P.1
Pylades: I'll take care of you.
Orestes: It's rotten work.
Pylades: Not to me. Not if it's you.
—An Oresteia
Arthur realized, slumped back in his chair; blood warm and pumping loudly in his ears, skin flushed from the amount of whiskey and beers he was throwing back all night — that this may not have been one of his brightest ideas.
He was beyond his limit, that was well and clear by the time Arthur started slurring his words and seeing his comrades in pairs. He was built like a strong ranch hand and Arthur was surely able to handle his alcohol, it just so happened that Sean was significantly younger than him and his body was better equipped to pound back beers without penance.
Arthur was about as excited as any one of their gang members to have Sean back in their numbers. They couldn't afford to lose anyone else, not when morale had been low throughout the camp for weeks— since Blackwater.
It made sense that Dutch and Hosea wanted to celebrate, after all, Sean had been returned home safe and sound; it was a cause for celebration.
Instead of questioning Sean's sanity and his ability to seamlessly fold back into the gang without so much as an interrogation, Arthur focused on the positive: Sean was home, safe and sound and alive.
That was enough, it had to be.
In turn he did what he did best and passively joined the masses, he was happy to see Sean alive and well but he wasn't as confident in his ability to withhold information while being held captive as he wished he was. It weighed on his mind, Dutch would come asking him to investigate Sean soon enough, it was only a matter of when.
“Arthur!” Sean's Irish brogue dragged him from his thoughts, happy and boisterous and so unapologetically himself. “Why do you look so sour? It's my welcome back party, drink some more!"
Karen giggled from beside him, hanging off his arm flush and clearly drunk herself while wagging her finger in Arthur's direction. “Look at him! He can't drink anymore, I don't think I..hic..seen Mr.Morgan this whacked before!”
Hosea sighed from his left. “Leave Arthur alone would you? Don't you have anything more interesting to discuss?”
From the corner of his eye he saw Dutch pat Hosea's knee, affectionate and familiar Arthur did his best to act as though he hadn't seen it in the first place. “Now, now, Arthur's a grown man — he can defend himself, can't you son?”
While support from Dutch would've been appreciated, his neutral stance came without surprise. Annoyed, Arthur huffed from where he sat. “Why don't you all worry about your own sorry lives and stay outta mine?” His sharp, grumbly defensiveness earned him a few pity laughs and Sean threw an arm around the back of his shoulders and squeezed him affectionately.
“You know you love me you bastard.” Sean continued wrapping himself at the outlaw until Arthur was able to push him off while muttering a string of annoyances under his breath as he fumbled to his feet. “About as much as one can love a parasite, sure.”
“Oi! Where do you think you're headed off to on the night of my party you loveable prick?” Sean shouted at his back as Arthur plodded away from the gathering, waving his hand at the merry band of misfits, lazily.
“Gotta take a piss, try not to miss me too much.”
Sean hollered back, “Think of me!” Before Arthur excused himself, making a beeline towards the edge of camp where the horses were posted. He also needed a moment to recollect his thoughts and to find his ground before he lost it from underneath his feet, but that was less important.
As annoying and infuriating as Sean proved he could be, his unusually positive demeanor was refreshing and as much as Arthur hated to admit it, he missed hearing his stupidity throughout camp. Even Karen was excited to have him back, practically doin’ nothing but climbing into his lap every chance she got and showering him in misplaced affections since his return.
He couldn't pretend to know how long her favour might last, but for Sean's sake, he hoped it did. Out of anyone, he deserved happiness — he was no better than a lost kid, at the end of everything Arthur wanted him and John to live, no matter what.
Arthur was acutely aware of just how little his loss would be felt, and that was okay.
The firelight thinned the farther Arthur wandered from the celebrations, searching for a place to relieve himself and have a moment of peace before returning to the chaos of his party. His heart hitched in his chest and his skin felt flush, slick with the day's work of sweat and perspiration finally cooling on his hot skin.
The tips of his fingers thrummed and his world tilted on its axis for a frightening moment. When he found his footing again at the edge of camp, Arthur was able to empty his bladder while one hand kept him upright braced against the tree. “Christ,” He mumbled to himself as he fumbled and struggled to tuck himself back into his jeans when he finished up. “Keep it together old man.”
Instead of returning right away Arthur found himself amongst the horses where he was subsequently able to think more clearly despite himself. He patted the neck of his newly adopted Turkoman, named Red after her chestnut coat and sharp instincts. Arthur trusted her nature, so far.
She was no Boadicea by any measure, but Arthur supposed Dutch was right — he couldn't mourn his old horse forever. He needed to move on, even if it pained him to do so. He patted Red's neck, leaning against her for support while he searched his pockets for a cigarette and a match to light it with. Red chuffed at his poor attempts while simultaneously making no efforts to aid him.
Frustration gnawed at him, Arthur swore under his breath as his hands shook, sabotaging his attempts for success once again. Once more he steadied himself and poured all of his focus into lighting his smoke, willing it to work. Just as he was about to pull it off, the sound of leaves and brush crunching beneath footsteps, made him stiffen and freeze up instinctively.
His hand dropped to his hip, counting the seconds, holding his breath. Before he had the sense to shoot, Bill stepped out of the darkness, flooding him with relief. “Woah Arthur,” He held his hands up in mock defense. “Don't shoot.”
Arthur huffed, clearly perturbed. “Don't shoot? Goddamn it Bill! Don't you know better than to sneak up on a man?”
Bill shrugged his shoulders innocently. “You was gone a while, the boys wanted me to check up on you.” Normally Arthur would've been happy to believe him, he would've been happy that his family was concerned for his safety but Arthur knew better, he had survived worse than having a few too many. Secondly, he needed saving from Bill like he needed a branding.
“Well you don't need to, ‘m fine.” Arthur insisted, pushing an edge into his tone that he hoped Bill might pick up on. He took a step from Red, giving himself an out if need be. At least he hoped it wouldn't come to anything of the sorts.
“Hey, don't shoot the messenger or whatever.” Bill hissed mildly. “You think I wanna be here instead of drinkin’ back there?” Finally, Arthur felt a small shred of guilt needle at him. He exhaled and rolled some of the tightness out of his shoulders.
“Sorry,” He palmed at the back of his slick neck, dirty blonde locks soaked and curling at the nape. “Thanks, I guess.”
Bill nodded his acknowledgement and Arthur cleared his throat, side-stepping him. “We should probably be gettin’ on back then, Sean's expectin’ us.”
Bill's hand on his wrist, firm and insistent— stopping him from leaving, made him freeze in place.
“C'mon Mr.Morgan I think you know what I followed you here for.” His fingers bit into the meat of his arm, forcing Arthur closer without much option other than to submit to his show of force in his indisposed state. Arthur's heart leapt in his chest and he hoped he heard him wrong, that this was simply a nightmare they would laugh about come the morn.
“Knock it off, Williamson.” Arthur managed to ground out, gathering as much ferocity as he could muster in his current predicament. He attempted to put space between them but Bill followed, caging him in with ease. “What? I see the way your eyes follow John. I've seen you watch Mr.Smith around camp, it's not much of a secret Arthur.”
The mixture of Bill's hot, sour breath mixed with the churning of pure, white-hot fear from his words made the world spin momentarily. “You're crazy,” Arthur tried, baffled and incredulous. “You've had too many yourself Bill, go home before you get yourself hurt.”
Underestimating his level of intoxication, Arthur did his best to overpower and escape Bill's hold but he was faster and sober, and managed to crowd Arthur back against the hitching post in a grapple for power between the two men. “Wait, hold on—” He panicked, raw, horrifying fear etched into the cadence of his voice. “Don't do this Bill, I'm beggin’ you.”
He pushed and clawed at Bill's chest but his weight and position easily overpowered him in his current state. It was nearing the point of Arthur losing all hope of making it out of this unscathed when a voice, deep and ragged with a wavering calm thundered, “I believe Mr.Morgan asked you to stop.”
Bill pulled back, but he didn't move entirely. He seethed, glaring into Arthur's eyes as though he had wrongfully been inconvenienced. “You should mind your own business and really be on your way, Newcomer.” He responded, though his eyes never left Arthur.
From over Bill's shoulder Charles stood a few paces away, as steady and unmoveable as always. From his position, crowded beneath the greasy outlaw, he couldn't decipher Charles’ expression. Not that he wanted to. Finding himself in this predicament, unable to fend for himself was horrifying enough. “We're just havin' ourselves a little fun.”
Charles’ dark gaze flickered to Arthur, quickly assessing him and his body language before returning to Bill, hardened and resolute. “Doesn't look like it.” Arthur's face burned hot and shame flooded in behind it, washing over him in swallowing waves.
For a moment Arthur froze, wondering if Bill would challenge Charles further to try and get his way. Terrified, he remained rooted in place, afraid to move or say anything should the odds sway from his favour. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to this— Arthur wanted to explain how he found himself at Bill's mercy about as much as he wanted to eat a bullet.
“Fine.” Williamson relented after some hesitation, he tugged on the lapels of Arthur's coat roughly, brushing off Arthur's his shoulders maliciously and muttering a string of colourful language under his breath as he turned and saw himself back to the festivities without being more difficult.
They watched him go, Arthur's gaze was unwilling to falter until his shape disappeared into the darkness, until they can hear the gang cheering for his return— followed by mockingly teasing him. Only once he's truly gone, does some of the panic making home in his chest dissipate.
For a brief, sober moment Arthur wondered if Bill would remember any of it, then prayed to whatever God was out there that they both forgot. Forever.
The silence left in Bill's absence was suffocating. It stretched between them until Arthur couldn't take it anymore, drunkenly stumbling over his words and clumsy explanations. “Thanks Charles…He's usually harmless, y'know? I didn't think..” He palmed at the back of his heated neck, how could he even manage to look his friend in the eye again?
He felt raw and vulnerable, like an open wound freshly salted.
“Arthur,” Charles called, softly. Arthur refused to look up at him, he couldn't bring himself to do it no matter how tempted he was by Charles’ warm notes. “Arthur hey— you're shaking.” He hardly registered the feeling of hands, larger and softer than his, not fucked up by twenty some years as a gunslinger gently resting over his elbow through his own self-loathing.
"Just–" His voice tightened, throat closing with fear. Since when did someone as harmless as Bill strike fear this deep into his heart? "Just had a bit to much to drink, same as anyone else."
Charles didn't contradict or challenge him, instead one of his large, warm hands settled gently on Arthur's elbows — causing his trembling to slow a considerable amount.
"See? You're alright, Cowboy." His worss were certain, accompanied by a promise and his touch grounding — steadying.
A strangled breath expelled from his chest, one Arthur hadn't realized he'd been holding onto until then. His wandering gaze fell to the unlit cigarette clutched between his fingers, a stark reminder of his weakness; his inability to do something as simple as light a smoke.
"Can't even—" He huffed, frustrated with himself; bitter. "Christ I'm a mess."
Wordlessly Charles fished a matchbox from his person and swiftly produced a lit flame for him to use. Arthur gaped at the struck match for a moment before his sense returned to him and he leaned in, hands brushing against hands while he closed his eyes and inhaled.
When he opened them again, Charles was there; watching him. "There you go." He encouraged softly while dousing the flame, Arthur did his best not to act like a purring animal at his waiting feet.
Feeling all sorts of contradicting ways, averted his gaze first, unable to take the warmth and concern and fondness in Charles’ eyes he didn't deserve or understand. He took a long draft off his cigarette and willed himself to sober up to no avail, disliking how out of control he felt.
He continued dragging from his smoke, silent and pensive until Charles snatched it from between his fingers, taking a few, silent drags from it for himself before returning it back to Arthur and he tried not to think of how it had touched his lips before Arthur's.
Hesitantly, he scrubbed a hand down his face and offered his cigarette out to Charles again. “I ain't..” He clamped his mouth shut, it felt like an admission of something else entirely — something wrong when he in fact, had done nothing of the sorts. “I ain't like..like Bill, y'know?” He thought of Mary and then, in his drunken stupor, he thought of Charles and went back and forth, making his silent comparisons.
“You ain't gotta explain yourself Arthur, not to me.” When Charles passed the rolled tobacco back, his features had softened considerably. Something unnamed and heavy unraveled in his chest, and there was little Arthur could do about it.
He took another long, slow drag from his smoke to calm his thundering heart before finding the courage to speak again. “I don't want anyone to think…” Arthur looked away, his courage slowly turning to ash on his tongue quicker than he had managed to scrounge it together. “I don't want ‘em to talk.”
Perhaps it was the shadows framing Charles' face that made him appear menacing, or that his expression had truly darkened in such a manner. Arthur couldn't be sure. “They won't, you have my word.”
His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile curved at his lips. “You sound so sure.” Arthur remarked weakly, still unwilling to look him on the eye for longer than a few moments. The burn of disgust was prominent in the back of his mind, gnawing away at the fabric of his being until he despised his own reflection.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot and swayed the longer he stayed upright like an overworked horse. Charles shifted closer to him, ready to scoop him up should his knees buckle at any given moment— and it looked like they might. “I won't say anything you don't want me to.” The sincerity in his words struck a chord, deep within him, Arthur attempted to take a few steps forward and stumbled.
“Easy.” Charles practically cooed, in a voice that was similar to melted chocolate. Arthur thought having Charles speak to him in hushed tones as he fell asleep might be relaxing, then chastised himself for such odd thoughts pertaining to another man. He was so lost in his own thoughts he didn't register Charles’ arm around his waist, his weight pressing into his side; steadying him.
Appalled by his own helplessness and willingness to accept help in such a fashion made Arthur feel equivalent to a burden. After all, Charles had only known him a handful of months, he didn't owe him anything— especially not this. Apparently, unable to help himself, Arthur leaned into the powerful weight, curling against it without realizing who he was curling into.
“Sorry.” Arthur's voice was muffled by his face being pressed into Charle's bicep. “Ain't usually like this.”
He had no recollection of his last time overdoing it. Surely it hadn't ever been bad enough he ever found himself nestled into the side of another man— while seemingly having no issues with it, but here he was. His blood burned something hot and uncomfortable, punishment for his reckless treatment of his body by pounding it with alcohol.
“I know, c'mon,” He urged gently, arm remaining roped around Arthur's waist to assist in keeping him upright and on his feet. “Let's get you settled.”
For the first time in a long time Arthur allowed himself to be cared for, risks be damned. He trusted Charles as much as anyone else in the camp, figured he'd proven himself by now— to Arthur at least. He thought of Sean and Karen as Charles expertly weaved them through the dark camp without being seen, of their expectations that he would return and their disappointment when he didn't.
He had time to think of Hosea and Dutch of Dutch affectionately patting Hosea's hand, letting his touch linger and adopting two unruly children together. He thought of John and Abigail and of Jack, his lost woman and som even crossed his mind throughout his time, being drunkenly steered around.
Truthfully, Arthur didn't feel much like celebrating at all anymore. By the time they reached Arthur's tent he was stumbling and staggering, unable to open the flap of canvas doorway without Charles' skillful, strong hands.
Or maybe, Arthur wanted an excuse for Charles to follow him inside.
He collapsed into his cot with as much grace as you'd expect from an old, washed up outlaw. A groan escaped him as he sank back into the bedroll, bringing temporary relief to the aching muscles in his back as he stretched and deflated.
What Arthur didn't expect was to find Arthur knelt at his bedside, fiddling with his boots when he opened his eyes. His eyes widened and his eyebrows jumped on his forehead. “You don't gotta do that—”
Charles interrupted him, calm and smooth in that baritone of his while tugging the first boot off his foot. “I want to, humour me.”
Any of his previous arguments died on his tongue as Charles worked at his boots until the second one came off, setting them aside with care. Without prompting his damp, wet, well-worn socks followed, leaving his feet exposed to cool air. He flinched and hissed, “Cold.”
Charles glanced at him and his mouth stretched into a fond smile. A small, genuine, warm thing that made his chest swim and feel tight. “Hold on,” He stretched, reaching for his bedroll pack. From its contents he retrieved a pair of fresh, wool socks, specially crafted if Arthur had to guess. Charles guided them onto each of his feet, taking great care to be gentle and considerate. “There, how's that?”
He swallowed hard, chest tight with something that Arthur was certain had nothing to do with whiskey. “Yeah, th-that's good. Warm.”
Charles hummed, a sound stuck between pleased and appreciative. “Good,” He murmured, looking devastatingly beautiful settled beside Arthur's cot, silent and observant. He was more afraid of what might happen should Charles leave rather than the risk of allowing him to stay — though he would never ask, couldn't ask that. Not of anyone, especially not of Charles.
Without prompting he pulled Arthur's sheets over him, tucking the blankets beneath his chin with such care it made his chest ache something deep and profound. Arthur observed him in drunken awe, blinking up at him dumbfounded and confused. He was so utterly confused..
Arthur watched him like that — hazy, unfocused, like he might lose the shape of him if he blinked too long.
Charles moved with quiet intention, every gesture measured and gentle, as if Arthur were something fragile instead of a man twice his weight with blood on his hands and a rifle never far from reach. The blanket tucked snug beneath his chin felt embarrassingly domestic. Safe. It made his throat tighten all over again.
“Charles,” he started, then stopped. The name came out wrong; too soft, too close to a plea.
He swallowed and tried again when Charle's eyes flickered to his, sharp and unwavering. Intense. “You ain’t gotta… sit there all night. If someone sees you—”
Charles didn’t look at him right away. He stayed where he was, elbow resting on his knee, hands loosely clasped, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance like he was listening for something only he could hear. When he did finally glance down, his expression was steady, unreadable but not unkind.
“I know,” he said. “I want to.”
Arthur’s chest stuttered. The words sank in slow, heavy, settling somewhere low in his gut where they mingled with guilt and a sense of self-hatred.
“Just till you’re asleep,” Charles added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Like it didn’t matter at all that they were both men, in a gang of murderous outlaws. “If you'll have me.”
Arthur let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His fingers curled weakly into the blanket, knuckles brushing Charles’s knee by accident, maybe not. Neither of them moved or flinched away from it.
The world swayed again, gentler this time, like being rocked. His eyes burned, lids growing heavy despite his efforts to keep them open. He hated how exposed he felt — how easy it would be, right now, to say something he couldn’t take back.
“You saved me,” Arthur murmured instead, voice barely more than a breath.
Charles’s jaw tightened. “I did what anyone should’ve.”
Arthur huffed faintly. “Not everyone would, not for me.”
Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, just full and layered. Charles shifted then, settling back against the support of the cot, close enough that Arthur could feel the warmth of him through the thin space between them.
Arthur’s gaze drifted again, unfocused, but it always found its way back to Charles. To the curve of his shoulder, the calm set of his mouth. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with the feeling building in his chest; something tender and frightening and far too big for any amount of words he knew could express.
His eyes fluttered, the effort of staying awake losing its fight.
“Don’t go.” he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. For a heartbeat, his only return was silence and Arthur feared he’d gone too far.
Then Charles reached out and rested a hand over Arthur’s forearm again — grounding, solid, real. Then, his weight dipping in the cot, pressing into his back. Arthur stiffened at first, before he relaxed into him, hating how much he enjoyed the hard planes of Charles’ body, pressing against him. Paralyzing him in place with fear and something entirely different.
Something new.
“I’m right here,” Charles said, he sounded farther away when he spoke this time. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
Arthur’s eyes finally closed, Charles rested a hand against his shoulder and a shaky breath expelled from his mouth. “I'm scared.” He confessed, completely and wholeheartedly terrified by the prospect of what being here, wrapped up with Charles like this meant for him.
“You ain't gotta know nothin’ right now, Arthur.” Charles promised quietly, all while his large fingers rubbed comforting circles into his forearm. “I wasn't gonna let him— you don't owe me anything. Let me help you, this once. You'll owe me one if it makes you feel better, whatever you want.”
“Sure,” Arthur's skin was hot, warmer now with Charles pressed against him. He can't help but wonder of the hard physique beneath his clothing, as inappropriate and wrong as it is, the stirring in his loins is similarly his worst nightmare. ‘You're a good man, not everyone woulda bothered to help.” His voice is husky and gruff, and he began to wonder when he suffered head trauma.
Why hadn't he ever felt this way before? Why now?
“I didn't see another way, he wasn't exactly intent on leaving you alone.” It could've been the whiskey and the beer mingling in his stomach, making him experience delusions when they weren’t the truth. He was almost certain he felt his large hands squeeze his waist, making Arthur squirm in his hold. Charles. “I can usually handle myself— I shoulda been able to handle myself without dragging you into it. I was weak.”
The admission hung heavy between them, leaving Arthur to draw his own conclusions on the way Charles must've seen him; none of them too good. “Needing help doesn't make you weak Arthur, it makes you human.” The feeling of Charles’ warm breath against the back of his neck was a welcome comfort, even if Arthur was too stunned by his easy response to formulate another sentence, he relaxed further into the Hunter's weight.
A slow, ragged breath escaped him and the tension in his shoulders dissipated almost entirely in the circle of Charles’ arms. He tried to remain aware of any shuffling footsteps outside his tent or people coming to request his services but found his efforts growing increasingly more difficult as exhaustion wore him down.
“Arthur?” Charles squeezed him, worsening his state of disarray while simultaneously bringing him out of his head. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” He sounded so genuine with concern and fondness Arthur's cheeks grew hotter, he really hoped that the darkness gave him some sort of cover at the very least.
“No,” He grumbled, tone gruff around the quiet confession. His mouth felt dry and he stumbled over himself like an expert moron. “I just ain't used to this, at all. Ever.”
“Makes sense.” Charles' large, capable fingers brushed up and down the length of his arm, comforting and gentle despite being the large, hulking outlaw Arthur knew him to be. He was half asleep as it were, despite each of his nerve endings feeling as though they had a fire lit beneath them.
"How?” The outlaw questioned, quiet and without any subtleties left.
His hands on Arthur slowed, as though he was unaware of just how much of his hands were on Arthur; touching and soothing and stirring feelings within him he was unaware he harboured for anyone other than his Mary. “‘Cause you flinch like you're expectin’ me to lay my hands on you, or worse.” The outlaw swallowed hard and leaned the back of his head against Charles’ shoulder, growing ever more comfortable in his sleep deprivation.
Arthur hadn't realized he'd been watching so closely. It made him think of their previous hunting trip together— of Charles crowding in close, flush against him while he directed him on how to properly hold a bow, and how uncomfortable Arthur felt; distracted while melting back into his warmth instead of focusing on feeding his family.
“Charles?”
The large man hummed from behind him, sounding exhausted and halfway to sleep himself already. “Mm?”
“Can I ask you somethin’? It might be stupid.” Arthur hesitated, going over the words waiting on his tongue with practiced scrutiny.
Charles’ response came in the form of a low, resounding chuckle that reverberated through his chest. Arthur warred against the warmth flooding his own body at the feeling of Charles’ joy at his back. “For someone who's supposed to be getting rest, you aren't doing a very good job,” He teased. Then a pause, before he exhaled, again. “Sure, go ahead and ask."
Fear returned to him in a different form, with a completely different face. His heart hammered against his chest, yearning to leap from his throat and make a fool of himself. It wasn't similar to the fear he felt at Bill's touch or his persistence, but a completely new type of terror. Worse somehow.
“World's all turned sideways Charles.. I don't know—” He chewed on the inside of his cheek, so many factors were currently at play, contributing to the anxiety knotting in his chest. “I feel like I'm dreamin’ right now.. feel like that lots of times, don't know whether I'm coming or goin’ some days.” Arthur's words felt ripped from his chest, leaving him hollowed out and raw and made him second guess whether or not he should've spoke at all to begin with.
Charles didn't rush to answer by any means but something hardened in the line of his arm around Arthur's middle. Protective. Safe. His hand stayed firm and steady against him, rubbing slow, grounding circles into his arm that would've put him to bed instantly if not for Arthur's incredible feat of stubbornness fighting it off.
His chin dipped, resting near Arthur's shoulder but never pushing or overstepping his boundaries. Part of him wondered what would happen if Arthur pushed, if he turned in Charles' arms and offered himself in whatever way, right then and there. Then, his voice, cool and calm interrupted his unholy line of thinking. “The life we live isn't a nice one. Movin’ around as much as we do, fighting like we do… Makes everything feel off balance.”
Shame resurfaced it's ugly head and Arthur was left convincing himself that he loved his life, that while it wasn't much – it was still his only version of being loved within a family. Hosea and Dutch took him from the mud and gave him purpose and for that, he owed them everything. Including his undying, blind loyalty.
“Get some rest, Arthur. Your problems will still exist tomorrow when you wake.” Charles' hand ghosted over his own and Arthur held his breath, waiting for warm, dark fingers to slide over his own but they never came. Quiet, and the sound of the camp festivities filled the crisp air and the tension wound up within him slowly began to bleed out.
Slowly his breaths evened out and his body relaxed, signaling that sleep was inevitable. It crept in slowly and heavy like the rising-falling tide, Arthur was much too heavy with sleep to fight against its current. The edges of his vision softened and blurred and the sound outside his tent sounded muffled, drowned out by the sound of Charles’ thundering heartbeat and deep, unwavering breaths.
His thoughts unraveled first. Sentences lost their ends, worries slipped loose from their hooks. The tight coil in his chest unwound one fragile inch at a time, replaced by a deep, aching warmth that settled low and steady. His limbs grew heavy, leaden, every muscle surrendering at once now that it was finally safe to do so.
Each inhale brushed his back against Charles’s chest and each exhale made him sink back further into that solid heat. Arthur slumped fully against him without realizing the full weight of his action, a quiet question he was far too exhausted to remember to ask.
Charles adjusted instinctively.
One arm curved more securely around Arthur’s middle, firm but gentle, anchoring him there. The other stayed where it was, broad hand warm against Arthur’s arm, fingers stilled now except for the occasional unconscious squeeze — a reassurance given even in sleep.
Arthur made a soft, almost inaudible sound in his throat, something between a sigh and a hum. His brow smoothed. The lines of strain etched into his face eased, leaving him looking younger, softer; unguarded in a way he rarely ever allowed himself to be.
His head tipped slightly, resting more comfortably against Charles’s shoulder. His mouth fell open just a fraction as his breathing deepened, slow and steady now, the faint scent of smoke and whiskey lingering around him.
For the first time that night, (maybe for the first time in a long while) Arthur Morgan slept without bracing for pain, without waiting for a hand to shove him awake or a voice to turn cruel and ugly.
He slept, peacefully. Unknowing what awaited him the following day.
