[2] The Long Goodbye

"Take a gamble that love exists

And do a loving act."

— Red Dead Redemption 2

— 𐚁 —

The morning was already beginning to crest into day by the time Arthur rolled back into camp, slouched behind Bill on his horse, vision swimming while he did his best to remain upright and awake.

“Don't worry Arthur!” John called from somewhere nearby, he didn't have nearly enough energy to lift his head and look for him. “You're gonna be okay!”

The events of what led him to this state were finicky and disjointed, though he was painfully aware of the bullet hole in his torso, embedding into his flesh. Every time he moved, it moved with him with a burning sensation the same as hot oil.

“Sure thing…” He wheezed, surprised to hear his words so tight and constricted—weak from his own mouth. His hand was dark with his own blood, pressing against the gunshot wound while scarlet gushed and shot around his fingers. His vision came accompanied by black spots and pieces of time wholly missing.

“Get him down! C'mon!”

He felt hands on him grabbing at his shoulders, his arms— his belt, but couldn't quite register where they were coming from or who they belonged to. The world shifted and he felt himself slide off the back of the horse into a firm weight that knocked the air from his lungs.

“Arthur! Arthur! Don't close your eyes you son of a bitch—” He felt John's open palm crack against his face with all the might of a whip, his vision snapping into focus for a brief, clarifying moment.

“John!” Abigail's voice, Arthur felt hands around his waist, attempting to haul him upwards back onto his feet. “Arthur— oh my goodness, Arthur— W-What happened!?”

He felt spittle hit his face when John roared back at her. “What's it look like Abigail!? Bastard went and got himself shot! Go get Pearson and Dutch— go now!”

He heard her footsteps hitting the ground and Arthur watched beneath half-lidded eyes as her figure departed, racing as fast as he was sure he had ever seen her run. “Bill! Take this other side— Go on!” Finding some sense to listen to John, he felt another arm roping around his waist from the opposite side.

“B–Boys I don't think I can—” It didn't seem to matter what Arthur thought, John didn't even sound off a count before Bill and him simultaneously attempted to lift him off the ground. Each twist and jump of his bones made his gunshot wound spout more blood, painting the lower half of his shirt and trousers in a lovely maroon.

Pain tore through his being with a white-hot fury, his breath ripping loose from his chest as the wound split open again, blood spilling freely now soaking his shirt and streaking his clothes, dripping dark and heavy into the dirt below. The feeling was visceral and immediate, shredding through his consciousness without mercy— filling his vision with white.

“Arthur, hol’ on,” John's face was before him, sideways and disfigured, the details of his expression lost on Arthur, blurred and out-of-focus beyond his recognition. “No, no—Make sure you got ‘im Bill, he's going down!”

Silence descended upon the camp, hanging above them like a noose waiting to drop. Even the horses, haphazardly tied to the hitching posts at the outskirts of camp, quieted with apprehension.

Arthur spent a long time in and out of consciousness, caught between reality and dreaming and wholly uncertain when the other stopped and one started.

His body felt all sorts of wrong; as though it wasn't his own or being piloted by him at all. Heat radiated through his person, starting at the area surrounding his bullet wound, travelling upwards to his ears. Arthur was plagued by a state of merciless fire, licking up his bones without course to stop.

At times strangers and enemies alike would visit him as he slept, mostly bringing a vendetta with them and at times, nothing but their company. Arthur met with corpses and things of the past, long gone and buried by now. Hallucinations bled together with memories and Arthur was lost, left to sift through the dark alone.

Sunlight filtered in through the window and shafts of orange casted a warm glow across the quiet room, bathing the young Outlaw in a sunny glow he didn't quite appreciate all too much. His mouth twitched, then his nose, and slowly, Arthur was being coaxed awake from his deep rest.

Every part of him felt heavy and unwilling to rise to the day's expectations. Just as quickly as the day set in, so did the smell of crisp air and rose oils, coming from the sheets. The old familiarity of the scent was alarming, kicking Arthur's heart into high gear in his chest. He blinked himself awake more purposefully now, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes to rid himself of the sleep trapping him here.

“Arthur?”

He shifted and rolled over in bed to find Mary Linton, young and bright and beaming as when they first met. She was also in his bed— they were in bed together, Arthur felt particularly perturbed by this while Mary appeared as nonchalant as ever. Upon noticing the change in his demeanor her soft expression faltered. “Arthur?” She pressed, pushing herself up onto her arms against the mattress until the blanket fell from her chest.

Arthur felt his face burn hot and he lowered his gaze, prompting a fit of joyous laughter from Mary. “Don't act all shy now Arthur, you were very upfront last night.” Her words, tacked on with a sultry purr did little to soothe the blush climbing up his neck. She leaned into him until her chin was resting against his stomach, looking up at him beneath long lashes.

When he came up short for a response other than his wide, unblinking eyes and easy smile she grinned, spurred on by his coy act. “You wanna go again, Cowboy?” One of her hands pressed down against his chest, pushing him deeper into the mattress underneath. He made a soft noise, a breath expelling from his chest before she leaned down to press her mouth against his.

“Oh Arthur,” She sighed happily against his neck as they rolled and slid against one another. “Arthur…”

“Arthur.”

Mary's warmth lingered on his skin, the soft, plush bed of her lips leaving their mark on every inch of his skin. Even as she faded from focus, Arthur was over the moon happy to know she wanted him, she wanted all of him without shame or the rest of it. His mind continued to wander, to float adrift in quiet, heated mornings and practised proposing in front of his mirror.

It all seemed so long ago now.

“...Arthur,” His dreams slipped away from him, out of his grasp as he was thrusted back into the waking world. Hosea's face bled into his vision, and Arthur was certain he could feel his aged hand against his cheek, stroking comforting circles. “Do you understand what I'm saying to you?”

Arthur observed as Dutch placed a hand on Hosea's shoulder. “Enough. The boy can't hear you— he's all messed up in pain.” Hosea shrugged his hand off of him in a manner none too kind, Arthur loathed himself for creating the rift between them, for causing his family pain.

“...’m fine, ’Sea.” He did his best to drag his sorry carcass up; to prove to them that he was still their prized work horse—still valuable but he was stopped in his tracks. A lance of blinding pain shot underneath his ribcage, sending him back down to the ground in a groaning heap.

“You aren't fine, you're halfway to dead as it is!”

“No, no..Weren't—Weren't that bad...” Each word came more struggled than the last with a wheezing sound trailing after each sentence. Hosea's face twisted into something of an angry, menacing grimace. “Weren't that bad? You arrogant fool—”

“Hosea.” Dutch sighed around his name, making him fall silent. They glanced at one another, seemingly having a conversation Arthur wasn't privy to. He recognized the tent as his own even if it had seen better days of cleanliness. Still, he wasn't entirely sure why they were gathered inside of it.

Hosea waited a breath, then two, and finally spoke while Arthur grumbled and groaned in his cot. "Them bullets back in Valentine found ya, Arthur. Ribcage I reckon, hard to tell since you been coughin' up blood for weeks now–”

Arthur felt panic blossom inside his chest. “Weeks? No…No..”

Arthur’s hands instinctively went to his ribs, feeling the soreness flare beneath his fingertips. His vision swam; shadows of Dutch and Hosea blurred together as the pain sharpened into a white-hot spike.

“Son,” Hosea’s voice softened, urgent. “we ain’t got no time for stubborn pride. Pearson’s ready and you can’t wait any longer like this.”

Arthur tried to sit up straighter, eyes darting toward the tray of tools gleaming under the gas light, and his stomach twisted in horror. “Arthur Morgan!” Dutch barked, stepping close, hand gripping his shoulder. “Stop yer damn foolin’! You’re dyin’ if we don’t get this done!”

Pearson approached, tray in hand, his face pale but steady. “We gotta find the bullet and pull it, Arthur,” He glanced at Hosea or Dutch. “Get John and Charles in here.”

Arthur’s panic spiked. Normally Charles’ presence would've provided Arthur with a sense of trust and comfort. However, they had come to something of a standstill after Arthur returned from Valentine and Mary, after she kissed him and he played right into Dutch's hands. He wasn't clear on the specifics of why, only that Charles had decided to keep his distance since.

Until now.

He twisted away from him violently when he approached, making the Hunter pause and hesitate. John was the first to risk laying his hands on him and Arthur fought; jerking against the hands on his arms, shouting, cursing, spitting out a handkerchief someone had pressed to his mouth. “Stop fightin' Arthur,” He grunted through clenched teeth while pressing his weight atop him and the world spun as pain shot through his ribs with every movement.

“Charles! You gonna sit there and do nothin’ or are you gonna help me?” John hissed and Arthur felt his self-hatred reach an all-time high when Charles decided to go against his wishes, chocolate eyes cutting away from him sharply while subsequently holding him down.

For the first time in a long while, Arthur wanted nothing more than to return to his paradise with Mary. He wanted to melt into easy glances and loving touches, kissing and being desired. Arthur wanted it more than he wanted air.

The tent became a blur of voices, hands, and pain. Arthur screamed, cussed, and cried, a raw storm of fear and defiance. Each movement sent searing agony through his body. “Mr.Pearson!” Dutch roared like a demand and their cook got to work piercing Arthur's flesh with his sharpened tools and peeling it back layer by layer.

Arthur thrashed violently, his chest heaving, each breath a dagger tearing through his ribs. Blood slicked his hands, warm and sticky, smearing across his face and staining the cot beneath him. The bullet wound in his side gaped like a hot, angry mouth, every shift of his body dragging raw, molten pain through his torso. A jagged scream ripped from his throat, half rage, half agony.

John’s hands pressed down harder, trying to anchor him, while Dutch and Hosea braced to keep him from twisting. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the sharp tang of sweat and dust in the dim tent air. Pearson hovered with his tray, silver tools catching the morning light, knives and forceps cruel and sterile, ready to dig into Arthur’s flesh.

Charles’ hands gripped him firmly, one on his shoulder, one against his ribs, holding him like a lifeline. “Charles…” Arthur all but whimpered up at him, face wet with tears and spittle. “Please, please—”

His hands squeezed Arthur's shoulders once, twice. A reassurance, though he felt anything but. “We have no other options, Mr.Pearson has to get the bullet out to save your life, Arthur.”

Arthur’s vision blurred, the world tilting violently. Every pulse of his heart pushed molten fire through the wound. He felt the warmth of his own blood soaking the side of his shirt, dripping down onto the cot and pooling dark and sticky on the dirt floor. He could taste it in his mouth, coppery and bitter, and the handkerchief pressed against it only muffled his screams.

He jerked again, convulsing, tearing against every hand holding him. Pain shredded through him in waves, lancing down to his groin, up to his shoulders, splitting his bones with each breath. The taste of bile and iron filled his throat as he gasped and cussed, every word a rasping, jagged slice of sound that sounded more horrible than the last.

Arthur’s body seized once more, a shudder wracking his limbs as Pearson’s tools grazed the raw edges of flesh. His cries faded slowly into ragged sobs, blood-slick and metallic on his tongue. Then, just as suddenly as the pain had erupted, his mind slipped away from the present. The chaos of hands, steel, and shouted commands blurred into a soft gray haze.

He found himself somewhere he hadn’t been in years; in a home he forced himself to forget about with every break of morning light. Sunlight filtered through the trees of a sun-soaked clearing and there, laughing and unafraid, was Isaac Morgan. His boy, no older than three when Arthur first held him, running barefoot through the grass towards him.

“Papa!” Isaac called, voice bright as bells. He tripped over a root, and Arthur’s heart ached all over again, more sharply than even the bullet ever could. He got back up just as soon as he'd toppled over, prancing over to Arthur until he could throw himself into his Daddy's arms.

“Well would you look at that! I swear you've grown another foot since the last time I saw you!” He was still round in the face and pudgy with baby fat, but growing up with every passing month Arthur stayed away no doubt. “Mama says I'm gonna be four years old soon.” Isaac beamed up at him and wrapped his fat little arms around his neck to squeeze his Papa in a loving embrace.

Arthur set him back down on his feet when he was done and offered him his hand to hold, Isaac took the scary outlaw willingly, with warm, loving round eyes that were twice as big as his head to boot. “So— where ya been this time, Pa?” He asked all innocent-like while staring up at him.

“Lots of places—what does your mother tell you when you ask her?” He attempted, thinking he was finding some secretive way of getting out from underneath his son's curious thumb.

He grinned at him, no ulterior motives or reading between the lines, this boy—his boy, was just simply happy. “She says t' ask you ‘bout it!”

He grumbled incoherencies under his breath before responding to the small hand, tugging at his arm. “Pa? D'ya think you could teach me how to ride a horse? Just like Grandpa Hosea taught you!”

Arthur felt his something sharp twist in his chest at his son's words. He never stayed near long enough to get much else other than pleasantries out, where he was supposed to find the time to fit riding lessons in, Arthur didn't know— but he wanted to, for Isaac.

For his son.

“Course, bet you'll do real good on Boadicea, she's nice tempered, nothin’ like your old man.” He hummed but Isaac looked offended by his words and squeezed Arthur's hand with all his might. “You're as nice as any, Pa!”

They spent hours, maybe minutes, time felt strange here and Arthur certainly wasn't wasting time counting. They enjoyed rolling in the grass, pretending the trees were dragons and the sunlight a shield.

Isaac’s small, chubby hands found Arthur’s face, his laughter bubbling as they stumbled through make-believe adventures. For a fleeting heartbeat, Arthur was the father he always wanted to be, the man he wished he’d had the courage to become in the waking world.

But then the edges of the dream grew sharper, colder. The soft warmth was pierced by Eliza’s sharp, unmistakable voice.

“What if someone comes lookin’ for you, Arthur, and you ain’t here? You ever stop to run that one through that thick skull of yours?” She hissed, low enough so Isaac wouldn't overhear but venomous.

Arthur flinched at her tone. “I—I’m here now,” he stammered, guilt clinging to him like a wet, suffocating cloak. “I'm doin’ my best to be here for you ‘n' the boy.”

“You’re never here when it matters!” Eliza spat, her words biting, brittle with frustration and grief. “You think just bein’ alive makes you a good father? You think you deserve some kinda award for showing up a couple times a year?” Her eyes were blazing fire and Arthur was caught. “You’re missin’ everything! And do you care? Do you even think about us at all?”

He dug around in the pockets of his coat until he produced two stacks of bills. Nothing comparable to what he owed them in the slightest, he would never be able to make up for the time already lost. Still, presenting the money to her made him feel useful, in some small measure.

“Here, go on and take it,” Arthur all but pushed the money into her stunned hands, watching him with wide eyes full of concern and disdain. “Take it goddamn it! Won't you let me do somethin’ to try ‘n’ fix some old fool's mistake?”

Eliza’s hands hovered over the bills, trembling slightly, as though unsure whether to snatch them or push them away. Her eyes never left his, and Arthur felt the weight of decades of disappointment and hurt pressing down on him.

“You think money fixes things, Arthur? You think dollar bills can replace a father’s presence; a man doing right by his family ‘n' showing up for his own boy?” Her voice cracked, the edge softening just a hair, revealing the mother’s pain beneath her fury.

Arthur drew a tight breath into his lungs. “I—I know it ain’t enough. I know it ain’t even close, but it’s all I got right now, I swear. I’m… I’m tryin’ to do right by you both.”

Eliza’s gaze softened slightly, though her arms remained crossed. “You’re a hard man to love, Arthur Morgan. You’ve always been that way. I don’t know if you ever know how much you’re takin’ from us by bein’ gone, even when you think you’re doin’ right.”

Arthur exhaled shakily, guilt twisting with the bittersweet ache of longing. “I… I can’t fix the past, Eliza. But I can be here now, you have my word.”

Isaac laughed softly from the other room and when Arthur peaked in, he found him flipping through pages of an illustrated book. The sunlight glinted off his tousled hair, and for a fleeting, perfect moment, Arthur felt like this could be his redemption.

But the warmth of it didn’t last long. The distant echo of a sharp, metallic ring—the sound of steel against steel—crept into his mind, and the memory began to fray. Pain, real and burning, clawed at his ribs and torso, dragging him back toward the tent, toward Pearson’s tools and Dutch’s barked orders.

Arthur’s heart lurched. “No… no, not now…” he whispered, the tender scene with his boy and Eliza shattering as the heat of his wound and the weight of the present assaulted him.

“Isaac,” He called out in the darkness, more hoarse sounding than he remembered. “Isaac…”

“Hosea!” He heard a small voice shout, excitement wrapping around each syllable—knocking around his head painfully. “I think Uncle Arthur's awake!”

The weight of the cot pressed into him, every breath a hot, ragged gasp. Arthur’s head throbbed with fever and pain, and the memory of Isaac’s small hands tugging at his sleeve still lingered like a bittersweet ghost.

A soft hand brushed against his forehead, cool and damp. “Here you go, Pa.” A small, gentle voice murmured in a whisper. Then it was gone.

Arthur’s eyes fluttered open, hope blooming foolishly in his chest. The boy was here; he was real—he hadn’t vanished this time. Relief softened the taut lines of his face, and for a heartbeat, the nightmare of blood, pain, and the Valentine shootout seemed to fade into the background.

But the warmth didn’t last. The shape leaning over him was smaller than Isaac should have been, his features unfamiliar but kind, the same careful tenderness. Arthur’s chest constricted as the realization struck, sharp and painful. It wasn’t his boy.

“Jack…” he rasped, voice cracked and thick with unspent tears. The boy startled and caught his gaze, confusion flickering in his wide eyes. Before Jack or Arthur could get another word out the sound of hurrying steps interrupted them. Hosea flourished into the tent as if he were on a mission, ruffling little Jack's hair before sinking to the ground beside him.

“Arthur!” Hosea exclaimed, warmth and affection flooding his tone. Arthur felt his misery creep up on him and his shoulders shook, the weight of grief pressing down harder than the fever, the pain, or even the wound itself. For a long, ragged moment, he let himself cry, uncaring how he presented in front of Hosea or the boy.

The cruel, aching reality was that the son he longed for was gone and it was Arthur's fault.

There was nobody else to blame.

“My boy,” Hosea's words sounded wet and Arthur could only assume it was his fingers sifting through his hair, long overgrown and in desperate need of a cut. “It's so good to see you again, son.” He was relieved, Arthur realized while watching him through glassy, worn-down eyes. “You look terrible.”

That, surprisingly, made Arthur laugh in the midst of his agony.

The sound came out rough and broken, more breath than anything else, breaking off into a cough that rattled deep in his chest. Pain flared along his ribs and he winced, clutching weakly at the blanket as Hosea tutted and steadied him.

“Easy,” Hosea murmured, firm but gentle. “Don’t you go undoin’ all of Pearson and Charles' hard work now. You’ve done enough damage for one lifetime.”

Arthur against the glass stuck in the back of his throat, the remnants of the painful ache trembling through him. “Still got… still got a mouth on you,” he rasped, voice shredded thin.

Hosea smiled, something real sad. “Someone’s gotta keep you humble ‘round here.”

The tent felt smaller then, quieter. Safe, in a fragile sort of way. Arthur let his head sink back into the pillow, exhaustion dragging at his limbs like weights. His eyes drifted, unfocused, until they landed on a small figure hovering near the foot of the cot.

Jack stood there, hands folded tight around the damp cloth, looking at Arthur like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to breathe yet. For a moment the image morphed, and a head of blonde hair beamed back at him, deluding him into believing—

Arthur’s chest seized.

“…Isaac?” he whispered, the name slipping free before he could stop it.

Jack startled, eyes widening. Hosea’s hand stilled in Arthur’s hair. “No,” Hosea said gently, voice breaking just enough to give him away. “No, son. That’s Jack.”

“Right,” The realization hit harder than the bullet ever had. “Right, yeah. I know that.” He turned to look at his nephew, more apologetic and shameful than he could ever know. “Once I'm better…I s-swear we'll go fishin’ again.”

That seemed to distract him well enough. “Really?” Jack's eyes lit up in hopeful disbelief. “You promise, Uncle Arthur?”

Arthur swallowed, slow and careful, like the truth might tear something loose if he rushed it. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I promise.” The word sat heavy on his tongue, a vow he wasn’t sure he deserved to make—but one he meant all the same.

“Well,” Hosea said quietly, clearing his throat, “I reckon that settles it. Can’t very well disappoint the boy now, can you?”

Arthur closed his eyes, the weight of that simple truth pressing down on him harder than any reprimand ever could. “Guess not.”

Jack lingered a moment longer, then left the tent practically skipping. Arthur listened to him go and promised to never let anything happen to the boy. Better yet, he vowed to help Abigail straighten John out before he lost them completely.

“How.. How long have I been out?” He needed something to distract himself with, some type of chore or task or aimless conversation to make him forget again. Hosea didn't rush to answer, making Arthur's heart skip a beat in his chest.

Hosea sighed, and for the first time, Arthur finally noticed that age was beginning to catch up with him. He didn't like it. “A little over a month now.”

“Dutch must be happy about that.” He grunted as if the information physically hurt to hear.

Hosea huffed quietly. “Dutch is…He's Dutch; he's even worse when someone he loves is hurt or worse for wear. He fusses.”

Arthur frowned, gaze drifting to the canvas ceiling. A week. A whole damn week gone. What the hell kinda good was he, rotting in his tent for a week straight? When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Reckon I missed a lot, then.”

Hosea hummed, amusement etching his words. “Not as much as you think, the world didn’t end without you, despite your best efforts.”

Arthur snorted, then winced. “That suppose to make me feel better?”

“It’s supposed to keep you from tryin’ to sit up and prove somethin’,” Hosea replied, gentle but firm. “Don't worry about Dutch or any of the rest of it. Just you focus on getting better for all of us.” That didn’t ease the knot in Arthur’s chest but he forced his mouth to twitch to assuage Hosea.

Arthur swallowed, fingers curling in the blanket, cold.“Did he—” He stopped, jaw tightening around the words. “Did he think I was gonna die?” Hosea’s expression softened in a way Arthur didn’t care for, in a way he hadn't yet seen. “We all did.”

Silence stretched. The weight of it pressed down heavy, same as the pain in his ribs.

Arthur turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward the tent door. He thought of Mary, of their passionate young love and of the quiet thing he shared with Charles.

He felt stupid for asking, “Charles stayed?”

Hosea followed his gaze, something knowing passing through his eyes before it was quickly dashed away. “Every night he could,” he said, amused. “Slept on the ground right there, stubborn as a mule. Told Pearson he’d haul you himself if it came to that.”

Arthur shut his eyes, throat tightening. Something old and visceral reigniting within his chest. “Figures.”

Hosea rested a hand on his shoulder again, steady and warm. “You’ve got people, Arthur. Even when you’re laid up and useless as a sack of flour.”

Arthur said nothing to that, instead he watched the doorway, hoping Isaac might come through, imagining Dutch would pay him respects in the very least. He apparently almost died, and he hadn't seen or heard Dutch at all. Hosea was good at changing the subject.

It was possible Dutch only valued him because of his capabilities and nothing more. He was a fast shot, killed easily and pledged his loyalty blindly. Bitterly, he remarked that Charles had been right and Arthur was a fool for not hearing him sooner. Dutch wasn't always so bad, not when it was the three of them running around doing small jobs.

“When can I get outta here?” He asked in a half-wheeze. Hosea eyed him warily, knowing his son better than Arthur knew himself at times. When Hosea didn't respond, dread crept up the back of his spine and settled deep in his bones. “C'mon ‘Sea… I ain't good at sittin’ around ‘n’ waiting.”

Hosea patted his shoulder sympathetically with a sigh. “No,” He agreed, “you never have been, even when you were small gettin' the likes of you to sit still while we tried—”

“—an’ failed.” Arthur interrupted.

Hosea eyed him with fond exasperation. “Patience is a wonderful virtue Mr.Morgan, you'd do well to learn it.”

Arthur huffed, the sound catching shallow in his chest. “Reckon I’m runnin’ outta time for virtues ‘n’ learnin' new tricks.”

Hosea didn’t smile at that. His hand lingered where it was, steady and warm. “Then all the more reason to stay put and heal.” He pressed, with all the authority that a father should. “Let me get you something to eat, I'll even leave the door open for you while I'm gone.”

If Arthur didn't know any better he would've thought Hosea was mocking him. He all but grumbled his reply, “Great, thank you.” He ignored the sarcasm rolling off of Arthur and headed for the exit anyways, leaving his son alone with his thoughts was never a good idea.

It took all of five minutes before Arthur decidedly didn't want to be laid up in bed with the lingering memory of his dead son fresh on his mind. The chilling image of Isaac and Eliza, cold and forgotten on the floor of the home Arthur put them up in, wouldn't soon leave his mind. He held no other idea on how to make himself forget.

He swung his legs over the side of the cot before he could talk himself out of it, teeth clenched as pain flared hot and vicious through his side. “Shit,” he muttered, bracing a hand against the frame as he forced himself upright. The world tilted and he tried to wait it out, breathing shallow, stubborn as ever.

He just needed air.

Arthur took one step, then another, his vision swam and his body screamed at him to stop and turn around, he just didn't want to listen. He wanted to be what Dutch needed—what the Gang needed him to be, at least he was of some use then. At least he was loved.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be outta bed.”

The voice came calm and even from just outside, close enough that Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin. He froze, hand already reaching for the canvas.

Charles stood there, broad shoulders blocking the light, arms crossed loosely across his chest, eyes sharp. He took Arthur in at a glance; the sweat beading at his temples, the way his hand hovered near his ribs like he was afraid he might fall apart. It sure felt like he had taken a hard hit and by Hosea's reaction, it hadn't exactly been an easy road to recovery.

He felt near breaking apart. Fraying at the seams, he didn't think he could handle Charles or his sudden interest back in his life. Arthur couldn't— wouldn't live the rest of his days chasing after people who didn't want him. And why should he?

He straightened up as best as he could in front of Charles, disliking the way his eyes roamed over him like he might disappear. Everyone was acting similarly; like Arthur had just risen from his own grave. He would be fine, he was always fine. “I'm fine— don't reckon I asked for your opinion, Mr. Smith.”

Charles didn’t move; he refused to soften or Didn’t soften either. Just watched him, quiet as ever, and that somehow made it worse.

“You don’t look it,” Charles said. Silence stretched. The cold air pressed in around them, biting through Arthur’s shirt, but he welcomed it—anything was better than lying still with his thoughts. Eventually he exhaled like Arthur was nothing more than a problem to be solved and not the man who spent hours writhing beneath him. “You're in a bad way Arthur—”

Arthur scoffed, breath coming shallow. “I’ve been in a bad way before.”

“That’s not the same.” Charles retorted, sharper now.

Arthur bristled at him, lifting his chin. “Ain’t dead yet.”

Charles’ jaw tightened. He stepped closer, boots crunching softly against the ground, crowding Arthur’s space without touching him, he hadn't touched him in weeks. “You were close.”

That did it. Arthur laughed something short and ugly. “Oh, so now you’re worried?”

Charles’ eyes flashed. “I was worried when you stopped breathing on us.”

Arthur faltered, just barely, then forced himself upright again, defiant. His body burned and screamed at him, sending horrible shockwaves of pain through his system. “Didn’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t have to,” Charles cut in, forcefully to shut him up. “You didn’t ask for me to hold you still while Pearson dug around inside you either but I still did it.”

Arthur swallowed, throat tight. He felt the phantom pain of his flesh being cleaved in two. He tried to sound steady and resolute, but his strength wavered the longer he stood, sapping his own energy.

“There was blood,” Charles said flatly, Arthur was almost sure he was glaring. “Enough that I couldn’t wash it off my hands for days.”

Arthur’s anger flared hotter, uglier; guilt always did that to him. “So what, now I gotta stay put so you feel better?”

Charles’ hand shot out then—not rough, but firm, catching Arthur by the shoulder when he swayed and stumbled forwards. Arthur hissed, pain blooming sharp and bright, and Charles’ grip tightened instinctively, keeping him upright on his feet.

“Don't,” Charles warned, voice low as he levelled the outlaw with an exasperated glare. “Don’t pretend this is about me.”

Arthur shoved weakly at his chest. “Let go.”

“You got a hole in you,” Charles went on, closer now, breath fogging between them. “You’re stitched up and barely holdin’ yourself together, what business do you have walking around like you got somethin’ to prove?”

Arthur’s eyes burned, pressure gathered at the middle of his face, alongside frustration. Embarrassment. Shame. “I do.”

“To who?” Charles demanded, impatiently. “Dutch?”

The name struck him like a slap. Arthur looked away, jaw working, heart racing. “Ain't your business—not no more.”

“Not my business,” he repeated quietly, like he was testing how it tasted. His eyes stayed on Arthur, steady and unblinking. “Funny. Sure felt like my business when you were shakin’ so hard I couldn’t hold you still. When Pearson said if the fever didn’t break by morning, you weren’t gonna make it. For days we waited for you to die.”

Arthur’s throat tightened. He hated this and hated being cornered with truth instead of fists or bullets. “That don’t mean—”

“It means you don’t get to shut me out like I haven't been here,” Charles cut in. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried weight, pressed down on Arthur’s chest heavier than any of the rest of it. “You don’t get to bleed all over someone and then tell ’em to mind their own business.”

Arthur’s hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening. He felt like he might be sick to his stomach. “You been keepin’ your distance,” he shot back, bitterness bleeding through. “Figured that was you mindin’ yours.”

Something flickered in Charles’ expression. Anger, yes, but underneath it, hurt; real and raw and stabbing as deep as any knife. “You wanna talk about this now?” He almost scoffed, bitterness beginning to seep into his words. Arthur hated that he couldn't focus on anything much except the feeling of Charles’ hands on his skin— the smell of leather oils and herbs. Campfire.

Still, he managed to huff, “Now's as good a time as any, I don't know of any other when, seein’ as you ain't all that keen on even looking in my direction these days.” He wanted to stop himself but his injury was pulsing with a red-hot sear, making him dizzy. “She asked for me and I went, what the hell else am I supposed to do? That's what I know, Charles; I know how to chase after what Dutch wants and even scores, that's all I got.”

Charles considered him for a long while, his expression shadowed by the dark quickly rushing into camp. Arthur felt waves of heat wash over him and his palms were beginning to grow clammy the longer they watched one another, waiting for the other to make a move first.

He felt like a stag caught in the path of a train, wide-eyed and frozen, unable to move even when his own death was barrelling down towards him. The silence stretched and Arthur found himself willing to push his luck further by trying his hand at stumbling around him.

Charles was faster and stronger by some far measure Arthur was too proud to admit. A large, powerful hand caught him at the uninjured side of his waist before he could weasel his way outside. He didn't want to talk about how badly they wronged one another and he didn't want to think about his dead son, he wanted to do what he was good at.

Arthur swayed on his feet and his bravado was quickly dashed out by the sharp, blinding pain erupting through him. “You had me,” The details of Charles’ became distorted, blurry around the edges. “And I wasn't enough— I'm starting to realize that nothing will ever be enough. Not me, not Mary ‘n’ not some pipedream about Tahiti or whatever.”

Finally, without ceremony, Arthur's knees buckled and he would've dropped— if not for Charles’ hands on him. He felt his stomach churn with the discomfort of what Arthur knew to be the truth, subconsciously. Dutch always had a plan, or at least, it always seemed like he did. Maybe Arthur hadn't been paying as close attention as he thought.

Charles moved, wordlessly, nearly soundless if not for the sound of Arthur's weight thudding against his chest— forcing a breath from his lungs. He smelt of earth and pine, skin soured, yielding a musk from a hard day's work.

“Easy,” He murmured, the deep cadence of his voice was closer than he assumed, sending a chill rolling down Arthur's spine. He felt himself being lowered— guided back to his cot and he couldn't resist, feeling the exhaustion starting to cling to his muscles. “There you go. Was that so difficult?”

Arthur's eyebrows jumped up at him. “Do you wan’ me to get back up, Mr. Smith?” Charles said nothing, instead he listened to his footsteps, fade towards the far side of the tent— closer to the doorway.

When he spoke again, he wasn't as close, never as close as Arthur wished he could let him. “Get some rest Arthur, Jack misses you.”

He stared at the entryway where Charles stood long after he was gone, his thoughts briefly wandering back to that strange place where a young boy with blonde, bouncy curls bounded towards him on chubby little legs. His heart ached— for Isaac, for little Jack. He deserved better than a bunch of no good outlaws for family.

Dutch didn't come by his tent, as much as Hosea insisted it had nothing to do with Arthur and everything to do with their circumstances, he didn't believe it. Arthur knew better than that, he had seen enough of Dutch and Hosea fretting over John through his bouts of sickness as a child to know it was a lie.

Nothing came in a sensible order afterwards, Arthur fell into a cycle of sleeping, waking up in pain and falling unconscious again. Every so often Charles would stop by his bedside to wordlessly change his dressings, at times he would send Pearson or Ms. Grimshaw in his stead. Looking inward was as good as sitting in his cot and rotting, Arthur found that he felt no particular way about anything anymore.

Time slipped through his grasp like grease, measured not by sunrise or sunset, or the gentle sound of birdsong but instead by the routine of coughing down Pearson's tonics and the ache in his ribs when he exhaled deeply. At times he woke, convinced that it was the same day and other times, he was sure a week had passed in the span of an afternoon.

He drifted in and out of half-dreams where Mary’s voice tangled with Hosea’s, where Isaac’s laughter echoed just out of reach, dissolving the moment Arthur tried to turn toward it. Those were the worst awakenings—the ones where his chest ached for reasons that had nothing to do with the wound.

Jack came to visit often, sometimes with a book he couldn’t quite read yet hoping Arthur might some strength in him to muster it and sometimes just to sit and watch Arthur breathe, like he needed proof that he still could. Arthur learned to recognize the sound of his small boots outside the tent before he ever spoke. Learned, too, how carefully the boy handled him, how gentle his hands were when he passed over a cup of water or smoothed the blanket like Arthur might shatter if touched wrong.

Healing came in inches, not miles. One morning Arthur realized he could sit up without blacking out. Another, he stood long enough to change his shirt before his knees threatened mutiny.

The pain never fully left, but it dulled—settled into something he could live with, something that reminded him to slow down whether he liked it or not. When Hosea finally nodded and said, “We’ll try a little walk today,” Arthur pretended not to feel the knot of nerves tighten in his gut.

John helped him up, arm firm beneath Arthur’s shoulder, bearing more of his weight than Arthur wanted to acknowledge. Each step felt deliberate, negotiated—like his body was demanding proof he deserved to keep moving. They made it only a few yards before Arthur had to stop, breath hitching.

“Here.” John didn’t rush him. Just guided him down onto a stack of crates and stayed put, solid and patient. Arthur leaned back, tipping his face toward the sky, eyes slipping shut as the sun spilled warmth across his skin. It soaked into him slowly, like the world itself was testing whether he’d stick around this time. Arthur exhaled and struggled to will the pain from his chest while they sat, perched on the crates, the warm rays of sun blanketing his pasty complexion in warmth.

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment and Arthur, ridiculous as it was, let himself bask in the daylight — the fresh air, the hustle of camp noise and regular happenings. Arthur missed being part of something bigger than himself, he missed being important and needed.

John shifted beside him, adjusting his stance without comment, solid as ever. “Told you not to push it,” he said, not unkindly. Arthur huffed, a breathy thing. “Ain’t pushin’, just appreciatin’ the scenery.”

His brother scoffed like it was comical. “The scenery? You hit your head on the way down brother?”

Arthur practically hummed, unbothered by John's ignorance, “I've been holed up in the dark for a month waitin’ to feel the sun again,” His head was beginning to throb from the brightness of the day, vibrant greens and blues overwhelming Arthur's senses.

John followed Arthur’s gaze for a moment, then looked back at him sideways, something quieter settling into his expression. He looked older. “Reckon you earned it,”

Arthur smiled faintly, eyes still shut, letting the sun wash over him even as it made his head pound. It felt good anyway—felt real. He shifted, careful, and hissed through his teeth when his ribs protested. John was there immediately, steadying him with a hand at his elbow.

“See?” John muttered. “That’s pushin’.”

Arthur cracked one eye open. “That’s life.”

John shook his head, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “You always were stubborn as a mule.”

Arthur sagged against him, using his shoulder as a support for the time being. Slowly the camp began noticing him, gathering around him to greet and offer their wishes for his health. It felt for the first time in a long time, like the ice around his heart was thawing.

The camp stretched out before him, alive and messy and imperfect. People moved around him like he mattered, as though his presence amongst them shifted the shape of the day, even just a little. Maybe, he did belong here— as imperfect and lawless as they were, these people were the only family he had ever known.

Others drifted closer after lingering long enough. Quiet nods, soft words, claps to the shoulder that stopped short when they remembered he was still stitched together more than whole. Someone pressed a tin cup into his hand just and Lenny roused him about looking thinner than he last remembered. Arthur grumbled a line of sarcasm under this breath before sipping on the warm broth.

He felt somewhere halfway normal by the time Sean came around, pushing a bottle of whiskey into his hands as a thanks for saving his life— and for not dying, amongst other things. Mary-Beth showed him some of her etchings and journal scrawled, all while squeezing him with all her might. They were glad to see him, to know that he was alive and on his way to better.

The goodbyes came slow. Soft wishes for good rest, for sweet dreams. Tilly kissed his cheek. Karen did too, louder about it, fussing until John cleared his throat sharp enough to scatter them like birds.

“Alright, I think that's enough for one day.” John batted them away and bid them farewell as he eased his brother up onto his feet again, Arthur watched them go with a softness not present before. “Come on old timer, let's get you back to bed before you find some other way of hurtin' yourself worse.”

Arthur leaned into him as they started back toward the tent, steps careful, breath even. Camp noises dimmed behind them, the fire crackling low and steady somewhere to his left.“Y’know,” Arthur said after a moment, gaze drifting upwards towards the blue, wispy sky, “kinda miss the stars ‘n'the fresh air more than anything else.”

After being locked away inside far longer than he liked, doing nothing but staring at canvas walls, Arthur was growing so bored he worked away at some of Jack's storybooks. His journal was filled with etchings and entries by now, done by a shaky, annoyed hand that wanted nothing more than to pitch it across the tent.

“Yeah, I know,” John answered honestly, sounding a twinge sympathetic but still he guided Arthur back towards his own personal hell. “but Hosea had to convince Pearson to let you do this, so you could be a touch more grateful.”

“Since when did you start giving me lectures?” Arthur retorted, earning himself a genuine laugh from his brother.

“Arthur!” A new voice, deep and ragged, called out to him, making both men pause. Arthur turned towards the summons to find Dutch waving his hand back and forth, moving towards him in long, purposeful strides. “Arthur, hey son!”

They’d barely taken another step when Dutch closed the distance, his presence filling the narrow space like it always did—too big to ignore, too practiced to refuse. He stopped just short of Arthur, eyes sharp but smiling, taking stock in that way that made Arthur feel inspected rather than seen.

“You look better,” Dutch said, like it was a conclusion he’d reached all on his own. He sounded happy at least. “Color’s back in you.”

Arthur shrugged, careful not to jostle his ribs. “Reckon dyin’ didn’t take this time.”

Dutch laughed softly, clapping a hand to Arthur’s shoulder before thinking better of it and easing off. “Come, sit with me a minute. You been cooped up long enough.”

John opened his mouth, already bracing for argument, but Arthur spoke first. “It’s fine,” he said, tone mild, familiar while nodding at John's frowning face like it would provide him some comfort. “I can manage.”

Dutch smiled like he’d already won. Arthur fell into step beside him, slower now, the ache in his side flaring with each careful stride. Dutch adjusted without comment, matching his pace. The firelight grew warmer as they approached, licking gold across the canvas and bedrolls.

Night settled thick and close around the camp, sounds softening—the murmur of voices, the crackle of burning wood, the low whicker of horses settling in. Arthur’s eyes lifted instinctively to the sky, to the scatter of stars just beginning to show through the dark.

Halfway into their walk, he felt it.

He glanced up and caught Charles’ eye from across the camp. The look held long, steady, and unreadable. Not anger or accusation, but something much quieter. Something like warning, or knowing. Arthur’s stomach twisted, and he looked away first, shame curling hot beneath his ribs.

Dutch hadn’t noticed or pretended not to.

Arthur eased himself down onto a log beside the fire, every movement measured, negotiated with the pain that still lived sharp and watchful in his side. He kept his face neutral, jaw set, refusing to give it more than it was owed. Dutch settled beside him with a satisfied grunt, stretching his legs out toward the heat like the night belonged to him.

The fire cracked and shifted, sparks lifting into the dark. Arthur let his shoulders slump just a fraction, the warmth seeping into him, loosening knots he hadn’t realized he was still holding. “There,” Dutch said softly, looking upwards. “Stars’re out for you tonight.”

Arthur tipped his head back, careful, eyes tracing the familiar scatter overhead. Something in his chest tightened at the sight—something old and tender and emotional. “Ain’t seen ‘em proper in a while,” he admitted. “Forgot how many there were.”

Dutch hummed, pleased. “Easy to lose sight of things when you’re laid up. But you’re still here, son. That counts for somethin’.” Arthur nodded, because that was what was expected of him and because agreeing was easier than questioning what it had cost.

There were several questions at the forefront of his mind. Many for Dutch and mostly for himself, but they still went unanswered all the same. The words turned to ash on his tongue and the bone he had to pick with Dutch was slowly, with enough time, being forgotten.

They sat in silence for a bit, the kind that felt intentional and heavy with everything left unsaid. Dutch poked at the fire with a stick, embers shifting obediently at his touch. “Valentine was… messy,” Dutch said at last, tone carefully casual. “Brought too much attention down on us. Law’s sniffin’ around more than I’d like.”

Arthur’s spine straightened on instinct, mind already shifting gears despite the deep thrum of pain threading through him. “Figured as much.”

Above them, the stars burned on, cold and indifferent, while Arthur sat at Dutch’s side and wondered—just for a moment—who he was really trying to prove himself to, and how much of himself he had left to give up.

Across the fire, laughter rose and fell, the camp settling into its nighttime rhythm. Arthur caught sight of Charles again, clearer now in the firelight. He wasn’t looking at Dutch— he was looking directly at Arthur. His expression didn't soften when Arthur met him, he was waiting; standing at the edge of something Arthur kept running away from.

His fingers twitched in his lap and his heart lurched in his chest. It dawned on him slowly, as most things did, that Arthur missed Charles. He looked for him each time someone entered the tent or the sound of boots wandered by and wondered about his well-being often enough. However, Arthur was painfully aware that he may be too little too late.

For what?

His heart hitched in his chest and Arthur shifted uncomfortably, forgetting entirely about his injury for a moment too long. His side throbbed in time with his heartbeat now, a dull insistence he could ignore if he tried hard enough. He shifted again, careful, this time Dutch noticed immediately. “Still hurtin’ you?” he asked, frown creasing his brow.

“Some,” Arthur admitted. “Ain’t nothin’ I can’t live with.”

Dutch clucked his tongue. “You always say that.” Not unkind, sounding almost fond. “Still, you gotta remember you ain’t just muscle. You’re family ‘n’ we need you whole.”

Dutch talked for a while after that, voice low and steady, weaving plans out of smoke and starlight. He spoke of distance and timing, of patience, of the way things would right themselves if they only held on a little longer. Arthur listened like he always did; half with his ears, half with the part of him trained to nod at the right moments. The fire popped, sending a curl of sparks skyward, and Arthur tracked them until they vanished.

For a blistering moment, Arthur thought of Pearson and the feeling of his flesh being torn and separated in two, viscera and spittle and tears everywhere, combining with blood. He thought of hands holding him down while he attempted to violently twist and escape from their hold, he thought of Hosea turning away— unable to watch.

He thought of Eliza and Isaac, of teaching the boy how to cast his fishing line and reel in a fish. The sound of his voice, rising in pitch once he got a bite and the fish began pulling. Then, abruptly the scene changed to Arthur standing before their twin graves; holes he had to dig himself otherwise nobody would ever know they existed in the first place.

“You hungry?” Dutch asked, sharply cutting through the deep, dark recesses of his mind. Arthur kept his gaze trained on the flames and shook his head wordlessly— he didn't have much of an appetite now.

Dutch hummed, unconvinced but willing to let it lie. He reached for the coffee pot instead, poured himself a cup, and settled back onto the log beside Arthur. The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—just dense, like it was packed with things neither of them wanted to name.

Arthur’s jaw tightened as the images refused to loosen their grip. Pearson’s shaking hands. The smell of iron and sweat. The way the world had narrowed to pain and pressure and the certainty that this was how he’d end—on a filthy table with too many people watching him come apart. He swallowed hard, throat working, and forced himself to breathe through it.

The fire crackled again. Someone laughed nearby. A harmonica wheezed out a slow, wandering tune from the far edge of camp.

“You did good,” Dutch said suddenly, quietly. “Back in Valentine.”

Arthur scoffed, wholly unconvinced. “Good? Got myself shot and almost died Dutch, we're lucky we didn't lose anyone— that ain't doin’ good.”

Dutch waved a hand, dismissive, like he could brush the memory aside if he tried hard enough. “That weren’t on you, Arthur. That was Cornwall.” His voice hardened around the name. “Man like that; money, power—he was always gonna sick the law on us sooner or later. We rattled him, that’s all. Hit a nerve.”

Arthur stared into the fire, jaw set. The flames licked upward, greedy and restless, much like Dutch. “Still don’t change the fact I caught the bullet.”

“No,” Dutch allowed, softer now, measured. “But it explains it.” He shifted closer, lowering his voice as if the night itself might be listening. “The law didn’t just wander into Valentine by chance. They were led. And now they’re sniffin’, askin’ questions, lookin’ for a trail.”

Arthur felt that familiar tightening in his chest, the sense of something closing in, had lived long enough to recognize it. “What're you tryin’ to say, Dutch?”

“I’m sayin’ this place has served its purpose.” Dutch’s eyes gleamed in the firelight, alight with that old conviction. “We’ve had good times here, but it’s time to move on. Before things sour an’ before the law gets too close for comfort.”

Arthur exhaled through his nose. Camps never lasted—peace was always borrowed, never owned. “Where to?”

“That’s what we gotta figure out.” Dutch smiled then, slow and deliberate.“Somewhere quiet. Somewhere the law ain’t already got its hooks in.” He paused, studying Arthur like he was weighing something. “I was thinkin’ you and Charles might ride out soon. Take a look around to see what you can find.”

Arthur’s ribs protested at the thought, a dull warning flare beneath his skin.

Still, habit kicked in before sense could and Arthur was an old dog, after all. “Soon as I’m able.” Dutch’s hand came down on his shoulder again, firm, and reassuring. Happy and comforting in a possessive manner. “That’s my boy.”

Arthur nodded once, the motion careful, contained. The words settled into him the way they always did—heavy, familiar. That’s my boy. Praise and command wrapped up neat as twine, tightening the same old knot in his chest. He told himself it was pride he felt. That warm, dutiful swell. Told himself the ache in his ribs was the only reason his breath hitched.

It had nothing to do with his injury; still swollen and burning something ugly when he moved too sharply, or the feeling of Charles’ gaze fixated on him from the sidelines of camp. He wanted to talk, he always did. Arthur wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to him. After all this time, what was there left?

Dutch followed his gaze briefly, then smiled again, unaware, or maybe unwilling to see the tension threading the air. “Get some rest tonight,” he said. “We’ll talk more when you’re stronger.”

Arthur nodded. “Sure.”

When Dutch finally rose and moved off, swallowed by the firelight and voices, Arthur stayed put a moment longer. The night pressed in close, stars scattered overhead like pinpricks in black cloth. He tipped his head back, just enough to see them, and let the cool air fill his lungs.

For a fleeting second, he imagined choosing something else. Then the pain in his ribs flared, sharp and grounding, and reminding him of the price they all had to pay and the thought slipped away like smoke.

Arthur spent the next few days cleaning himself up and getting stronger before he planned to ride out with Charles. It wasn't ceremonial or dramatic, just the slow, stubborn business of surviving that he loathed. He rid his skin of weeks worth of grime and dried blood until the washing basin turned black, trimmed his beard down to something more respectable and allowed Ms. Grimshaw to cut his hair back some. She admired her work when she was done and praised his good looks, Arthur didn't much believe her.

He learned the limits of his body the hard way: how far he could bend before the pull in his ribs went sharp, how deep he could breathe before the ache flared hot and mean. Each morning he woke a little steadier and every night he slept a little longer, absent of nightmares and ghosts haunting him.

He walked the perimeter of camp when his legs would allow it, stopping often, pretending to admire nothing in particular when the pain demanded he sit. People nodded at him like he was something returned rather than something broken. Karen pressed food into his hands. Tilly scolded him for favoring his side. Jack trailed after him like a shadow until Abigail called him back, and Arthur found he didn’t mind the watchful eyes nearly as much as he thought he would.

By the third day, Arthur could mount his horse without seeing stars. By the fourth, he could sit in the saddle for an hour without shaking. It wasn’t strength yet but it was enough to pretend. Enough to convince himself he was ready.

On the fifth morning, Arthur buckled his gun belt a notch looser than usual and told himself it didn’t matter. He found Charles by the hitching posts, checking his tack with the same quiet focus he gave everything else. The air was cool, the sky pale and open, and the road ahead felt long in a way that made Arthur’s chest tighten for reasons that had nothing to do with his injury.

“Guess we oughta get goin’,” Arthur said, quietly.

Charles looked him over once. Thorough, assessing, and honest. Then he nodded, eyes flickering away from him. “Yeah,” he replied, “Let’s ride.”

The outlaw was already counting the ways this little trip of theirs could go wrong, and Arthur's wounds were the least of his worries. He liked Charles well enough and respected him more than most folks around camp, but he was also exclusively aware of what his hands felt like on him, petting him, hot breath fanning against his neck. How was he supposed to brush all of it aside?

Apparently it was easier for Charles, who barely looked at him with more than careful consideration or quiet observation. Arthur wished he would come out and beg for him back right then and there, a more rational part of him understood exactly what was wrong with that.

They rode out slow, the camp thinning behind them until the sounds of it—laughter, clatter, the low murmur of voices faded into nothing but wind and hoofbeats. Arthur kept his eyes forward, posture stiff in the saddle, every movement measured.

The road was packed dirt at first, forgiving enough, but even that sent a steady ache crawling up his side. Charles didn’t say anything. He just set an easy pace, one that didn’t ask too much of Arthur without making it obvious he was being accommodated. Arthur noticed anyway, he always did.

They passed through a stretch of trees where the light broke up into narrow bands, gold and green striping the ground. Arthur breathed a little easier there, the shade cooling the sweat at his back. His horse flicked an ear, restless, and Arthur tightened his grip on the reins, grounding himself in the familiar weight of leather and muscle beneath him.

He patted the side of Red's neck, mumbling praise to her as they went. They rode on like that for a time, the silence stretching and breathing between them. Not awkward, but weighed down with all their unresolved feelings. Arthur found himself acutely aware of every shared rhythm, the synchronized rise and fall of their horses’ shoulders, the way Charles’s reins creaked faintly with each step, the steady cadence of his breathing.

It was maddening how familiar it all felt. How easy it would be to slip back into something that had once existed without question. Arthur forced his gaze forward. He focused on the trail, on the bend of it as it curved toward open country again. He forced himself to think of anything but the memory of Charles’s hands, sure and grounding, or the warmth of him at Arthur’s back on cold nights when words hadn’t been necessary.

They broke from the trees into a stretch of scrub and tall grass, the sky opening wide above them. The sun sat higher now, bright enough to bathe the earth in a hot spell. Arthur shifted again in his saddle, slower this time, and hissed softly through his teeth before he could stop himself.

“Charles,” Arthur hated the way his voice strained around his name, over the sound of galloping hooves against the earth. “I gotta stop a minute.” He slowed Red down to a trot and Charles followed without much question or ceremony. Arthur was thankful for that.

Red strode off the path and into the thicker grove at Arthur’s urging, branches brushing his shoulders, leaves snapping softly underhoof. The shade closed in around them, green and cool and private. Arthur slumped forward in the saddle the moment they were out of sight, breath hitching as the ache in his side flared sharp and mean.

He was vividly aware of Charles reining in his horse behind him; the quiet jingle of tack, the soft thud of boots hitting dirt. Charles didn’t rush him, didn’t call out. He just came close enough that Arthur could feel him there, solid and watchful and waiting to assist him should anything happen.

Arthur slid down from Red with more stubbornness than grace, landing heavier than he meant to. The impact knocked a sound out of him, half a hiss, half a curse. He bent at the waist, one hand braced on his knee, the other pressed hard to his ribs like he might hold himself together by force of will.

“Damn it,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. Charles wasn't far behind, in the corner of his mind he heard the hunter dismounting his horse— noted the leaves and brush snapping underneath his heavy steps as he made it his mission to be at Arthur's side, no matter how hard he pushed him away or rejected the idea… Charles always came back. Waiting.

It wasn't fair to him.

Charles reached out and steadied him without fanfare, palm firm at his back. Arthur let himself lean in, forehead dipping until it rested against Charles’s shoulder, the fabric of his shirt warm beneath his skin. He shut his eyes, breathing through it, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He focused on the smell of cedar and sage coming from Charles instead of the flash of pain licking up his ribcage.

“Arthur,” Charles said his name with an edge to his tone, a warning maybe. However, his hand at the small of his back remained, firm and unmoving as ever. He shifted, leaning into the much taller, broader man and Charles didn't tell him to stop— if anything, he welcomed the close proximity. After weeks of being starved out, it felt something akin to coming home again.

Charles pulled away first, not enough to part from the outlaw completely, but he needed to look at Arthur's face. Some part of him was compelled, by whatever force, to need Arthur's eye contact and full attention. All the while, he had no idea what to make of it. “You feelin’ dizzy too, or just hurt?”

Arthur's skin felt clammy and hot, he closed his eyes for a moment. “Both,” He said finally, when his chest felt free of butterflies and ideas. “Can't have one without the other, kinda goes hand in hand these days.” When he opened his eyes again, Charles was close and watching him.

“You should be healed by now,” He stated simply, gaze roving over him out of a place of concern and intimacy only they understood. Arthur did his best not to let his words dig at him, he felt enough like he wasn't living up to Dutch's expectations— he couldn't pretend to be able to live up to Charles’, as much as he wanted to.

Arthur huffed, uncomfortable by his own conflicting desires. “I've survived worse.”

He watched something between exasperation and frustration flicker across Charles’ expression, and his hands tightened around Arthur for a brief pause. “Maybe, but you ain't gotta throw yourself onto a saddle before you're all the way back to recovered to prove something.”

“I ain't trying to prove anything—” Arthur stepped back to put distance between them but Charles followed, never imposing himself onto Arthur with force, but crowding him until his back was pressed against the broad trunk of a forest tree. He wanted to argue back, to plead his case, but Charles’ expression stopped him in his tracks.

For a moment Charles leaned in and Arthur thought he might press their lips together and he found, surprisingly, shamefully— that he wanted him to. The soft, plush bed of his lips that Arthur remembered never came. Instead, Charles leaned their foreheads together; somehow more intimate than any kiss or bedding of women he had ever experienced.

“You're as stubborn as a mule, Arthur Morgan,” Charles’ voice was low and husky from his chest, scratching a particular itch in Arthur's brain. “And I won't watch you kill yourself for Dutch— I can't, not now. Not after everything.”

Arthur felt panicked by his response, by the hidden meaning behind them. It was only last week he accepted that their time was finished, that Charles wanted nothing to do with him and his burdens. Now… Now he wasn't so sure about anything anymore.

“So what? You're sayin’— sayin’ that you're leaving The Gang?” He hadn't meant to sound so unsure or gruff, in truth, what he was afraid of most was pushing anymore people he cared about away. Maybe he had finally pushed too far.

He felt Charles’ large hand at the back of his neck, squeezing gently, prompting a strained noise from Arthur's mouth. “I'm not leaving, I got nowhere else to go. I'm saying I can't do this— with you.”

Arthur visibly deflated with dejection at his words. It reminded him of proposing to Mary, of being told he wasn't good enough for the woman he loved with everything he could possibly give her. But it wasn't enough, it was never enough when Dutch owned his soul. His family had already paid the price once, Mary was lucky enough to get away when she did.

“I can't do halves with you, Arthur and I know I can't stand here and watch while you die for a man who couldn't even bring himself to be at your bedside while you were dying.” Those words dug under his skin and hooked into his soup, Charles wasn't trying to hurt him, he was simply being honest and truthful which is all Arthur could truly ask of him anymore. “I can't compete with Dutch, he has his hooks in you deep.”

Arthur felt flustered and caged, emotion gathered in the middle of his face and he couldn't escape Charles— his warmth, the smell of his musk or the gentle, near teasing brush of his nose against Arthur’s. It was torturous, if Arthur's body and mind weren't frozen in fear and defiance and something else entirely. “That ain't fair.” He practically groaned, his chest hurting quite awful like.

“I know,” Charles exhaled, sounding genuinely upset as the firm press of his weight slowly left Arthur to give him breathing room he didn't exactly want. A hand remained at Arthur's elbow while Charles guided him back to his horse. “But I don't see another way, I’m sorry.”

He watched Arthur a while longer, maybe he thought he would break— he was determined not to. Not until he was alone, shrouded in darkness in the emptiness of his tent, once again reminded that he was not something to be loved long-term.

“I don't see any bleeding from the injury site, how's it feel?” Charles tacked on, a sore attempt to spread some sort of balm over their unfortunate circumstances. Arthur's hands gripped the horn of his saddle while he propped his heel up on the stirrup, he felt numb even as he pulled himself up and into Red's saddle.

“It's fine.” He all but gritted out, still trying to convince his thundering heartbeat to come down a few notches while gripping the reins of his horse. He felt carved out and hollow, similar to how he felt holed up in his tent recovering for weeks.

Charles nodded, inclining his head. “We should keep going, Dutch wants the camp on the move as soon as possible.”

Arthur agreed with a nod, gaze lingering before he mounted Taima and clicked his tongue at her, quietly prompting her back into a gallop. He watched Charles go for a moment, then another, and finally nudged his heels into Red's flank.

“C'mon girl.” Arthur prompted, with more care and affection than he ever cared to admit in his voice.

And then he chased after a good thing he had let slip from his fingertips one too many times.