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Arthur knows that you're not the most confident person out there, has heard you talk ill about yourself more times than he'd like to imagine. Sometimes, on your particularly bad days, he goes out of his way to sit with you or hand you a trinket he knows you will enjoy. The outlaw would never admit it, but during the rare moments where he can just relax around camp, his eyes are glued to your form.
It's just the way you carry yourself and the ring of your laughing voice that makes him feel all sorts of things. So his gaze lingers on you, watching you like a hawk, while he's hoping that you won't notice, because he'd seem more than just creepy. Now is such a time, where he's sitting by his tent and staring at you like some pathetic, lovestruck fool. Oh and how pathetic he is. You don't even know the half of it.
Whenever he comes riding in, you are the first person he looks for and whenever someone tells a joke around the campfire, he turns to you to see if you're laughing. Arthur isn't a man who's particularly good with words, but dear God does he especially stumble over them when he's trying to talk to you. Some sentences don't even make any sense and then he's wishing for the ground to open up beneath his feet to swallow him.
You're on the whole other side of camp at the moment and enjoying your coffee break. Normally you look so much at peace when there's no one to bother you and you get to simply be. Though there is a frown on your face now. It's nothing too obvious, but Arthur has stared at you for long enough that he's able to tell your mood just based on the position of your eyebrows.
Right now they're slightly pulled together and creating a small crease in the spot between them. The corners of your mouth are also pointing down a bit and the outlaw mimics your expression. His heart aches at your sight and he wonders who or what could have caused it. If it was someone from the gang then he will have a stern word with them, that's for sure.
Before he can dwell on it any longer, he notices how you pick up a small object that is laying next to you. A handheld mirror. That's when realization washes over him and he sees the way you study your own reflection. Unsatisfied, downright disappointed in fact. No, he absolutely can't have that. Not knowing what possesses him, he stands up from his cot and makes his way over to you.
Each step is sure and confident at first, but the closer he gets, the more uncertain he becomes. Something about you turns him from a ruthless and cold outlaw to a young teenage boy experiencing his first crush. One look from you is enough to have heat shoot up his face and make him sweat even under the thinnest of clothes and in the coldest of temperatures.
There's no turning back now though, because you've spotted him and oh, the way your face lights up is enough to make him clutch his chest. With clammy hands and a fuzzy brain he makes himself comfortable by your side and sits there in silence while he contemplates what to say. There are so many things he would love to tell you, but he always decides against it, choosing to let you live in peace.
You don't deserve a bad man like him, you deserve someone who's decent and honest. Someone who doesn't have blood staining their calloused hands and sins laying heavy on their shoulders. Arthur lowers his head, the rim of his black and worn hat covering most of his face. He has no reason to show you the extend of your effect on him.
Then he clears his throat to speak and prays that his voice won't betray him.
"You doin' okay?", he asks, the words leaving him as a whisper.
The smile you grace him with could melt the toughest of men and he feels his throat dry up from it.
"I'm fine, Mr. Morgan. Thanks.", you answer, but he can hear it in your tone that it's a lie.
"How many times do I gotta tell you to call me Arthur? I'm old, but I ain't that old.", he responds with a low chuckle and you return it with a laugh of your own.
That sound is music to his ears and he could break out into loud cheering and applause right here and now. He managed to make you laugh after all.
"I know, I know.", you mumble with an amused shake of your head. "It's just so funny to see you like this."
If it would be John or Sean making fun of him like this, he would easily threaten to punch their teeth out. Not you. You could call him names and tease him all day and he'd relish every single second of it, if it means that he gets to bask in your attention.
"But I'm serious.", he says, getting back to his previous question and he finally lifts his head to look at your face. "You wanna talk 'bout it?"
For the longest time you don't utter a single word and he fears that he might have crossed a line, that you're going to pull away from him. Nothing in your expression indicates what's going on in your head and the seconds begin to feel like whole minutes. During that entire time he keeps his eyes locked on your face, re-memorizing every single feature.
From the curve of your eyebrows to the bridge of your nose, he's drinking it all up like a parched man lost in the dessert. And when his eyes fall on your lips he has to dig his nails into his palms to keep his focus. How often has he fantasized about tracing them with his fingers? How often has he dreamed of kissing them until they're red and swollen and afterwards waking up with your taste on his mouth?
"Ah, I'm just being stupid.", you speak up and rip him out of his thoughts. He has to bite back a relieved sigh.
"Don't talk 'bout yourself like that." The words shoot out of him faster than a bullet and he clears his throat to mask his eagerness to defend you.
"But it's true.", you weakly protest and he catches you looking back down at the handheld mirror.
Not knowing what's gotten into him, he reaches out to place his rough hand over yours and your gaze snaps in his direction.
"Don't concern yourself with your looks."
"See? I told you it's stupid-", you start, but he raises his other hand to stop you.
"Let me finish first. I ain't done yet."
You close your mouth as quickly as you had opened it and he takes in a deep breath. Arthur's eyes dart down to the grass that it swaying in the soft breeze and the gears in his head are working overtime while he tries to come up with the right words. There are a thousand things he wants to say, but none of them are good enough.
"You're fine just the way you are.", is all he manages to bring out, but that doesn't seem to do it. Of course it doesn't.
Much to his disappointment you pull your hand away from under his and leave it on your lap instead.
"I appreciate it, Arthur, but I'm doing okay. Really.", you murmur, but he shakes his head.
He scolds himself internally, forcing himself to get a grip already. The outlaw takes off his hat, leaving him somewhat vulnerable and he runs a hand through his messy hair.
"You're quite pretty actually.", he grumbles into his beard, so quietly that you almost don't catch it.
You stare at him with eyes wide from surprise, but there's also the ghost of a smile on your lips.
"You think I'm pretty?"
No. You're beautiful. A goddamn work of art.
"Course. Any man with workin' eyes 'n common sense can see it."
The look you're giving him is knocking the air straight out of his lungs. Your features soften, a smiling tugging at the corners of your mouth and that familiar bright gleam returns to your eyes. It fills him with life and making him think silly and soft things. Then, as if to finish him off entirely, you put your hand on his bearded cheek and press your tender lips on the other.
At this point, he's quite certain that he's standing in flames. His entire face is on fire, sweat rolling down his neck in streams and the fabric of his blue button up shirt becomes incredibly tight. Even as you pull away and your hand leaves him, he can still feel it on his skin. His heart is drumming against his ribcage and his tongue seems to have turned into a block of heavy clay.
This is too much. If he doesn't flee now then he will make a bigger fool out of himself than he already has. Nodding and producing some strange noises, that are actually supposed to be coherent sentences, he stands up and stumbles back to his tent. He hears you giggling behind him and he pushes his hat deep into his face.
Well done, Morgan.