hat.

Two hoofbeats turned into one. It took Arthur a second to notice, but when he did, he stopped and turned toward the other man from on his saddle. Charles had stopped Taima and dismounted. “What’re ya doin’?” Arthur asked, brows furrowing in confusion. 

“Come here, you fool,” Charles replied as he rummaged through his saddlebag. He pulled out a sizable gray cloth and began walking off the path. Arthur wondered if he would do anything the other man asked because as quickly as he was beckoned he had listened and stumbled over, following him like a loyal dog. 

Charles slowed his stride to a stop and crouched down next to a small, thawed pond off the road. He dipped the cloth into the frigid water, ensuring it was thoroughly soaked. Arthur stood by and watched the man wring out the piece of fabric. Charles had taken off his gloves, and Arthur watched the way his hands grasped the rag, tight muscles ensuring the fabric was an adequate amount of wet. His face suddenly didn’t hurt as bad now that he had a distraction, but he jumped when Charles’s gaze fell on his. 

“Get down here,” Charles said, tone still a tad sharp, yet didn’t hold much bite due to the small tug of a smile on his lips. Arthur stared for a second until he acquiesced with a small nervous chuckle. He crouched down next to the other man, hoping to hide his flustered expression behind his hat.

Charles brought a hand up and yanked Arthur’s hat off his head, to which he watched in surprise before frowning, the warmth on his cheeks increasing horribly. “Hey!”

Charles shrugged. “Sorry. I couldn’t see.” Arthur raised a brow.

“What the hell is there to–” 

Before Arthur could finish his sentence, he felt a firm but gentle brush against the top of his lip and watched as Charles gingerly cleaned the blood from his face. 

Arthur’s face relaxed slightly and let himself calm under the feeling of Charles swiping away the clotted, thick, dried blood from his lower face. 

They were silent for a moment, the other cleaning away a majority of the blood from Arthur’s nose and mouth. Then, Charles opened his mouth to speak. Before he could though, he closed it, and glanced away, seemingly deep in thought. 

Arthur raised a brow, a small smirk crawling onto his features. “Careful, now. Y’ll hurt yourself.” Charles shot him a glare. He then rolled his eyes and sighed, a small plume of cloudy breath escaping Charles’s throat and forcing its way into Arthur’s lungs as he breathed in. 

“You seemed…unlike yourself tonight.”

Arthur waited for him to say more, but nothing else came. His lip twitched in dull pain from a particularly firm press from Charles’s work. Despite it, he stayed silent.

“Fine, I’ll talk,” Charles said in a clipped tone. “What the hell has gotten into you tonight?” Arthur rolled his eyes and dared to turn his head away with a shake, but Charles grabbed his jaw and snapped him back to face him, fingers digging into flesh. “Overkill? Really? And what the hell was that with those workers? I heard Dutch, and yet you killed them anyway.” He said this as he rubbed the blood off Arthur’s chin with vigor, his emotions fighting to rub him raw. 

Arthur snarled and shoved Charles’ hand back with force. “And what do you think you know about me, Charles Smith? You hardly fuckin’ know me! You think a couple’a huntin’ trips are gonna change that?”

Charles’s expression grew darker, his fist balled around the rag and his other hand’s pointer finger beating into Arthur’s chest. “Fine, maybe I don’t know you as much as I thought I did. Maybe you’re some big, trigger-happy rough-and-tough outlaw and tonight was the night you finally decided to show it,” Charles stood up abruptly, glaring down at the other man. “But just know, I certainly thought better of you.”

Well, that certainly did a number on Arthur’s poor self-esteem. He stared up at the man, himself still on his knees, and remained there for a beat, just staring into Charles's deep brown eyes. God, did he wish this were an appropriate time to take out his journal and draw. Even angry, the man was a sight to behold. 

The two of them remained silent, and Arthur slowly grabbed his hat, placed it on his head, and rose to his full height. The two of them stood exactly eye to eye give or take, as he believed Charles had a couple of centimeters on him at most.

Finally, Arthur let out a deep exhale and looked down at his feet, hands resting on his hips. He felt like he was choking on the shame. “I, er… made a mighty fool of myself, I think.” 

“Shit, you think?” Charles replied, his head cocked to the side as he crossed his arms, expression turning earnest as the fight left him. 

“‘M not that kind of person, please try to believe that,” Arthur said, shaking his head and lifting his gaze to meet the other with difficulty. “Blackwater really shook me, I s’pose. Haven’t really been actin’ right since. Not an excuse, I guess. Jus’ a reason. Don’t excuse my actions or anger.” He felt his head clearing as he spoke this aloud, oddly feeling lighter at the admission. 

“Just be honest with me. That’s all I’m asking,” Charles replied, patting Arthur on the shoulder.

Arthur nodded. “Yeah, okay. Will do.” His gaze crawled down to Charles’s bad hand and gestured. “Er, how’s the hand? You said it were healed but earlier said a different story.”

Charles lifted it to glance at it before shaking his head, a small smile gracing his features. He looked to Arthur, seeming lighter as well. “Honestly? Hurts like a bitch.”

“Well now that won’t do, now will it?” Arthur asked with a smirk. He snatched the bloodied rag from Charles’s other hand and crouched down. He dunked the rag into the icy pond water and gestured for Charles’s hand. “Now, apologies I ain’t no pretty bedside nurse but ‘m better than nothin’.”

Charles chuckled and handed off the bad hand, letting it rest in Arthur’s gentle grasp as he crouched alongside the other man.

“You’ll do just fine Mr. Morgan,” Charles replied, eyes cast down onto their hands. Arthur smiled and brought the rag to his irritated hand and got to work. 

If Arthur weren’t so focused on playing nurse, he would’ve seen the look of complete fondness Charles’s expression held as he watched him work.