Work Text:
No one was coming.
He was captured and no one was coming. No Dutch, no Charles, no John, and not even y/n.
Arthur had always been a survivor. He'd fought his way out of impossible situations before, and this time should be no different.
He didn't even comprehended how he got back on horseback. Bruised, bloodied, hurt and barely on the verge of passing out. But he made himself to be conscious. Gritting his teeth so strong he nearly broke his own jaw. He rode off into the night, his body screaming for rest but his mind set on survival.
By the time the familiar trees and tents of camp come into view, Arthur's body was on the brink of collapse. As his horse slowed to a stop, he dismounted with what little strength he had left. The moment his feet hit the ground, his knees buckled, and the world tilted, changing to upside down.
He didn't feel the impact of hitting the dirt. Voices rose around him, some were urgent, some hurried to get the attention he really needed.
Someone called his name, crouching in front of him. Hands coming to his face, just slightly touching, because he wouldn't want to have this dirt on him.
"Oh, my poor son," Dutch murmured. The words carried an odd mix of guilt and concern, but Arthur couldn't respond.
Then there was you, pushing through the crowd with a look that could pierce steel. While the others fussed over Arthur, your eyes locked onto Dutch with burning intensity. The resentment in their gaze was unmistakable. Dutch's words might've fooled the others, but you wouldn't let it slide.
But that was for another time. You knelt down, helping to get Arthur on his feet with the others. Hearing him groan and letting shudder breath. It broke your heart so much, and fulled something deep within you. The anger you didn’t know were having towards one person. Getting Arthur down on his cot, tearing down the necessary parts of his clothes so Mrs. Grimshaw could do her magic, while you stayed in the back. Watching. Waiting. Brought your fist to your mouth, slightly biting at the skin. Doing something to shoot down your nerves.
Mrs. Grimshaw works quickly, cleaning wounds with practiced hands while Arthur grits his teeth against the pain. “Easy now,” she mutters, “Yer lucky to be alive.”
But when Arthur speaks, his voice hoarse but deliberate, it isn’t to her or Dutch hovering nearby. It’s to you.
“..you wanna shoot someone,” he rasps with a weak attempt to (you guess) to smirk, but that doesn't reach his eyes. He was near dying, and hell, everyone knew that. "Ain't worth it."
A pause as he swallows hard against the pain. You could see his hand twitching, where it was resting at his side — not reaching for you outright in front of others (too proud for that), but unmistakably seeking reassurance only you could provide for that man. But both of you knew that this must wait. Just for a little longer.
Then he turns his head away with a cough that rattles too deep in his chest and wipes blood from his split lips, with the back of his trembling fingers. Mrs. Grimshaw stood up, told you what to do with him, how to change his bandages, how to check for infection by scent. After all of that, she was on her way out, but warned you that if anything were to happen, to call her imminently.
After that she left, leaving only two of you alone, flaps closed behind her, creating the false feeling of security. But you couldn't mind it less, not now in this moment. Because there were far more important things to do.
Your eyes were tracing his body. Every single wound created by that band of bastards, every single bruise you could find, the place where they shot him. Taking a breath in. Slowly walked towards him. Every step was harder to cross, because it only made the image in front of you real, you slowly sat at the edge of the cot. Your eyes set directly on him, because where else should have they be?
"Don't speak, save your strength" you whispered to him, trying to sound calm, to give him something to hold on. To give him the feeling of false peace. But your eyes told different story, they had so much fury, near murder in mind.
At the sound of your voice, Arthur's expression was still unreadable as his gaze drifts to yours. He was silent for a moment, just studied you as same as you did to him. Your hands, shoulders, lips, and then he saw your eyes, the anger in them. He lowered his gaze a little, saw the clenching of your fists. After that, he took a slow shallow breath, that ended up in a cough.
When he speaks, his voice is raw but steady.
"You're livid." It's wasn't a question. He knows you too well.
You could lie to him, but both of you knew that that would be pointless, so, you just nodded. A slow deliberate not to seal the meaning. You rose your hand slowly, placing it so gently on his forearm, that it was more a ghost touch.
Arthur's eyes flicker shut for just a moment as he draws in a shaking breath. The warmth of your fingers against his skin is both soothing and a reminder of his vulnerability, and the state he was unwillingly in. When he opens them again, his gaze locks on yours, the weight of your anger and concern hanging between you like a tangible force.
"Been through worse," he murmurs, voice strained but defiant. Saying it as he was trying to reassure himself more than you.
"I know" you answered after a while. Were too afraid to touch him more than you were already. Seeing almost every corner of his skin being damage in one way or another.
And it wasn't like the sight made you angry. No. It was the reason why was he in this state that made your blood boil.
Arthur saw the hesitation in your eyes, the way you're holding back, and he hates it. He's never been good at accepting help or comfort. Never then, definitely not now.
"Don't look at me like that," he almost hissed at you. Tone maybe too harsh. "I ain't made of glass."
"Could have fooled me" you mumbled to yourself. Swallowing the rest of the words down. Because whenever he liked it or not, it was bad. Not the worst. But damn near that. It was the infection that scared you the most. If he would got that, there is no more of him. Forcing your eyes to meet his again.
"Rest, can you do that?" You asked quietly. Knowing it wasn't a question, it was already in your mind "...please?"
His jaw tightens, a flicker of frustration passing over his face. He wants to argue, to dismiss the gravity of his condition, but he can't deny the toll it's taken on him. He's exhausted, battered, and the pain is a constant, burning undercurrent to everything he is.
"Fine," he mutters, closing his eyes and sighing through clenched teeth.
Letting a whiff of air out. Closing your eyes for a second. Preparing yourself, then, leaning carefully on top of him,trying not to touch him with your body, since how fragile his body was. Pressing your lips to his tore ones, so, so gently, because you didn't want to endure any more pain.
"I’ll check on you in a minute" You mumbled, knowing he would be knocked out in a minute.
"Don't take too long," he whispers back, his voice barely above a rasp, ghost of the kiss still lingering on his mind.
All you could do is just nod, slowly rose up. Walking backward while looking at him. Because you were so glad he was back home, grabbing the flap of his tent. Giving him the last look, turning you body and heading out.
Only a fool would ask you where were you headed. And a halfwit would cross you.
Crossing the distance to your location if few furious steps, to the tent next to Arthur's. You didn't even bother to ask in, you stormed under the flap, meeting Dutch's back.
"I told you, I told you–" you growled like a wild animal. Not even noticing Hosea leaning on his hands to table.
Dutch's head snaps up at your sudden, furious entrance. His usual composed demeanor flickers, just for a second, into something unreadable, caught between guilt and defensiveness. Hosea, all out all people could sense the storm rolling in.
"Y/n—" Dutch tried to start, voice smooth but with an undercurrent of warning. He rises from his chair as if to regain control of the moment. Because if he hasn't, you would eat him alive.
But you don’t let him finish whatever monologue he had prepared.
"You knew he was out there! You had time to act!" Your words are knives now, each one aimed straight for Dutch’s carefully crafted façade of (failed) leadership. Hosea’s eyes dart between you two but stays silent, too soon to interrupt this reckoning.
Dutch exhales sharply through his nose, "We had no confirmation it was even the O'Driscolls until after he got back–"
"A lie." You spat at him. Everyone knew it was the O'Driscolls.
But your answer was't nothing that would sway Dutch away from his pedestal. He rose his hands, in a way where he tried to pose as a good, welcoming leader of the group.
"Arthur's strong. He came back." Dutch waved his hands in the air, as to lighten the entire situation.
You couldn't believe your own ears. For a second, you forgot how to breath. How to get air in your lungs, because cold fury in your gut ignites hotter after this claim. Hosea saw that, slightly straighten himself. His eyes deliberately jumping from his best friend to a girl he claimed as his own.
"He, HE alone!" You yelled at him, breathing heavily. You swore, you could combust into a volcano. Rose your own hand, pointing it at Dutch
"...who else it would be if not them, hm, Dutch?" you were waling on dangerous zone. But not any sane cell was in your body. The anger consuming your right sense.
Dutch's expression tightens, hardens, and something wrong creeping into his voice as he strides forward, not caring about your burst of emotions.
"You think I don't care y/n?" He demands quietly, his patience thinning. His eyes were dark. Behind any safe zone. This was pure hatred spilling on each other.
Hosea steps between you two before it was too late. His eyes sizing his friend, shielding you with his side slightly, but not entirely. He has a calming presence of a wise man, but his eyes are sharp with concern.
"This isn't helping anyone" he interjects, voice firm, unyielding for either side. He was staring at you first, after few moments, he gave his gaze to Dutch "Arthur needs rest." He said finally. Leaving rather no place to kill each other.
"Damn right he needs it" you snapped between your teeth, partly being glad Hosea was there, wouldn't want to know the outcome if he wasn't.
Hosea grips your shoulder, gentle but strong, his touch grounding you before the fury can take full control of you mind. Dutch's jaw works silently, his own frustration simmering beneath a carefully constructed calm face.
"Listen to me," Hosea says lowly, eyes steady on yours, "Dutch made a call. A bad one. But ripping each other apart won't change what happened."
His voice is quiet but firm. "Arthur’s alive because he is that damn stubborn. And right now? He needs us sharp, not at each other’s throats."
It was almost painful to tore your eyes from Dutch, making it to Hosea's, nodding to his words. He squeezed your shoulder – like he always did. Releasing you. You turned on your heel, but before you exited his tent, turning your body to the leader.
"He better stay’s alive. Dutch"
Leaving both men in the tent. Leaving after delivering a threat, something you would never do if you were in the right sense of mind. Which you were clearly not.
Hosea exhales sharply through his nose, watching you storm out before turning to Dutch with a pointed stare. "She ain't wrong."
Outside the tent, your hands tremble with lingering fury. The camp feels too loud suddenly, pearly laughter from Karen and Tilly by the fire, Pearson whistling as he skins game. Normalcy when nothing is right. You need air that isn’t thick with betrayal.
You hid your face in your palms. There is too much of everything in your plate right now. And before you could even think. A rustle of canvas makes you turn, Charles stepping into your path like a shadow materialized from nowhere. He takes one look at your face and says simply, "He’s asking for you." With no explanation needed who "he" is.
"Told him to sleep"
You said under your breath, looking into the sky, as to regain some strength from whatever spirit you didn't believe in. With the exhale, moving your legs into the familiar place. Coming under the flaps, silently.
Arthur was out, his eyes shut down, hands beside his body, his chest rising up and down, and that was more than anything you could ask for. Getting closer to his cot, sitting by the edge. Rising your arm, to caresses his cheek.
And you are not sure how much time had passed, but the sun was getting up. Arthur stirs faintly, that if you wouldn't pay attention, you would miss it. His sleep light and troubled due to the pain. One eye opens, half lidded, finding you sitting beside him.
His voice is hoarse but there's a quiet insistence in it. "You still look angry." he rasps, both of you are aware that he is gonna pass out in a few seconds.
"I told you to sleep" you hummed, went to stroke his palm with your thumb. He shifts slightly on the cot, wincing before settling again. His fingers tap restlessly against the blanket, itching for action despite his battered state.
"Lie still you fool" you lashed out on him, no gentleness was present in your voice. Arthur’s try for smirk appeared at your outburst, though the motion tugs painfully at his split lip. He exhales through his nose, the sound wanted so desperately to be a laugh, but was only groan from pain.
"You're worse than Grimshaw."
"Imma hit you in a head to knock you out if you won't listen to me Arthur Morgan"
God, you almost snared at him, your entire being showing that you weren't bluffin' bout it. Moved your hand from his one, to his forehead. Touching it so gently with the back of your hand to check his temperature.
You knew he was out again, because there was no snarky remark from him. No laughing to your face. Just silence followed by steady breathing. You slowly rose from the cot, went across the tent to grab his chair (which he mostly used as a wardrobe, since all of his coats were thrown at it), setting it next to the cot.
And just waiting, checking and falsely praying.
The hours pass quietly, the camp settling into a restless hum around you, muffled voices outside, the occasional clatter of pans from Pearson’s direction. But in this tent? Your careful hands smoothing fresh bandages over bruised skin, and when you were finished, you couldn't help yourself and just placed your hand in his.
At some point in the night, Arthur stirs—half-conscious between weariness and exhaustion. His fingers twitch where they're still tangled with yours before he grips tighter as if to confirm you're really there.
No words. Just that quiet clutch against your palm like an oath written in scars and calluses.
Your form is leaning into the chair, a rare moment of sleeping overtook you. He watches you, in his mind, saying stuff he should probably say out loud. Hand in hand, he slowly moved his thumb to caresses your inner hand.
By dawn, his slight fever finally breaks, the worst of it easing under your watch. And when Charles ducks in later with a steaming cup of broth (that you know damn well was made for you, not just Arthur), he doesn't say anything about the way you haven't moved from that chair all night. He just nods at you once before leaving again without a word, and you did the same. There wasn't much talking from you in this state, when all your focus was on him.
You took a few sips from the soup, then, you tried to wake him slightly, so you could feed him the broth. But he was deep in sleep like a cursed mountain.
Another day had passed, you were staring into the ground, your eyelids being so heavy to stay open, begging you to close them, just for a quick moment. But, the sound of an old man groaning got your attention.
Arthur's eyes flutter open, his vision still blurred from sleep and lingering pain. The first thing he sees is you, chin propped on your own shoulder, weary, but still there. Always there.
He shifts slightly, just enough to make the cot creak and grimaces at the fresh wave of soreness it brings. His voice is rough with disuse when he finally speaks.
"You look like hell." A pause, he squint his eyes, trying to get a clear visitor. Being quiet for perhaps one would say, long moment. Taking everything in, memories replaying in his mind. Then he added quieter, "...How long was I out?"
"I thought I lost you" you spoke, totally ignoring his question. The sentence bore all the love you bore for him.
His usual stoicism cracks for a fleeting moment, something raw flickering in his gaze before he blinks it away.
"Ain't rid of me that easy," he mutters, voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper, mayhaps regret? Fear? He clears his throat as if to mask it.
"Still got a lotta debts to pay."
But the way he looks at you betrays him. It’s not about debts or loyalty anymore. Not right now. It's about this, whatever there is between the two of you, the unspoken promise between the two of you, that neither of you will let go first, that mattered the most to him.
"You better not pay a single cent" you whispered, swallowing the sleep away, both of you knowing it wasn’t about actual money. Arthur stayed quiet for a few seconds, slightly wincing when he tried to get more oxygen into his lungs.
"How long was I out y/n" he asked once again, maybe put more harder syllables into it.
"Three days" you replied, voice tired. Rising from the chair, with one arm leaning to the table to grab a tin filled with water. Not asking him anything, just bringing it to his lips slowly. Letting him sip it carefully.
Three days. Arthur grimaces inwardly at the realization, but he doesn't protest against you feeding him. His throat is parched, drier than the damn desert, and the cool water feels like heaven. He swallows slowly, then turns his gaze back to you, a thousand questions flickering across his expression.
"Three days and you just...sat here?"
"Got up to pee if that's your worry" you mumbled under your breath, when he finished the tin, you placed it back on the table.
Arthur chuckles dryly at your answer, which hurts like hell but he can't help it (it's worth it). There's something refreshing about your dry wit after so many hours of silence, pain and torture.
"Not really concerned about your piss habits, darlin'." He retorted, though he's more amused by the sheer stubbornness of you, than anything else.
You hum him a reply. You were almost dead tired, your lids staying closed for more than they were open, more than they should’ve in this moment.
And Arthur notices that.
"When's the last time you slept?" His voice takes on a more serious edge. He's never been big on worrying for others (and others ain't you), but that's before a certain brunette took his heart hostage without even meaning too.
"Ain’timportant" you mumbled, forcing your eyes open. Reaching for his forehead. No fever. Thank the God.
Arthur exhales sharply, half exasperation, half exhaustion. Your stubbornness is something he both admires and curses under his breath.
"The hell it ain't, he mutters, voice gravelly but firm. "You’re swayin’ where you sit." He shifts slightly, regretting the movement instantly when pain lances through him but tries to nudge your shoulder with his less-injured arm anyway.
"Lay down before you actually pass out."
A pause. Then, quieter "...Cot's big enough for two." A knowledge that was gained long time ago.
You wanted to say something smart, you wanted to say no, really honest. But, you were tired. Feeling it in your chest, knowing that if you made your body stand or do anything any longer, you would fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
But you won't let it be just because he says.
"Whosgonna change your bandages?" But the idea of lying next to him, after everything that has happen, there was nothing else you would wanted.
Arthur huffs, unimpressed by your weak attempt at logic. "Bandages can wait," he grumbles. His voice is gruff but there's an unmistakable softness beneath it. He lifts the blanket slightly with his better arm, wincing at even that small movement, but makes enough space for you to slide in beside him without jostling his injuries too badly.
"C'mere,"he murmurs, tired but determined, lurking you into a trap "...before I have to drag ya down myself."
Damn him, playing dirty as always. "…You’ll wake me in few hours" you mumbled, rose from the chair, grabbing most of your skirt, sitting and then lying down on the cot, moving a bit so you could get as close to him, but be sure not to touch him anywhere.
Arthur studied your every move, felt his heart to beat a bit faster, but that was probably just from the healing. Looking as you made yourself most comfortable, shutting your eyes.
"But you better not snore loud." He hummed with almost a humor.
"You snore, not me" you huffed back at him, not really caring. Gently placing your head on his chest. And God, he couldn't be any happier. He shifts carefully to accommodate you, biting back a groan when his ribs protest.
"Yeah, yeah," his arm settles loosely around your waist—the least painful way to keep you close without aggravating his wounds further.
Within seconds, your breathing evens out against his side. Arthur watches the rise and fall of your shoulders for a long moment before closing his own eyes. (He doesn’t wake you in a few hours. Or at all. When Hosea peeks in near dawn, he finds the two of you still tangled together, Arthur stubbornly awake despite exhaustion gnawing at him, silently daring anyone to disturb your rest.)
Your eyes slowly blinked the heavy sleep of them, your nose pressed to his skin. Slightly turning to meet his eyes, that were already on you. The heat in your chest could have meant something, you weren't sure bout it.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like I got trampled by a herd of wild mustangs," he rasps. The attempt at humor falls flat when his voice cracks on the last word. Still, there’s warmth in his gaze as it flicks to you. "You?" A simple question, but weighted with things he won't say out loud: 'Did you sleep well? Are you okay?'
Before you could reply whatever as on your mind, the light that got through the flaps got you first. Eyes shot at him.
"You let me slept to the other day-" you hissed at him. Groaning while you were raising yourself on the cot. Arthur’s expression twitches, his brows came together and voice was gruff, melted with defiance.
"You needed it," he replied, like that explains everything. And to him, it does. He'd sit through a thousand more beatings if it meant you got a damn decent night's sleep.
You were on you elbows now, one hand went to his forehead, to hold his cheek, to touch his neck, in a hurry to check his temperature. Shaking your head as you made yourself sat. Carefully doing so. "You need to be treated right, if not, the infection-"
You were mumbling to yourself, because you knew he would not listen, but at that, Arthur caught your arm before you would reach his bandages. "I'm fine. I ain't dyin’ yet," he mutters grumpily. There's stubbornness in his eyes. That rude defiance that made him every damn time alive. Letting go of you, so you could change it. And you did, changing them, cleaning anything that shouldn't be there with a wet cloth. Wiping it all away with another one. Seeing that your body begun to heal, the thinnest layer scab creating in the damaged places, it was all you wanted and needed to see.
And Arthur was quiet, occasionally grunted but nothing unusual. When you were finished, you leaned with your left hand in the cot. Just staring at each other. After this long moment, you opened your mouth.
"I hate how much I love you"
There was no hate in them, the words heavier than the entire world. No one blinked, no one done anything. You two fools just stared into the others eyes. You could swear the time had stopped, because fixing broken bones and tore skin was much easier than to break the shields you two carried. His eyes watched you, tilted his head to the side, as to give himself a better look at you. Which wouldn't be possible, because there was no bad angle of you in his head.
"Loving a fool like me," Arthur whispered.
"Ain't no fool to me" you whispered back.
Arthur scoffs gently, but there's no real bite to it. "I've got more scars than brain cells, woman," he quips. "Pretty sure that counts as foolishness."
There was many things that this man loved to do, and it was to make him as least desirable to the ones who cared for him. To make everyone hate him, so he couldn't disappoint no one, but himself.
But he had you.
"I want my man tough, not literate" you said back "I want to know my man will do everything in his strength and even beyond to save me. To get back to me" you said, meaning every word. Rose your other hand to brush his hair with your fingers.
Arthur exhales slowly, that damn tenderness in his eyes again. He's still getting used to the way you see him, flaws and scars and all. Your words, your goddamn trust in him, it makes his chest ache in a way that has nothing to do it with his fresh wounds.
"You know I will." A simple promise, said in a gravelly whisper. A seal of words.
"If you won’t, I'm gonna drag you back to me from whatever hell you find yourself in" You spoke, and to some, it would be just a jest. But to you? You well damn meant it, and he knew that too. Arthur can't help the small, crooked smile that flickers across his face. There's something beautiful in your blunt determination, the way you match him in every way.
His gaze flickers over your face, taking in the lines and creases, the defiant gleam in your eyes, and he realizes with a rush of something he'd never admit out loud: he'd follow you into hell itself. He'd cross goddamn oceans, scale mountains, hunt a thousand-damned wolves, just to get back to you.
"Reckon you would, woman."
You were staring at him, moved your hand from his hair to his cheek, the stubble grew slowly into full beard. Slowly leaning down, brushing your lips on his. No one rushed this kiss. There was the lack of primal possession and lust you two usually found yourself in.
Arthur lets out a low, rough hum of a sigh as you kiss him, sets his heart racing in a way that's both painful and beautiful. But his response is careful, measured, aware of his injuries, as much as he might yearn to pull you closer, to deepen the kiss. He cups your face gently in his hands, thumbs brushing across your jaw as he matches the pressure of your mouth against his, his calloused fingertips tracing over the line of your neck.
"Don't get me all stirred up now," he whispers.
"I would ride you like a stallion if you weren’t all wound up" you whispered back to his mouth.
He can't help it, he grins, because damn if the image you just painted in his mind didn't start a fire. He pulls your closer, just a fraction, his voice dropping more silent.
"Careful, darlin'. That's a dangerous thing to say to a man in bandages."
You smiled for the first time since he got back.
"I like dangerous" a quick pause, small peck on his lips "…but first, gotta nurse you back to health"
Arthur huffs in irritation, but it's the best damn sound you've heard in days. He tries (and fails) to suppress smile of his own as he responds.
"You and your damnable sense of duty, woman. You're determined to make me go mad, aren't you. I swear, once I'm back on my feet, I'm taking you up on that promise...every damn time. In every way I can think of."
"Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it else" you grinned softly. Finally feeling like everything was back to where it was supposed to be. Kissing him once again, and damn knowing it would definitely not be the last time in a long moment. Arthur returns the kiss, more insistent this time, though still restrained by the damn pain. He's still so very aware of it, but he can't help the way your closeness makes him want to throw caution to the wind. He lets out a low, rough breath against your mouth.
"Temptress," he murmurs between kisses. "Teasin' me when I'm stuck in this damn cot. Cruel woman."
"Would you rather not be kissed?" You hummed.
Arthur lets out a huff that sounds very much like a growl. He's trying to stay in control, but he can feel it slipping with every second you're this close, your body warmth against his. He cups the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.
"You know damn well I don't want you to stop." His tone is low, rough-edged. "But I'm still not made of iron."
"Then lie still" you placed your hand o his chest, just to be sure he stayed in there "and maybe in a week-" you smirked, because you knew the reaction that was about to be seen.
Arthur groans. His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, pulling just enough to make his point clear.
"A week?" His voice is rough with disbelief (and maybe a hint of desperation). But then he smirks, slow and dangerous despite the pain still lingering in his body.
"Better make these kisses count till then, woman."
"Oh, and how much" you hummed, leaning back to him, connecting your lips like they should never be parted aways. Kissing his lips with every devotion, with every bit of love you were capable of.
"Every damn second of it," he mutters against your lips before stealing another kiss — deeper this time, fingers threading through your hair to keep you close.
He’s already counting the days.