Work Text:
It began with a ride.
“Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
The memory of their conversation while riding on towards Clemen’s Point had made Charles more frustrated than ever. Neither of them had infinite kindness – they lived a life on the road, he knew that better than most. But to turn a family away, a splintered family at that, all to stake a claim on a piss poor spot of land? The thought burned inside Charles like a wildfire.
Arthur Morgan was a unique specimen that Charles had trouble cracking into. For all their time spent together, especially since Colter, Charles had been under the impression that he knew Arthur. He had held the man's back in every fight, kept a fire going at hunting camps as Arthur slept beside him – Hell, he even stole glances of the man's journal whenever it was offered – and it was offered, to his infinite surprise. Many times he had laid eyes on quick drafts of horses and birds they had seen on their travels, and stray sketches detailing herbs and berries he'd found on his lonesome.
He had seen the heat rise to the man's face when he complimented his drawings. He had felt the weight of rare praise at the gang's camps, followed by a hand on his shoulder or a fleeting smile. He had appreciated every shared cup of coffee and offered bottle of beer, even if he hadn't taken them.
He had dared to like Arthur, against his better judgement. He had dared to start caring. What a fool he was when Arthur turned around and made himself as careless as the rest.
When it came down to it, Charles thought, riding on Taima away from camp, Arthur Morgan had no respect for himself. He was a realist – Charles had known that from the start – but with every compliment came a caveat. He could be kind; but he was never good. No one was lucky to know Arthur, according to the man's own accounts. He was deplorable. Depraved. He was as evil as the world around him had made him out to be.
Charles had begun to hate that perspective. It made him apathetic at the wrong times. For every kindness Arthur afforded others – and kindnesses he had a surplus of – he would talk himself down twofold. Charles had seen it. In a day around Valentine, he had replaced a wheel on a wagon for an old man. He had returned a woman to her home, and tossed a coin to some old veteran. But for all that good, when they returned to camp that night, Charles watched as Arthur looked into a mirror and grimaced.
He hated himself. To hate one such as himself, he must have hated the world. Charles hated him for it. Hate and love were two sides of the same coin, anyhow.
₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･
Little Creek River guided a breeze through Big Valley that sent a chill down Charles’ spine. For the first time since laying low in Colter, he had pulled his overcoat from his saddlebag – and despite the black wool’s weight on his shoulders and the sweat on his brow, each gust of wind stole the warmth from his chest. Damned spring weather, making his hunt miserable with its indecisive temperatures. Taima whinnied beneath him as they rode on, shaking some little stray flies from her mane as Charles glanced down at the tracks beneath them. Charles had scarcely found a trace of any big game; surprising himself every time he saw a pronghorn or a whitetail from the corner of his eye. He should have seen their tracks. After realizing that his arms rose slower with his bow than usual, he wiped his eyes of any remaining tiredness and returned them to the ground.
Now, all he had were the scattered traces of a flock of turkey. Clumsy birds, foolish almost; hardly a proud target, but meat was meat, and Big Valley always delivered when he needed to feed.
The flock had given themselves away with their sound; a funny little gargling song. Charles once laughed at the call, as a child. Now, all he could do was lock onto the body that produced it. A Tom, it seemed, missing some tail feathers but ultimately holding them proud for the hens surrounding him. Charles crouched beside a tree downwind, an arrow notched in his bow, as he took a breath and drew it back. In the horrid, dry, indescribably hot-and-cold air surrounding him, his lungs rattled. And it was as if the Tom heard it clear as day, as the bird’s head twisted in Charles’ direction. Startled by the sensation in his chest, the man let the arrow fly, and as it dug itself into the wing of the turkey, an awful cough escaped his chest.
Between the sudden bloodshed and the echoing sound of danger emanating from Charles behind the tree, the flock scattered in panicked gobbling and flashing feathers. The downed Tom writhed as Charles tried to catch his breath. His bow laid beside him, discarded in his fit. After a moment of shaky breaths, Charles grabbed his weapon with quivering hands and wiped his mouth. He had not made a clean kill, and he suffered for it.
Walking to the turkey’s side, Charles grabbed his knife from his belt and drove it through the bird’s heart to stop its pained squawking. All he could manage was one “Sorry for that”, a whisper of pity, before he slung the bird over his shoulder and began his return to Taima.
It took him a moment longer than usual to gain his bearings after the hunt. He looked around at the trees, all blending together, before whistling to his horse and meeting her halfway. The turkey tied easily to his saddlebag; or, it should have tied easy, but his fingers felt fat and fuzzy under the buckskin rope and Charles swore under his breath in impatience. He was tired. Bone tired. For the first time in a long time, his dominant arm ached from the pull of the bowstring. Despite his best attempts, the sleep never completely disappeared from his eyes, and his vision remained fuzzy and dotted in the corners.
As Charles hoisted himself onto Taima, his vision was hardly his primary worry. For the first time in what felt like years, he sat unsure on the saddle as his head careened to the side. His hand landed on the horn as vertigo came in waves, his chest tightening with the threat of another cough.
“Jesus…”
As he stabilized himself upon Taima, he clenched his knuckles in the reins until they turned white. He was all wrong. His head felt full of cotton and his limbs felt as heavy as his breath. Maybe it was something he had eaten? No, he knew the landscape too well to have eaten the wrong plant. He urged the mare along as he wracked his brain.
Charles Smith didn’t get sick. He hadn’t been since he was just a boy. But the sweat on his brow and the coat on his shivering shoulders had him begging to differ. His voice felt cracked and raw as he whispered to his companion below.
“Come on, girl, let’s find someplace warm.”
₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･
It had taken Charles far, far too long to find that little log cabin again, and longer still to collapse within it.
He had noticed it a day or two prior; cobwebbed and abandoned for some time, it seemed, but it didn’t have too many cracks and it kept the wind out just fine. The shaking of his hands had stretched to the rest of his body as he nearly fell from Taima’s back, her reins falling from his hand as he sputtered and coughed beside her. She turned her head back at the noise, ears pinned back in a pitiable expression before Charles left her untied by a tree beside the house. They had walked all the way back to this place, Taima’s usually smooth gait while trotting being too rough for Charles, as he had begun wheezing upon the first three steps at that speed. Every step Charles took felt sisyphean, as if the cabin stretched further and further away with every little movement he took toward it. When his hand reached the door, he stumbled inside, only to find his place near the fireplace once again. He had spent a night there before, stoking a fire and keeping his bedroll on the floor for the night. The coals were still warm, though just barely, as Charles curled up beside the still smoldering fireplace. A match or two later with a new log, and the fire slowly started once again.
His canteen, half-drank and heavy in his hands, came to his lips in a struggle as he nestled against the frame of a broken bed. The wind whistled outside. A storm was coming, he figured, as he set his canteen down beside him. One more coughing fit, and Charles’ world tipped side to side. Lord Almighty. He hadn’t felt this ill in quite a while now, had he? The moments passed slow as molasses as the man’s eyes turned from the fire and his focus turned towards his thoughts within. He never did grab Jack that flower he promised…
He set his sawed-off shotgun in his lap and wrapped himself tight in his overcoat. He could wait this out, surely, within the night. The fire felt cold on his skin, and the turkey was long forgotten on Taima’s saddle, Charles’ appetite nonexistent. Oh well. The shivers were nothing he hadn’t sloughed off before. And as he felt his chest squeeze tightly with every breath and his mind fog, he couldn’t do much more than think one thought.
Sleep it off, Charles. Like you always do.
₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”
Sadie took a box from Arthur’s hands as they unloaded the cart of Pearson’s requested goods. He smiled at her and nodded as she turned.
“Don’t mention it. I would ride with you again, Mrs. Adler,” he replied, “if you will ride with me.”
She grinned back; a luxury she had rarely allowed herself previously.“Maybe… if you prove you can handle yourself.”
Arthur wheezed a laugh. “Well, they say I lack finesse, but I ain’t afraid of gun smoke.”
Sadie only chuckled in return, carrying that box of cracker tins with one arm as Pearson grunted down a box of goods beside his wagon. The cook sighed and turned back to the two of them, nodding at the sandy-haired man.
“We got this, Arthur. You’ve already done me a big favor today.” He smiled before turning to the lady, fresh in her new clothes. “Okay, Miss High-and-Mighty… And, nice pants, by the way.”
The last thing Arthur heard from the to was a laughing, “Oh, shut up!” from Mrs. Adler, far more amicable than she had been not two hours prior. Perhaps she really did enjoy shooting too much. Arthur took note of her smile as they downed the Lemoyne Raiders not far from town and sighed. He needed to keep an eye on that woman, it seemed. But, for now, as she helped Pearson unload his goods, Arthur turned his attention elsewhere. Mainly, to the mirror by his wagon; Lord knows he needed to shave, and badly.
He had all of fifteen minutes to himself. He took the opportunity, rare as it was, to wash himself up; a splash of water to his face and a razor to his scruffy beard nearly made him feel alive again. Fifteen whole minutes, he thought, as he sat by his cot and dared to open his journal. Only then was there a call of his name.
“Arthur!”
Damn. Mary-Beth walked towards him from the corner of his eye. At least it was her, he thought. There were plenty of other people he’d hate a visit from right about now. He shut his book and turned to her, scratching his chin.
“Mary-Beth,” he greeted, “What can I do you for?”
With a book clutched tightly to her chest, Mary-Beth slotted herself underneath the pitch of Arthur’s tent, a worried expression tightening her face.
“Well, it’s certainly good to see you back so soon,” she said nervously, “There’s somethin’ I’ve been meaning to mention to you.”
“Mrs. Adler and I were only on a shopping trip, Mary-Beth. Weren’t much of a pilgrimage.”
“I- I know that, but,” She sighed, “Well… I know I probably shouldn’t be all worked up about this, but, Arthur, I’ve got a bad feeling, you know?”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “This, uh, bad feeling about anything in particular?”
She nodded. “It’s a bit silly, but… It’s Charles.”
“Mr. Smith?”
“Well, yes.”
“Ah. What about him, Mary-Beth?”
Her eyebrows dropped just slightly in confusion upon Arthur’s more formal way of addressing the missing man. She shrugged in response, dropping her book slightly from the tight confines of her arms. Via Crucis, it read on the front. It looked new and unworn; a simple luxury for the girl.
“A few days ago, he gifted this book to me, and I’ve been meaning to thank him. It was a sweet gesture, you know? It’s not every day we see a story fresh off the printer, and I’ve been so curious about this one since I saw it in that Blackwater bookstore! He must’ve overheard me talking to Tilly about it. So, I got him something to repay him, because, gosh, it's been just wonderful so far, but…” She shook her head as she glanced down at the book, “He ran off on a hunt before I could give him his gift, see? A-and that was… Oh, goodness, maybe a week ago now…”
“You’re sweet to be concerned, Mary-Beth,” Arthur stood with a sigh, “But I’m sure he’s just fine. We’ve all had our fair share of long trips away.”
“But that’s just it, Arthur,” Mary-Beth replied sharply, “I just…I can’t explain it, but he didn’t seem… Right. Not when he left. He nearly forgot his hunting knife, and – well, Lenny ran it to him before he left, but he never forgets a thing, and hardly something so important! And he was, well, he seemed angry and impatient, like he weren’t himself… I’m just so damn worried, Arthur. What if he got himself in a bad way? A week’s a long time to be out hunting.”
She fidgeted with the sleeve of her dress, worrying her lip as Arthur crossed his arms. Charles was the last person who needed to be saved from himself. Arthur couldn't count how many times the man had been sent out to drag his sorry ass back to camp after a hunting trip turned into a treasure hunt. But, she was right. At least when the two men last spoke, it was short and too formal. Charles was tight in the shoulders – had been since they settled in Clemen’s Point – and sharp in the tongue. Arthur couldn’t completely blame him. Not after their journey to discover the place, and ever less so after his choice of words during the ride. Arthur was worried and tired, too much so to remain polite, and it seems like his conduct around Dewberry Creek had alienated Charles.
It was disappointing. Charles was a good man, a great man, crimes be damned. Arthur mourned their joint hunting trips and quiet rides. He mourned the loss of the other man’s presence far more than he had anticipated. Nights of quiet companionship by the lake had morphed into moments of restless solitude at Arthur’s wagon, interrupted intermittently not by good conversation, but instead by Bill Williamson’s raucous snoring (damn him to Hell). Mulling it over, Arthur gave one last deep breath and nodded.
“Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”
Mary-Beth lit up, the worry melting from her face. “You will? Oh, Arthur, thank you, thank you!”
“Yeah, ‘course…” He huffed with a little smile. He turned and grabbed his hat from the cot, stuffing his journal back into its comfortable spot in his satchel. “Now, did you hear him say anything about where he was off to?” Like he wouldn’t search the whole of the Heartlands if need be for the man. Mary-Beth thought for a moment before nodding.
“Yes, I think I did.” She said, “He was speaking to little Jack before he went. Mentioned he’d bring him back a flower from Big Valley. I’d assume that’s just about where he ended up.”
Big Valley. Arthur smiled with a shake of his head. That was always where Charles mentioned hunting was best. He gave Mary-Beth a pat on the shoulder before he walked off to meet his horse.
“Thank you kindly, Mary-Beth,” he waved a small goodbye, “Next time you see me, I'll have him in tow, of that I can assure you.”
“Alright. Thank you again, Arthur! You’re a good man, looking out for him!”
And the sandy-haired man only tipped his hat downwards as he saddled his ride.
₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･
West Elizabeth was one labyrinth of a state. The mountains and valleys and forests and fields blended together into a great tapestry that Arthur could get lost in for weeks without trouble. It was beautiful this time of year; just cool enough for the man to throw on his jacket and feel a shiver run down his spine when a gust of wind blew by. It was mild, far from the snowfields surrounding Colter and the sweltering, stifling heat of Lemoyne. Dry and chilled, he noted, as he rode beside Strawberry and cut around the town.
Big Valley wasn’t all too far from the little mountain retreat, with the mountains giving way for Little Creek River to cut through with little babbles and slowly lowering waterfalls. The grassy plains of the valley were something out of a picturebook; it was hardly a scene that Arthur hadn’t sketched. His journal was filled with drawings of its trees and its herbs, does and their fawns and the little rodents that scurried about. It was peaceful – A place in which, if he were any other man, he’d fancy settling down in. If only the heavens would ask.
As he rode, a heavy feeling sat on his chest. He mulled over Mary-Beth’s description of Charles; Angry. Impatient. Arthur could wager a guess as to why. The man was trapped in the heart of a hateful country, surrounded by lawmen that would see him hang if they so much as got a whiff of trouble from him, let alone a Blackwater wanted poster. And the gang’s unceremonious landing at Clemen’s Point, well –
Even Arthur was still frustrated at the way he had acted on their ride. Charles had remained so quiet on the ride back to the gang after they had returned that German man to his family. The quiet was where Charles thrived, but with his jaw clenched and knuckles near white, Arthur felt it tense up. It was not companionable silence; not the kind Charles indulged in with Arthur.
So, he continued on, stopping along the way at any small camp or wandering traveller to ask if they had seen a man – dark, broad shoulders, long hair and just about his height. He was mostly met with “No, haven’t seen him”, or the occasional “What’s it to you?”, but one man – older, with salt-and-pepper hair and a beard half an inch long at most – gave him a direction.
“Well, sure,” he had said, scratching at his cheek, “I saw him not two days ago. Him and that pretty little horse of his, makin’ himself a camp outside of the old Hetchler’s Cabin. A good house, that was. Hope he made himself at home there. Say, you know it’s haunted? People back in Strawberry say Old Margie Hetchler still makes the floorboards creak at night, the poor woman…”
… And that was the last of what Arthur heard as he rode away. Leave it to old men in the forests to become ramblers and storytellers, no matter how poor they may be at the craft. Arthur’s Shire snorted below him as he pushed along into a trot, turning down the little footpath the man had pointed to. Not much longer now until the sun went down, and Arthur was beginning to ache. A day on the saddle brings nothing but trouble for aching bones.
₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･
The cabin was so cold.
For Charles, whose unconscious slipped as he straddled the fine line between sleep and death, the afterlife was cruel.
Death was an iron clasp around his throat, heated by the fires of Hell as he screamed soundlessly. It was blindness which plagued him, and the buzzing of flies in his ears. It was pools of blood shed by the bison of the prairie below him, soaking him up to his knees, as he writhed against whatever bound him to the bottom of this horrid sea. It was coughing and sputtering and the rattling of lungs, both his and the lungs of another; blue eyes through the blindness. It was his father’s touch. It was solitude.
And then it was nothing, as he shook himself awake for just a moment – long enough to chase the thought from his mind, and to grasp his shotgun again.
And then the afterlife was kind.
Death was the cotton-soft side of his bedroll as his eyes opened with the rising of the morning sun. It was his hair tucked back and untangled by good sleep, his hands uncracked and his scars unbothered. It was the sound of birds and horses outside of the canvas of his tent, and the color of wildflowers that greeted him when the flap was pulled back. It was buckskin soft against his skin. It was cool water in his flask. It was a kind arm wrapped around his shoulders and a kiss pressed to his cheek, and the breathy laugh he let out in response, his lungs free and weightless in his chest and responded to in kind, those blue eyes cleared of worry. It was his mother’s touch. It was solitude.
Why were dreams such horribly limitless things?
As his eyes opened once again, stubbornly holding onto that fitful sleep, Charles heard a creak from outside, and the heat of adrenaline rushed through him once again. He deigned not to wipe the sweat from his brow (although sweat was strange. When did the fire go out?), and instead blinked away the moisture as he lifted his gun towards the door. His voice was far quieter than he wished for it to be.
“Who’s there?”
₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･
The cabin was so dark.
Arthur had trouble finding it at first; tucked away up on a hill, with its dirt path overgrown and no chimney smoke to catch his attention. That was just it. No chimney smoke. So as his Shire snorted beneath him and he urged him off the path, he remained surprised upon seeing Taima outside of the house, untied, tacked and grazing, with a turkey hanging from her side and bleeding down her hind leg.
A few things brought panic to Arthur’s chest. For one, Taima had not been taken care of correctly; she was dirtier than he’d ever seen her, with her saddle still on and her reins hanging loosely at her sides. Never once had Charles left her tack on for longer than his ride. That horse was well loved and well pampered, and from her turned-back ears Arthur could see that she was not happy about the weight on her back. He slid off of his Shire, tying him loosely to a tree nearby (God knows Arthur didn’t trust the old stallion not to buzz off the moment he turned his back), before approaching Taima.
“Hey, hey, sweet girl, here you are,” He muttered, holding a hand out to the Appaloosa as she stomped a hoof on the ground. “I know, girl, I know. It’s heavy, ain’t it? Where’s your friend, huh?” She impatiently lipped at his hand, expecting comfort for her troubles, before Arthur chuckled and pulled an oatcake from his satchel. It relieved him to see that she hadn’t been any worse for wear as he finally took the saddle from her back and let it rest on the ground.
There was a creak which came from the cabin. The hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stood up as he heard it – and with no other evidence of life, save for Taima’s presence, his head spiraled.
Charles had been in a rush. He had been careless. Charles was not careless. He took a deep breath before stepping up to the door, the porch creaking with rotten wood beneath him as he tried the door. It was jammed, for a moment – before he heard a small voice from inside. Too small.
“Who’s there?”
He froze.
“... Charles?”
“I’ll shoot.” It was small, but it was sharp. Angry. “I’ll shoot clean through the god damn door, I will. Who’s there?”
Arthur stepped back for a moment before pressing his ear to the door. “Charles, it's Arthur. Don’t put a hole in me now!”
With a few stubborn hits to the door with his shoulder, Arthur barged in, nearby losing his balance as the door fell open. When his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness within the space, his focus landed on Charles, with his shotgun still in hand, shaking, with his back against a bedframe like a rabbit caught in a corner. His heart sank further than it ever had before.
“Jesus.”
Charles didn’t lower the gun. He just stared, as blankly as he’d ever seen, straight through the other man. Arthur, with his hands up and open, approached.
“Charles,” He muttered, not unlike how he spoke to Taima outside, “Charles, it’s just me.”
The disoriented man blinked a few times as Arthur got closer, and when the blond finally pushed the muzzle of the shotgun away, he let go of a wheezy breath.
“Arthur.” He whispered. The man nodded at his name. Charles nodded back, lurching forward as his gun fell to his side, free hand now tentatively reaching out. Arthur caught him by the shoulder before his torso fell forwards completely, and as his voice formed only the name of the one in front of him.
Jesus Christ. Arthur pushed him back against the bedframe, Charles’ eyes already closed against the light streaming in through the door. His hand came away from his shoulder burning.
“What the hell happened to you?” He grumbled, immediately pulling his satchel off to sort through it. Charles did not respond with more than a groan. The moment he grabbed a health cure, Arthur’s hand came up to Charles’ cheek to attempt to wake him.
“Charles. Charles, come on, cowboy, open your mouth.”
A grumble, as the man cracked his eyes open.
“Drink.”
Charles glanced at the bottle, his hand managing to find its neck before he raised it to his lips. His face scrunched as he swallowed it down, bitter and stinging, and he coughed the moment it passed down his throat. Arthur felt himself cringe at the sight of Charles’ discomfort, taking the bottle of health cure from him before it was spilled.
“You alright?” Arthur asked. Charles shook his head.
“... You tell me, genius.”
A scoff. “Well, ‘scuse me for trying to be polite.”
Arthur glanced around, picking up Charles’ discarded canteen and shaking it before grabbing his own from his satchel and handing it to him. “Drink this, now. It’s just water. Let me see if I can get this fire going.”
Charles took the canteen from his hand, resting it in his lap as Arthur stood up with a grunt. It took him a few moments; finding dry wood outside, enough to keep a fire going for a good long time yet, before piling it beside the fireplace within the cabin. He struck a match on the underside of his boot and threw it towards the kindling he’d set up, and it lit easily enough. Only then did he return to Taima and the Shire, grabbing bedrolls and cans to store on himself for the night.
There was no way in Hell Charles was well enough to ride a horse right now, not even gentle Taima. How he even returned to the cabin in the first place was beyond Arthur’s imagination. As he brought the supplies inside, he closed the door behind him, propping a chair against its handle to lock it in place. Charles, this time, actually acknowledged him as he returned, opening his eyes to meet Arthur’s in a hazy gaze, so opposite to his usual sharp and piercing stare. Arthur tore his eyes away and unrolled their sleeping bags, setting them close to the fire as Charles dared to take another sip of water. Once he forced it down, Arthur heard his voice again, raw as it was.
“What are you doin’ here, Arthur?”
The blond smoothed out the bedrolls and glanced sidelong at his companion, furrowing his brow. “I just wandered out here to do some fishin’ and some sightseein’.” He replied, deadpan, “I was lookin’ for you, Charles. People were worried about you.”
“People?”
“Mary-Beth, mostly,” he sighed, “That girl has good instincts, I see.”
Charles nodded, his eyes shifting to the fireplace and his head lulling to the side. “... And you?”
Arthur didn’t respond for a moment. He wandered a hand to his chin to scratch at his stubble. “... Guess I missed you well enough.”
Letting the bedrolls rest and warm beside the fire, Arthur returned to Charles’ side in the tense silence, sitting next to him as he grabbed a can from his satchel. Despite hardly looking straight, Charles’ gaze drilled holes into Arthur’s neck, almost feeling like the burn of a hot coal before he let out a chest-rattling cough. As he heaved short breaths into his elbow, Arthur’s hand met his back.
Only when Charles could catch his breath again did the conversation continue.
“... I thought I didn’t know you, Arthur.” He muttered coldly, “Thought you didn’t like me all too much.”
Arthur looked down at his hands in his lap and sighed, soon reaching into his saddlebag again before responding. “I know,” he replied, pulling some herbs from a pocket. Ginseng, he remembered, had suppressed Hosea’s coughs for quite some time now. “I… When I said that, I… I was angry. And afraid.” He handed the root to Charles, “I shouldn’t have said all that bluster. You –” he stopped himself, glancing at Charles before dropping his head for a moment. It was a common movement, one made when speaking with a kind of honesty he didn't particularly enjoy. He cleared his throat.
“You're one of the best things to happen to the gang in a long while, Charles. I'm a stubborn old bastard who don’t like change, that’s all.”
When he looked back up at his companion, Charles’ eyes were heavy-lidded, but understanding, as much as they could be in his short spurt of consciousness. Arthur felt a little burn on his cheeks and a weight on his chest, poignant under the man's gaze, before he turned to crack the can open. Charles took a shaky breath and replied quietly.
“... Thank you.”
Arthur felt the back of his neck burning in embarrassment. He didn't acknowledge it.
“You hungry?”
Charles shook his head. “Haven't been keepin’ much down.”
“That's no good at all…” He sighed, “Beans will have to do. But you need somethin', Charles.”
With only a hum in response from his friend, Arthur put the little tin by the fire, coaxing it to heat while he grabbed a spoon from his bag. The other man tucked the ginseng root in his pocket as he watched with drifting eyes. Charles had glanced at the can, thoroughly unappealed, before he covered his mouth with a hand and took a deep breath, shaky as it was. He swallowed down his nausea for a moment longer before it returned in a wave much more intense, and before Arthur could really react, Charles had pulled the ash bucket from the side of the fireplace, his stomach weak.
If Arthur was any different of a man, he might’ve grimaced at the sight of vomit. But he’d known little Isaac and he knows Jack, and everyone knows how babies can be – not to mention Miss Karen, the poor thing, when she overestimates her stomach for whiskey. All he did was sigh and return to Charles’ side, one hand on his back and the other pulling the sick man’s hair away from his face.
“Jesus…” Charles coughed, roughly bringing his sleeve up to his face as he caught his breath for the umpteenth time. He hadn’t even thrown anything up of significance – water alone, it seemed, as Arthur spoke again.
“Crackers, then.”
“‘Scuse me?”
“ Charles, you need to eat somethin’. No god damn wonder you feel sick right now.”
Charles grumbled slightly. “... Right.”
Arthur glanced at the hair still in his hand, furrowing his brow. Charles cared for himself well and often, Arthur knew, more than anyone else at camp (by a noticeable longshot). But as hair slipped from his fingers, tangles made themselves known, hardly pulling away when Arthur tried to unsnarl it. A sinking feeling hit his chest as he tried to detangle what he could, soon speaking up again.
“You got a tie for all this hair?”
Charles nodded, rolling up the cuff of his sleeve to take a small, looped ribbon from his wrist.
“You know how to tie it?”
Arthur smiled. “Trust me, Charles, I know plenty.”
With the ribbon pinched in his fingers, Arthur worked fast. Working on the head of a man instead of a horse was certainly easier, as he crossed three sections into a loose braid, deftly pulling most of his companion’s hair from his face and from his neck. Arthur’s hands brushed against Charles’ neck briefly, only to feel the heat of a fever still emanating from his skin. He frowned as he tied off his work and Charles lifted a hand to inspect it. For a moment, one fleeting moment, their hands met. Arthur drew away like he’d been touched by fire. Charles froze, just for a second, before he took a breath and took the braid in his hand.
“You shouldn’t be so good at that,” Charles quipped through the pain in his throat. Arthur just chuckled in response.
“Well, you should’ve seen how I braided Boadicea. Had her lookin’ pretty as a show pony with how much I used to fidget.” He cleared his throat before adjusting some strays, “I’m rusty, though.”
Charles finally laid back, sipping some water before the nausea fully passed. Then, once again, he glanced over to see Arthur rummaging about in his satchel. Good lord.
“You sure that bag’s got a bottom?” He asked quietly.
“Nah, it’s just bigger than it looks, that’s all.”
“Apparently.”
Arthur grabbed some more herbs. First ginseng, and now sprigs of mint and sage had sprouted in his hands. Charles sighed and took them once again, dreading the taste of just about anything. He bolstered himself, however, as he chewed the mint and rubbed the sage to his teeth just to chase away the lingering sickness in his mouth. It might’ve made him sick again, if there was anything else to get sick on. But for now, there wasn’t and for the first time in what felt like hours, the nausea melted away completely.
He was fucking exhausted.
“Here.”
He looked to his side and saw that Arthur now offered him a small cracker, half-broken and picked from a fresh tin. He took it between his fingers tentatively and looked at it with as much suspicion as one can look at a cracker with.
“Eat it, Charles. It’s a cracker, not a cow patty.”
Charles wrinkled his nose as he took a bite. “Why’d you have to go and put that image in my head?”
Arthur only laughed in response.
For the first time in weeks, the two fell into companionable silence. Charles didn't dare close his eyes yet, with dizziness still threatened at the corners of his vision whenever he thought about laying down. Now, however, the crackers went down easy, and the sound of the crackling fire calmed his fiercely beating heart.
Arthur settled in beside him, just close enough to nearly be drawn in. After some time in the quiet, he dared to take his journal out, the little pencil of charcoal he kept tied tight to its cover.
“You're dozin', Charles.”
He only hummed in response.
“Lay down, then. You aren't doin’ yourself any favors by staying awake.”
Charles grumbled. “Feel like I'll choke on spew if I lay down now.” He sighed, “I haven't felt like this in years.”
“Well, it helps if you got your head propped up,” Arthur replied, soon adjusting himself against the wood at his back. “Shit, put your head on me if you're really bothered. It's not like I'll be goin’ anywhere without you.”
Charles raised an eyebrow. “You sure that won't bother you? I can't promise you that I'll be a picture of health in my sleep, Arthur.”
“Please. If you held Jack as much as I did when that boy was small, you'd understand. Not much phases me in the way of sickness no more.”
Charles could only grimace in response. “He was really that bad?”
“Oh, yes. Abigail had a real rough time with it.” Arthur smiled.
With a small laugh escaping Charles (quickly followed by a not so small cough), He pulled a bedroll over to where he had been sitting. The moment he began to lay, his head turned to lead, and he furrowed his brow as he laid back onto Arthur's leg. It was hardly the perfect pillow, but it was far better than laying straight down, and he curled with feverish skin in on himself. The silence from earlier returned, if for just a second, as Charles brought his breath back to his chest and Arthur sat, still as a statue.
His journal had been discarded, alongside his pencil. While one hand had been planted firmly on the ground, the other hovered above Charles, cautious, as if he would jump up like a rabbit any second. As fatigue overtook the man's body, he let out one last word.
“Arthur,” he muttered, eyes still on the fire, “... Thank you.”
The other man swallowed dryly.
“Don't thank me,” he quietly, mournfully replied. His hand, pulling back from above Charles, was soon caught by his companion's, pulled down to his shoulder. For once, he let himself be guided, touch gentle and reverent against Charles’ shoulder like he was made of glass.
This time, he was firm.
“Thank you.”
And all Arthur could respond with was a defeated sigh as his friend finally closed his eyes.
₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･
This wasn't the afterlife. He knew that now despite his disorientation. Charles couldn't tell where, exactly, he was. But it was just fine. Not cruel. Not kind. Peaceful.
His lungs and throat still ached horribly, and shivers ran through his body. His eyes were still closed in fitful rest. But there was no blood. There was a warmth emanating from somewhere nearby, and there was a hand in his hair coaxing him further into rest.
Every so often, the safety that enveloped him would be interrupted by forgetful panic. Who was here? What the hell was touching him? Every time, when his body shuddered and his eyes shot open, he was greeted by those same blue eyes he saw in his dreams, and every time he was shushed and comforted back into sleep.
It was not a kind cycle, but when he came to again, he realized death had not come to steal him away as he may have hoped in his worst moments of sickness. An angel had instead, light streaming in from behind him as he tended to the sick and coaxed him out of death's door.
An angel may have been an overstatement of character, he thought. But guardian? Perhaps not.
When Charles’ eyes finally opened, his consciousness returned and his head pounding in protest, he was met with fingers tangled loosely in his hair, and with the smell of horse and smoke and dusty evergreen from the jeans his head rested upon. He was warm, thank God – really, truly warm, almost uncomfortably so, thanks to a thick jacket tossed over him, the breaking of his fever and the fireplace. He heard only the coo of a mourning dove and the crackle of a dying fire. That, and the light breathing of the man he rested upon.
When he dared to turn his head, his eyes were met with a sight that made his mouth go dry, and for the first time in nigh on two weeks, he didn't feel angry upon meeting blue eyes. Arthur Morgan, half asleep above him, with eyes locked on the view from a cracked window and his head leaned against the wooden pillar of a bedframe.
If Charles wasn't already breathless, the sight would've stolen the air from his lungs. Arthur's face, gently lit by the sun (which, if it was rising or setting, Charles could not guess), his lashes catching sun rays and his eyes gleaming and changing like turquoise under the light. His hair was too long – it had been a while since he had gotten it cut, and it now licked at his ears and wisped at the joining of his shoulders just enough to be turned up by the angle at which it hit. Charles took a shaky breath, daring to dream of how he would braid it, given the chance.
Like he ever would be. It was a rare and gentle thing, to see this side of the man so plainly, enforcer and brute that he seemed to be.
It almost broke his heart a little. Almost. A luxury neither man could afford.
“Arthur.”
His voice was still raspy. It was loud enough, though, to break the man from his thoughts. Arthur looked down at him, and for a second, Charles nearly convinced himself that the man had smiled upon his waking. As he always was, however, he deadpanned his greeting.
“Well, good morning, princess. Enjoyed your beauty sleep?”
A defiant hand met his chin and pushed his face away as he barked out a laugh. Charles just groaned.
“Shut up, Arthur.”
“Can you at least pick yourself up? Keep your head there any longer and we’ll have to cut my leg off. It’s damn near as asleep as you’ve been.”
Charles took a deep breath before turning to the side, forcing himself up with his arms as he regained his senses upright. He blinked the sleep away from his eyes before letting out a harsh sounding cough, clearing his throat after rest. Whatever had plagued his lungs seemed to have settled in his sleep – uncomfortable, still, but loose and less painful.
“How do you feel?”
Charles turned his head to meet Arthur’s gaze again. He couldn’t hold it, go figure, and opted to glance down at his own hands.
“I ain’t dizzy when I sit up. Consider me healed.”
The hand that once carded through his hair was raised to his forehead, briefly pressed against him there as he glanced back up. Arthur's face spelled relief before he retracted his hand.
“And you ain't burning up no more. Look at you, the picture of health.” He chuckled. “You feel good enough to ride, you think?”
“Sure.”
Charles rolled his shoulders back as he chased the ghosts of sleep away, soon pulling his braided hair over his shoulder to examine it. The braid had stayed strong, with the exception of a stray or two. He ran his hand over it, and Arthur soon cleared his throat.
“You can take it out, you know.”
“Nah. Don't think I will.”
Arthur swallowed dryly as Charles looked at him once again, this time his gaze not straying from the man's face.
“I appreciate it, you know. You bein’ so patient with me.” He muttered. “I'm lucky to know you, Arthur.”
Arthur scoffed, eyes darting away. “Believe me, Charles, in that you are very unusual.”
“Arthur.”
The blond hurried a glance back at Charles before clearing his throat. He didn't respond, instead opting to begin standing up – only for Charles to grab the hand closest to him. Arthur froze, half-stood, right there, as Charles stood up with a grunt beside him. Their eyes met for a moment, and Charles squeezed his hand, opting to hold it gently instead of letting go.
“Take the damn compliment.” He sighed. “And… Thank you, again.”
Arthur frowned – but he nodded in response, squeezing Charles’ hand. Neither moved, for a while. Electricity buzzed where their palms met. Against his better judgement, Charles stole a glance towards Arthur's lips, only to be met with the same daring look.
They were both frozen in place, before Charles took a sharp breath and leaned, placing a short peck on Arthur's cheek, not unlike a thankful woman might.
He was a terrible fool, now more than ever. Hate and love were two sides of the same coin and he had finally tossed it. As Arthur looked at him, breathless, he expected it to land on the wrong side.
He was never more glad to be wrong. As cautious as Charles had ever seen him, Arthur tightened his hand around his companion's and brought it to his heart, only to bring him closer, as he dared to kiss him right this time.
For however short it truly was, a simple answer to the question he had wordlessly posed beforehand, the kiss felt like it lasted for hours. It was light, impossibly so, almost innocent. As innocent as something can be between two men such as themselves, killers and robbers. It should have lasted much longer, and Charles mourned as a harsh cough decided to make itself known right then at the back of his throat. He pulled away suddenly and buried himself in his elbow, sputtering as Arthur steadied him and laughed.
“That was my bad, Charles!” He chuckled. Charles couldn't help but respond in kind, laughing through the last of the fit before looking back at Arthur.
“I should've expected that.” He smiled. Arthur let his head fall, releasing Charles’ hand from his own with one last squeeze. With a short clearing of his throat, Arthur nodded and turned towards the door.
“I think, ah–” he grinned, “I think it may be time to get back to camp, Mr. Smith. I bet poor Mary-Beth is worried on both of our accounts now.”
Charles sighed with a smile. “Sure.”
As the chair jammed as a lock was moved and the door swung open, the warmth of the sun finally greeted Charles again. He stole one last glance at his companion, glowing gold in the light, as they packed their saddlebags and tacked the horses. Charles finally whispered apologies into the ear of Taima, promising a full wash and sweets when they returned to camp while feeding her a spare peppermint to hold her over.
₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･
Upon their return to camp, Lenny had cried out their arrival. He and Mary-Beth, worried as they were, seemed beyond relieved, and Charles couldn't help but feel warmed by it.
He did not know what he and Arthur now were. Far from friends and far from lovers, especially within the confines of the gang's camp. But, as Charles recovered with the tinctures and warmth provided by the family he'd found, he noticed. They stole glances from each other. Sat beside each other by the fire and knocked knees and knuckles where it couldn't be questioned. In the world in which they lived, where life was determined by the give or take of a gun, the luxuries they afforded themselves – that of smiles and shared coffees and quiet rides to a hunt – became more than enough.
For the first time in his life, Charles’ mind strayed from survival. However selfishly, he hoped he would be the first to die between the two of them.
However selfishly, he hoped to never live in a world without Arthur Morgan.