Work Text:
Arthur’s slumber was broken (again) by John hollering at God-knows-who about God-knows-what. At this point, it was a routine nuisance, but that didn’t make it any less irritating.
That silly little teenager always managed to find a way to get on his nerves, his voice like a splinter under skin, impossible to ignore and difficult to get rid of. Well, Arthur would never truly want the little tyke gone... But a few hours of peace and quiet would do him just fine.
He let out a low, unintelligible grumble as he sat up in his cot, brows furrowed in annoyance. Rubbing at his forehead, he tried to shake off the fog of sleep while John's voice echoed through the camp outside the tent, sharp and relentless.
“Shut yer damn pie hole, Marston!” Arthur rasped, voice rough with sleep. Miraculously, John actually shut up.
That alone was enough to make Arthur’s brow lift slightly. The kid almost never listened. With a small shake of his head, he pulled on his jeans, buttoning up a shirt, and trudged toward the tent flaps.
He squinted as the harsh morning light met his eyes - another familiar irritant- just as a gentler voice called his name.
“Arthur.”
A breath of something close to contentment slipped from his lips as he turned and saw Hosea. Arthur nodded in greeting.
“Mornin’,” he muttered, accepting the steaming cup of coffee Hosea handed him without question. He sipped on the hot fuel, the liquid burning his tongue in a way that only makes his ease grow, for some reason.
Hosea let out a slow sigh, lips tugging into a soft smile as he stood beside Arthur, hands resting on his hips as he surveyed the forest around them.
“Beautiful day,” he said, voice calm and easy. “Sun’s shinin’, and we ain’t got a rope around our necks. That’s somethin’.”
Arthur gave a low, rough chuckle, shaking his head as he glanced over at the old man. “Yet.” he muttered, dry.
That earned him a laugh, the kind that came from deep in Hosea’s chest, weathered and warm. "That's the spirit." Came from his crinkled lips with a grin. Arthur didn’t say anything else, just turned his gaze back to the trees, letting the sound of Hosea’s laughter fill the silence between them.
A moment later, a hand settled on his shoulder. He tried not to lean into it, tried not to acknowledge the way the quiet warmth of it crept into his bones.
“Life’s good, Arthur,” Hosea said, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Life’s good.”
Arthur looked over, meeting the old man’s eyes. There was no lecture in them, no orders like he saw in Dutch's, just simple, fatherly affection. Something about it twisted in his chest. The feeling familiar, but hard to name. He hoped Isaac might one day know that same soulful warmth, the kind Arthur felt whenever Hosea looked at him with soft, unwavering care.
He gave a slow nod. Didn't trust himself to say much more. He's never been one to show much vulnerability. It had been over a decade since he was taken under Hosea and Dutch's wing, them both saving him from an even darker path than the one he currently led.
Orphaned, starving, and alone, they managed to turn Arthur into the man he is today. Even if the man he is isn't inherently good, he is nonetheless grateful, forever owing them. But is living life like this better than death? He supposes he'll know one day. And for some reason, it's a day he looks forward to in a way, the thought of death enveloping him in her sweet arms, pressing the kiss of death onto his forehead sounding so peaceful.
His wrinkled hand slips from the young man's shoulder, finding its way back to his own hip, the sound of Arthur sipping coffee faintly heard. "That stench of the town... Ain't quite nothin' like it."
A chuckle leaves Arthurs lips, glancing over at Hosea with a smirk. "What, the smell of sheep shit n' vomit?" Ever the sarcastic tone that always put a smile on Hosea's face.
"No, son, the smell of opportunity. I don't expect someone as parochial as yourself to understand." He teases, nudging at the younger man, causing a huff of laughter to leave his mouth.
"Well excuse me, old man, for not bein' able t' enjoy the smell of the shit hole that is Mule... Somethin' or other." Arthur mutters with a playful smirk spread on his lips.
"Mulebite, a livestock town if I've ever seen one. Just 'cause somethin' smells like shit, don't mean it's full of shit. Take you, for example." Hosea ribs, causing a rugged bark of laughter from Arthur.
Most of the tranquility dissolves once that familiar, squeaky little voice breaks the silence that flowed through the camp, his voice laced with worry, albeit some frustration stitched into the mix. "Copper! Here boy!" John calls out in-between high pitched whistles, calling out for the kanine.
"What's that damn kid yellin' for?" A low grumble leaves Arthurs throat, before sipping the last of his coffee and handing the cup back to Hosea, his narrowed eyes following John's movement.
"He lost the mutt." Their eyes remain on John, watching as he lowers himself to try and get a look at the bushes, searching for any traces of the dog. "Put him out of his misery, Arthur. I know you've got a soft spot f' that dog too." Hosea nudges, his eyes locking onto Arthurs face.
His eyes rolled, a sharp scoff slipping from his lips as he shot a glare toward Hosea. He had better things to do than chase after a damn dog that - like clockwork - would show up by noon, tail wagging and clueless as ever.
But then he caught that look. Hosea, head tilted slightly, eyes soft with quiet disappointment at Arthurs hesitant scoff. Not angry, just that patient kind of letdown that always hit Arthur deeper than it should’ve.
“Fine,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, his boots thudding against the dry earth as he stalked toward John.
Behind him, Hosea chuckled.
“There ya go.” He cheered on playfully, finding great humour in the grumpy young man who deeply reminds him of himself when he was around Arthurs age.
Arthur stood behind John, thumbs hooked through his belt, watching John whistling out for Copper as his eyes scan the bushes just near the outskirts of camp. “Where’d ya see him last?” he drawled, voice lazy as ever.
John turned to face him, rubbing the back of his neck with that sheepish look he always pulled when he knew he’d messed up. “Uh… near the creek. I think.”
Arthur snorted. “You think? Well, hell, that narrows it right down.” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as John shot him a look. They were insatiable when it came to riling up one another, like two bickering brothers who love to taunt and poke at one another until the bear strikes. And in a way, that's exactly what they are, two brothers from similar backgrounds who loved to piss eachother off.
John’s eyes narrowed, glaring up at the man who towered over him. One day, he'll be as tall as his big brother, he swears it
“You gonna help or just flap your gums?”
Arthur smirked at the cheeky little bastard, already starting toward the trees. “Reckon I can do both.”
A good few moments of searching, whistling and calling for that silly mutt, and of course the two brothers quarrelling, with John holding a smirk of mischief on his lips while Arthur frowned in irritation , they reach the creek where Copper was last seen. They walk across the gravel, the sound of trickling water mingling with their warm banter.
John squinted into the underbrush, hoping to hear a bark or a whine, anything to get this over with. Although, he can't ignore the warmth that the familiarity of Arthurs presence causes. “What if he chased a squirrel n' got lost or somethin'?” He tries to hide the concern in his voice, caring for that dog a little more than he should.
Arthur chuckled, tipping his hat back. “If he’s chasing squirrels, that mutt’s got a better social life than us.” He mutters as his eyes dart across the scenery, scanning over the pretty area for any signs of the auburn dog.
John shot him a glare. “Better social life? Hah, you're one to talk. You’re the one who talks to a horse like it owes you money. Or like yer plannin' on takin' it out for dinner... Not me, pissant." The boy teases, a mischievous smirk on his face as he taunts the man.
Arthur grinned wider. “Watch yer mouth, boy. Boadicea's better at socializin' than you. Less attitude, more hard work. You? You’re just talkin’ to me, and look how that’s workin’ out. No manners, nor have you got a social life.”
The teenager, full of attitude as ever, scoffs, a playful glare plastered onto his face as he casts a glance over at Arthur as they continue their journey along the creek, keeping their eyes peeled for that damn dog. "Poor Boa, listenin' to your yappin'." He teases.
Arthur lets out a scoff of mock irritation, his elbow lightly nudging against the boys arm. "Watch it, kid. N' watch that language of yours." A chuckle leaves his lips, his head shaking at the pure sass and gall on that boy.
"Oh, so robbin's fine, but swearin' ain't? Well, forgive me, I never knew y' were so good." The teen sarcastically drawls out, his eyes rolling at Arthurs words, as playful as they are.
They fall into a comfortable silence for a while...well, as comfortable as it can be with their constant calls and whistles for the nuisance that is Copper. Finally, John breaks the quiet, his voice hesitant, almost shy.
“Hey… Arthur?”
Arthur glances over, a brow arching at John’s unusually quiet tone, so unlike his usual relentless chatter. “Yeah?”
John’s eyes drop to the ground, shuffling alongside the water’s edge, gravel crunching underfoot. “Can ya take me fishin’ today? Hosea don’t trust me out here alone.”
Arthur feels a sudden tug in his chest, a soft ache where he didn’t expect one. He swallows, voice softer than usual. “I... not today, kid.” His eyes linger on John, steady but gentle. “I’m gonna go see Isaac.”
Johns eyes immediately meet Arthurs, his head tilting as a smile tugs at his lips, warmed at the thought of the toddler he's met a few times. "Tell him I said hi. And..."
"Eliza." Arthur finishes John’s sentence, his gaze dropping to the ground, a gentle smile softening his features as thoughts of his little son flicker through his mind. He hopes that Eliza can shape Isaac into something better than what he is; a young man who does good simply because it’s right. That’s all he wants, for the boy to grow up free from the shadows Arthur himself still carries.
A sudden splash breaks them both out of their thoughts. Their heads snap toward the creek. There, soaked to the bone and panting with unbothered delight, stands that silly brown mutt, tail wagging in clueless bliss.
“Copper! There ya are, boy!”
Without a second thought for his clothes, John wades right into the water, dropping to his knees to scratch behind the dog’s dripping ears.
Arthur lets out a scoffing chuckle, a warm smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head. “Pair o’ fools,” he mutters, the words laced with affection, a fond glint in his bright eyes.
Copper spots Arthur, bolting from the water with a spray of droplets and a joyful bark. Arthur crouches down, running a hand over the dog’s soggy head.
“Hey there, boy,” he says softly, that same smile lingering.
His eyes meet John’s as the younger man trudges from the creek, clothes plastered to his frame, boots squelching with each step.
“You head on back to camp, kid,” Arthur drawls as he straightens, ruffling John’s hair in passing. Copper dances at their feet, barking happily, as the sun begins to dip behind the trees.
A light rain begins to fall, soft droplets pattering against their skin as the clouds shift from cotton white to a muted grey. Arthur had always carried a quiet fondness for the rain, the way it whispered through the leaves as they swayed with the wind, how the steady rhythm seemed to wash the tension from his shoulders. There was something grounding in it all; the cool gusts brushing against his face, the dampness settling into his clothes, the world slowing down just enough so he could think, breathe.
"Go on. Tell Dutch n' Hosea I'll be back in a few days." He mutters, a brotherly love in his eyes that he cannot contain as he peers down at the younger boy.
"Alright." John shrugs, a small smile on his face as he begins to walk away. "C'mon, Copper. Ol' Arthur Morgan's got grown up business to take care of." He teases lightheartedly, the dog following with a bark, his paws dusting up the dirt that is soon to be sloppy mud.
Arthur just scoffs, rolling his eyes before he whistles for his horse, the low sound ricocheting against the rain, fighting for dominance. He hops himself onto Boadicea, his dutiful, champagne coated shire, giving her neck a few affectionate pats as he murmurs words of encouragement to her.
The ride to Morndell Forest is slow, with Arthur basking in the rainfall, feeling how it grows harsher minute by minute, accompanied with the roaring thunder that booms through the air. He truly loves this weather. Most would argue that it's miserable, but he sees the true beauty in it. He sees beauty in a whole lot of things.
On his quiet ride, he eases his horse into a gentle trot as something unusual draws his eye, a withered tree, its bark gnarled and weather-worn, standing crooked and out of place. Bare branches reach up, stripped of leaves, a skeleton frozen mid-stretch. He studies it for a moment, the wood darkened from the now heavy rain, then tucks the image away into that quiet, artistic corner of his mind. He’ll sketch it later; for no reason other than it made him feel something.
The thunderstorms fury grows by the minute, the rain absolutely drenching Arthur and his poor horse. Guess he won't be taking Isaac for a walk this evening. Even at this time, it's incredibly dark, the only light being served from the lightning and the full moon. Even the moon looks tired tonight, her glow dimmed, as if she'd seen too much.
He reaches the familiar cabin, a quiet warmth flickering in his chest at the thought of little Isaac, the way the boy’s face lights up when he sees him, all unfiltered joy and trust. That kind of love isn't something Arthur feels he’s earned, not really. Not with the life he leads. He’s spent more nights under open sky than beneath a roof, more time with a revolver in hand than his child.
He doesn’t bother hitching his horse, she knows to stay, loyal and trustworthy, maybe the only thing in his life that’s ever stuck by him without question. He gives her a quiet pat on the neck, then lets his eyes drift to the cabin door, his vision obscured by the darkness of the evening.
There’s always that moment just before he steps inside where guilt creeps in, quiet as a whisper. For the time he’s missed, for the stories he’s not part of. For every time Isaac sat there and pondered upon his father's return... If he ever has.
Arthur isn't the kind of man who says much, but he feels it, deep and constant. The ache of wanting to be better than the world’s ever let him be. He takes a breath, heavy with the regret on his shoulders, and heads for the door, hoping that maybe this time, he can stay a little longer.
But just as he raises his fist to bang on the door, he hesitates, that aching guilt in his chest gnawing away at his heart like a plague on his insides. With his fist still raised, his brows furrow, his head turning away from the door.
His mind wouldn't quiet, it churned like the storms water, dragging old regrets up from the mud. The flash of the lightning pulls him out of the thoughts that haunted his mind, seeing something that he isn't sure of. A harsh breath pushes it's way past his lips as he steps off of the porch, walking over to the wooden markings stuck in the ground.
"No..." He growls out, his chest tightening with a feeling that is unknown to him, a feeling that is far too relentless to ignore.
Two crosses stood still in the earth, their ends buried firm in the mud, one smaller than the other.
All air forces it's way from Arthurs lungs, the life that he should've protected being ripped out of his chest, leaving a hollow, bitter hole that will rot and eat away at him like no other.
“No.” he chokes out, his voice catching like gravel in his throat. The lump rising feels like a mix of grief and a boulder shoved down from the heavens, unmovable and cruel, sent from the heavens as a cruel karma. It hurts to swallow. Hurts even worse to look.
He rises to his feet, storming his way into the cabin, expecting to see Eliza and little Isaac, sat around the table as they eat food that she put all her love and care into. The door swings open. Blood. Dark, rust-colored stains clung to the ribs of the floorboards, sunk in deep his like regret. The wood drank it in, leaving behind a cruel, merciless taunt, ugly, cracked, and dry as old leather.
Arthur’s mind is a horrific mess, rage, sorrow, guilt, all crashing through him like a stampede he can’t outrun. His chest burns, like his ribs can’t hold in the weight of it, and his heart... God, it isnt just broken, it’s shattered, ground down to nothing. Feels like his soul's been ripped clean out, stomped flat and left in-between the cracks of the floorboards, mixing in with the dried up blood from his son, from Eliza. There's no coming back from this. Not really.
He finally tears himself from the cabin, his boots dragging like they’re made of steel. For a moment, he’d felt rooted there, frozen, hollow. Now the rain comes down in sheets, merciless and cold, soaking him to the bone. Thunder roars above him, sharp and cruel, like the sky’s mocking him. He stands there, unmoving, eyes locked on the two graves, small mounds of earth that say too much without a single word.
Warm droplets of rain mix in along with his tears, his knees bucking from a feeling he's never felt before. Rage? Grief? Whatever the emotions he's feeling, they're all mixing together in a furnace, fueled by pain and sorrow.
The mud stains into his jeans, his shoulders trembling as his hand rests on his jaw, his fingers digging into his skin, his nails scratching, as if to punish himself for the fate that Eliza and Isaac succumbed to.
He seethed against the world, not because he hated it, but because it stole the life that was meant to blossom, the lives that were sure to live on and turn into something much more beautiful than it already was.
What a fool he was, foolish enough to think he could live the life he leads and still hold a child’s future in his hands. Chasing some godforsaken fragile dream of stability, a glimpse of a life he knew deep down he’d never truly have. Now all that’s left is the bitter weight of what could’ve been, and the crushing truth of what he’ll never be. What a fool he is.