[3] Red River Valley

For a long time, my darlin', I've waited

For the sweet words you never would say

Now at last all my fond hopes have vanished

For they say that you're going away

Then come sit by my side if you love me

Do not hasten to bid me adieu

Just remember the Red River valley

And the cowboy that's loved you so true

— Red River Valley

Marty Robbins

Arthur thought he knew peace on crisp, early mornings where a single shaft of sunlight peaked in the lean-to, washing part of his cheek or forehead in a streak of orange. He thought he knew peace on quiet, easy fishing trips where the only sound around for miles was the noise of fish splashing around. He thought he knew many things before.

Before this thing with Charles — now blackened over and simmering like the coals of a dying fire. Before him, Arthur didn't question his place; he understood his purpose, his role, and made peace with it long ago.

Now, sitting fireside with his fellow camp dwellers, he felt restless, shifting his weight from side to side and glancing over his shoulder more often than he cared to admit. He felt on edge, unable to find rest or anything remotely close anymore.

It made running jobs and errands for Dutch easier; he didn't have to think or feel or concern himself with issues of morality whatsoever. Recently he felt more and more like nothing mattered at all.

Fortunately for Dutch, that meant that Arthur asked little to no questions and was still just as efficient with his work. He got his best results pulling off jobs, robberies and crime the like where he didn't have to think of anything but the treasure waiting for them at the end. Nothing made Dutch happier than a chest full of coins, jewels and a pocket full of hard cash.

The fire burned low, always being manned and tended to throughout the day should they need to cook or disinfect medical equipment. Mostly so fools like him and Lenny, with nothing better to do could find some comradery while day drinking.

It wasn't typical of Arthur to act so out of character; reckless and sloppy wasn't his style— hadn't been since he was a young man now. However, having too much time on his hands did nothing but cause him pain, he figured he might as well be of some use instead of sitting around, rotting.

How useful he would actually be by the time they were done was highly debatable.

“Arthur!” Dutch called from across the camp, his voice carrying like a breeze over to him. When he parked himself next to Arthur, he half expected Dutch to present him with a high stakes train robbery or a quest for revenge. Instead, when he stopped short of their campfire, Dutch took up Arthur's left side quietly, unlike himself. “You busy?”

Arthur, slightly buzzed, raised an eyebrow, “Depends.”

“Humour me, son.” Dutch levelled him with a look Arthur recognized from childhood. Pointed and exasperated in a fatherly manner, perhaps he was more like him than he wanted to admit. “Wanted to see if you were up for a fishin' trip? You, me, and Hosea— like old times.”

“Fishin’?” Arthur scoffed like he didn't believe him. “What are you really up to?”

The corner of Dutch's mouth hitched upwards in fond amusement, reserved for these small moments between the two of them. “You're definitely Hosea's kid. Lemme ask you something; have I ever led either one of you astray?”

Arthur thought of Blackwater, he thought of dragging Davey down a snowy mountain into Colter and Jenny, all people they'd seem to have forgotten along the way. He thought of every trap Dutch had willingly walked them into and everyone they'd ever lost.

For a brief, harrowing breath, Arthur thought of Eliza and of his son Isaac, how his loyalty to Dutch had killed them in the end. He brushed his grief away and huffed instead, “Yeah? An’ what would Hosea say to that?”

Dutch barked out a laugh at his quick retort, a large hand slapping at his back. “You never mind that— I want to go fishing with my family, is that truly so horrible?”

Arthur considered him, after all, he didn't have any other plans for the day and he hadn't spent much of any quality time with either of them since long before Blackwater. “How'd you get Hosea to agree to leavin' camp for a few hours? Hard to get him anywhere these days.”

Dutch smirked at him, all twinkly eyed and smug. “Told him I missed ‘im.”

Arthur believed him, as rough around the edges as he may seem, Hosea was all fluff on the inside. If Dutch batted his eyelashes and spun something about missing him, he didn't doubt for a moment that Hosea would fall for it. They were close enough that Arthur spent a fair amount of time as a child, wondering why they never exchanged kisses or anything romantic of the sort, but perhaps there was more to the story than he wanted to know.

Dutch didn't wait for him to respond, instead he looked beyond Arthur and over his shoulder, apparently addressing someone else now that he was done with him. “We're gonna run out of food soon enough, while we're out fishin’ whatd'ya say you and Bill head out on a hunting trip?”

What Arthur didn't expect was Charles' voice, steady and calm as always to answer back, “Sure, Dutch.” It made Arthur feel unnatural, having Charles at his back while he was a raging storm of confliction regarding how he felt. Not that Charles seemed to want to give Arthur the time of day anyways– saying so much himself– but being around him didn't make things any easier.

“Good,” Dutch grinned, all toothy and beast like. “Gotta lot of hungry folks around here. Make sure you don't come back empty handed, Mr.Smith. Bill.”

Arthur didn’t turn around. He couldn’t, not yet. The idea of meeting Charles’ eyes while his thoughts were in such disarray felt like stepping into deep water without knowing how to swim. He felt unworthy in some measure; stuck between unknowing what Charles wanted from him and trying to live up to his expectations somehow.

Arthur had spent many sleepless nights going over Charles' words, overanalyzing his tone, the cadence— he heard the disappointment wrapped around each syllable.

“I'm not leaving, I got nowhere else to go. I'm saying I can't do this— with you.” He understood why— to the best of his abilities he chalked it up to not being enough, to the abnormality of their coupling to being a bad man. It didn't matter which road, none of them were worth following him down.

Arthur swallowed and forced the thought down where he kept all the others—locked away and dulled at the edges, made survivable in order to be able to wake every morning. He replayed Charles’ words so many times they felt worn thin, like a trail trampled past recognition. The pauses and the careful way Charles had chosen each sentence, like he was handling something that might bite him if he held it wrong.

Arthur had told himself a hundred different stories about what Charles meant; that it was timing, that it was fear, and it was the world being what it was and neither of them fitting cleanly inside it. But when he stripped all the excuses away, what was left sat heavy and undeniable in the pit of his chest.

Charles had seen a man who would always choose the leash if it meant staying close to his master; a loyal dog.

Arthur shifted on the log, the fire popping low in front of him. Somewhere behind him, boots scuffed against dirt while Charles and Bill moved off to saddle their horses. Arthur kept his gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight, hands clenched loosely around nothing at all.

He didn't look back, and wouldn't let himself.

“Arthur, you ready old friend?” Dutch's voice slashed through his thoughts, calling him to action as was typical of their cat and mouse game. “Sure.” He rose to his feet, dusted off his pants and fell into step alongside Dutch.

“My daddy died in a field in Pennsylvania, I ever tell you that?”

Arthur exhaled, a long, tired sound. “Many times..”

Dutch raised his eyebrows at him, expression frowning slightly as though Arthur had caused him disrespect. “I see I'm boring you, Arthur.”

He held his tongue for a moment, considering his next words carefully. Arthur always analyzed his words before speaking them into existence with Dutch, never free. Never truly himself. “Worrying me more like, we lost men back there.”

“We have lofty goals, Arthur. We're trying to reform society to a kinder, truer, better way, now of course there's gonna be casualties.” The hint of desperation in Dutch's explanation, the touch of defensiveness seeping through told Arthur he was journeying too far into enemy territory.

“We’re thieves… In a world that don’t want us no more.”

Dutch glared at him. “Old Hosea says that there’s a creek around here. I reckon it’s full of fish. Hey, old girl, come on down here, why don’t you show us this creek you been pissin' in?” On top of his literal high horse, Silver Dollar, Hosea was perched, waiting ever so patiently for his unruly family.“Hey, you don’t look too rosy, old friend. I thought this warmer weather would…”

At Dutch's call he scoffed, shaking his head. “My days of looking good are long over, Dutch.” Arthur ignored the spark of something long overdue and unspoken flickering between them and the long, silent looks they shared when they thought nobody was watching. “Always bubble bursting with you,” Dutch tsked, shaking his head from side to side as he swung onto The Count. “Come on, let's go fishing.”

Arthur mounted Red, mumbling soothing things into her ear as he urged her onwards after the two of them. They kept pace with one another a few yards ahead, whooping and hollering in the distance as they devolved into a race. For a moment he wondered why he was here, when it was clearly an excuse for them to spend time alone.

“Come on, Arthur!” Hosea called back and Arthur was reminded of how quickly Hosea was aging, how fast the whites in his hair had settled in and found himself wondering just how many more of these trips they had left together.

They spent most of the ride talking about ghosts and reminiscing, Dutch mentioned the early days of the gang more and more as of late, reminding Arthur that he was still that sniveling, shivering, feral child Hosea and Dutch took in. Still there; curled under beds and sleeping on the floor, unwilling to trust anything at first. Even his eventual fathers.

Arthur followed Dutch and Hosea through the trees, Red’s hooves soft on the leaf-strewn trail. The chatter of birds and the rush of a distant creek filled the spaces between words, carrying them along as Dutch and Hosea traded stories of old haunts and near-misses. Arthur listened, letting their voices wash over him like the river he was about to meet, though his thoughts kept drifting elsewhere.

He thought of Charles more often than he liked; how steady he had always been, how carefully he chose his words, and how sharply they cut when he finally drew his line. Arthur had spent nights turning over those words, dissecting each pause, each carefully measured syllable, wondering if he’d ever get it right, or if the gap between them had grown too wide.

And yet, here he was, riding beside Dutch and Hosea, sunlight filtering through the trees, the wind tugging at his coat. A small part of him felt grateful for the distraction, grateful for the rhythm of hooves and laughter that didn’t demand he consider the man who had walked away.

The creek finally appeared, gold and green in the late afternoon sun. Dutch and Hosea had already pushed a small boat into the water, and Arthur followed suit, helping ease it gently into the current. They settled into the boat, lines in hand, and let the river carry them a few yards downstream.

The hours passed easily, the creek a sanctuary of quiet and patience. Dutch’s stories shifted from gang exploits to the oddities of love and human folly, Hosea offering gentle commentary while Arthur listened more than he spoke. Occasionally, he’d prod lightly, a question about a plan or a notion of the heart, nothing confrontational, just a tiny finger in the window of conversation.

Dutch laughed at some, shook his head at others, and Arthur felt a small, steady warmth rising inside him; the kind that comes from being heard and from being able to hold a conversation that wasn’t only about survival or crime.

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine something different, something gentle and steady before shaking it off. It was fleeting, but the mere act of thinking it, of putting focus on it felt like defiance enough.

Eventually, Dutch shifted in the boat and clapped his hands together, the sun gilding his face. “I think we’ve done a fine haul for today,” he said, grinning wide and proud. “Pearson'll be happy!”

Arthur nodded, settling the lines into the bottom of the boat as Dutch and Hosea rose to their oars. They began the slow row back toward the camp shore, muscles working in a steady rhythm. Dutch glanced at him, a glint of amusement in his eyes.“The horses’ll find their way back,” he said, voice full of certainty. “They always do.”

Arthur exhaled, letting the motion of the oars and the gentle sway of the boat carry him forward. The creek faded behind them, the sun dipping lower, painting the trees and water in gold and purple. For a brief, unspoken moment, he allowed himself the quiet, the camaraderie, the feeling of moving forward, even if his heart still lingered in the past.

It was strange to find himself longing after something he couldn't have. Arthur was used to taking what he wanted; stealing or killing for his own greed was not a method he shied away from. Not if it was easier. Charles was silent about his decision, back to being distant, Arthur had forgotten what being held and cared for felt like.

They pulled the boat up onto the shore of their camp in Clemen's Point, anchoring it down so it didn't go missing with the tide. Dutch jumped out first, boots splashing shallow water, already talking about supper and Pearson’s gratitude like the day had been nothing more than a pleasant trip for food.

Hosea followed more carefully, joints stiff, movements slower than they used to be.

Arthur lingered a moment longer in the boat.

The quiet pressed in on him again once his feet hit the sand. Camp noises drifted over, laughter near the fire, the clatter of cookware, someone tuning a fiddle poorly but none of it reached him. He felt oddly hollow, like he was empty inside.

Longing sat poorly on him, it always had.

Arthur Morgan was not a man built for want without action. If he needed something, he took it. If someone stood in the way, he moved them or buried them. Wanting Charles, really wanting him, without being able to reach out and claim anything back, felt like a kind of sickness. One he didn’t know how to cure.

Charles hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t accused him. Hadn’t even looked particularly angry. He’d simply gone quiet again, retreating behind that calm, watchful distance Arthur had once mistaken for patience. Arthur had almost forgotten how it felt to be held in that steadiness—how Charles’ presence could slow his breathing, ground him in a way nothing else ever had. Losing that felt worse than losing a fight. Worse than losing money.

Worse than the blood on his hands.

Arthur dragged a hand over his face and helped Hosea secure the rope. “I’ll bring the fish up,” he muttered, hoisting the haul over his shoulder. Dutch was already halfway back toward camp, calling something cheerful over his shoulder, confidence unshaken as ever.

As Arthur stepped fully onto shore, his eyes flicked instinctively toward the far edge of camp, towards the spot Charles usually favored, away from the noise.

Empty.

His chest tightened, just a little. Maybe he was out scouting, maybe he was still busy hunting. Arthur told himself a dozen small lies in the space of a heartbeat, each one thin and sounding less believable. He dropped the fish near Pearson’s prep table and straightened slowly, scanning again.

Still nothing.

Bill wandered past, rifle slung loose and grin easy, looking far too comfortable for someone who was supposed to have been riding out earlier. Arthur watched him go, the unease settling heavier in his gut.

Charles wasn’t here.

And Arthur had the sinking feeling that whatever distance had grown between them while he was gone had only widened in his absence. With fear driving his actions he followed Bill, managing to corner him by his lean-to, shared with Javier.

“Bill.”

Bill startled, hand flying instinctively toward his belt before he recognized him. “Jesus, Arthur— you tryin’ to get shot?”

Arthur thought of that night, all those months ago when Charles had first saved him from Bill. The outlaw grabbed the front of his shirt and shoved him back against the lean-to pole hard enough to rattle it. “Where’s Charles?”

Bill blinked, surprised more than angry. “What?”

Arthur leaned in, forearm pressing into Bill’s chest, voice low and rough. “Don’t play dumb with me. You was supposed to ride out with him. You obviously didn't or you left him, so where is he?”

Bill scoffed, trying for bravado, but it cracked around the edges. “Hell if I know. He said he didn't want to go with me,” He sounded slightly defensive, maybe offended by Charles’ dislike of him. At Arthur's expression, he shrugged his shoulders. “Said it was a difference in personalities— he wanted to go alone, I wasn't gonna stop him.”

Arthur stepped back at last, the anger draining out of him in a slow, sickening pull, leaving something hollow behind. He scrubbed a hand over his face, thumb dragging hard across his mouth.

The outlaw turned away, boots carrying him on instinct alone, past the fire, past familiar faces that blurred together. Camp felt wrong; too tight, too close, every tent a reminder of how Charles had once fit into this place beside him. How easy it had been to believe he would stay.

He wanted to go alone.

Arthur swallowed hard, chest aching. He had always been good at letting people leave. Good at standing still while they walked away. This time, though, the thought of Charles somewhere out there, quiet, deliberate, choosing distance instead of whatever they had together was unbearable.

For the first time in a long while, Arthur Morgan didn’t know whether his blind loyalty would save him, or cost him the one thing he hadn’t meant to lose. He was frozen, torn between watching the horizon and hitching up Red to go and find him. Even if he turned up perfectly fine, at least Arthur could rest knowing nothing was wrong. Still, Charles asked for distance, Arthur had a duty to respect his wishes.

“Arthur!” Dutch called from across the camp, beside him Trelawny matched his gait, striding towards him like two snakes. “Come over here, Josiah has got some wonderful news for us.”

He listened, dragging his hesitant feet all the way to Dutch's tent. Inside, it smelled of cigar smoke and old paper. Maps were spread across the crate between them, weighed down with tin mugs and stones. Trelawny was already talking, hands moving as much as his mouth, painting a picture of stage routes and careless guards, of opportunity just begging to be taken.

Arthur stood where Dutch motioned him, arms folded, gaze dropping to the map without really seeing it. To his credit, as it usually turned out, Trelawny did have information and leads worth their time.

Some of the jobs he had lined up were small and up Arthur's alley like robbing poorly manned stagecoaches and lonely travellers. Other jobs like running scams on rich folk and talk of robbing banks escaped him, Arthur hoped Dutch had more sense than that.

Dutch paced as Trelawny spoke, boots soft against the dirt floor, stopping now and again to lean over the crate and tap a finger against a penciled mark. Hosea listened from his seat, quiet as ever, eyes sharp beneath his hat brim. Arthur caught him watching—not the map, but Arthur himself. “Plenty of coin to be made without makin’ too much noise,” Trelawny went on brightly. “Routes here and here,” He tapped the map. “–predictable as sunrise, a couple of hired guns at most. Easy in, easy out.”

Arthur nodded when the pause demanded it, though his thoughts kept slipping sideways, snagging on the absence that pressed in on him from all directions. The flap of the tent stirred in a breeze and he half-expected, half-hoped to see Charles’ silhouette pass by. It didn’t.

Dutch straightened, hands settling on his hips. “See? We’re turnin’ a corner here. Smarter jobs means less blood.” His gaze flicked to Arthur again, expectant. “Ain’t that right?”

“Sure,” Arthur said, the word coming out hollow. “Long as we don’t get greedy.”

Dutch’s mouth tightened for just a second before he smiled again. “Greed ain’t the same as ambition, son.”

Hosea cleared his throat. “Let’s not put the cart before the horse. We’ll pick one job. See how it feels.”

Eventually the talk wound down, the plans folded and tucked away for later. The map was stored away safely and Dutch asked him not to say anything to anyone as of yet, he wanted to be the one to share the news.

Arthur had no qualms against that, he stepped back out into camp with the sense that time had slipped through his fingers while he wasn’t looking, leaving him antsy and unable to sit still. He was waiting for better news—more important news that Charles had made it home safe, why was nobody else concerned?

Restless, he walked around the edges of camp, never quite folding himself into the fray no matter how much he was beckoned or pursued. Arthur enjoyed walking the perimeter of camp at night while the others took solace in each other's company. When he looked out amongst their camp, he was still unable to count Charles as part of their numbers.

Arthur rounded the far edge of camp where the lantern light faded and the ground sloped toward the hitching posts. The horses shifted and snorted softly as he approached, their shapes looming dark and patient. He scanned them out of habit; checking their tack, counting heads, reinforcing their leads so they couldn't get away in the middle of the night, though he understood their temptations.

At the end of the lineup, Arthur drew short. Taima stood tied a little ways from the rest of the horses, reins looped neat and unfamiliar— a craftsmanship he didn't recognize as Charles’ at all. A cold weight settled in his gut as his gaze caught on her alone, he hoped it was simply a trick of the light or his mind playing tricks.

He took a step closer, the low-burning lamplight catching her coat as she lifted her head and huffed softly, recognizing him. Arthur reached for her without realizing it, fingers curling into her mane as if to steady himself. Charles would never leave her like this; not without setting down a fine stack of hay for the night and filling up the water trough for all the magnificent beasts.

Arthur swallowed and forced himself to move, hand sliding from Taima’s mane as if the contact burned. He looked her over properly then—saddle settled wrong, cinch looser than Charles ever left it, bedroll missing. The kind of small, careless details that didn’t mean much on their own, but together felt like a fist closing around his lungs. “Where’s your rider, girl?” he murmured, voice barely there.

Taima shifted her weight and bumped her nose against his shoulder, impatient, trusting. The gesture made something twist sharp and ugly in his chest. Arthur straightened and looked back toward camp. Lantern light flickered between tents, voices rising and falling in easy conversation. Life going on. He took a breath and stepped away from the posts, patting Taima in a silent promise to return to her.

Arthur’s boots crunching softly over dirt as he headed back toward the noise. “John?” he called, keeping his voice level.

John glanced up from where he was crouched near the fire, cleaning his rifle. “Yeah?”

Arthur folded his arms against his chest, forcing his voice to stay level over his shoulder. “You seen Charles tonight?”

John frowned and considered his words a minute. “Uh no. I ain’t, actually. Why? Need him for something?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “If Charles ain't here, who tied his horse up?”

John blinked. “She was wanderin’ near the trees. Thought he might’ve gone off on foot. Figured I’d do him a favor, tack her up.”

Arthur stared at him. John’s confusion looked genuine, wide-eyed and a little slow to catch on. That almost made it worse. “Where Taima goes, Charles goes— he wouldn't just abandon her.” Arthur said quietly.

John shifted, uneasy now. “Well… maybe he had a reason?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He turned away before his face could give him away, before the anger and fear could spill out where everyone could see it. How would he expect John to think of anything beyond his own nose? Abandoning your family — John Marston was real comfortable with that, so Arthur didn't expect him to understand or the patience to make him.

He returned to Taima feeling like a fool. Up close, the details felt louder. The cinch sat wrong, not snugged the way Charles always left it. One of the straps was twisted, careless. Arthur’s hands moved automatically, fixing what shouldn’t have been wrong in the first place, fingers trembling despite himself.

“Sorry, girl,” he murmured, resting his forehead briefly against her neck. She shifted, warm and solid beneath him, utterly unconcerned. Trusting.

That simple action made his chest ache.

Arthur straightened and looked out past the hitching posts, toward where the camp thinned into trees and shadow. The night stretched wide and quiet beyond the lantern light, full of places a man could disappear into by choice or by force.

He thought of Bill’s shrug. Difference in personalities — Arthur was left to wonder if it was his fault Charles decided to go alone instead of having capable company.

He thought of Charles’ voice, steady even when it hurt, deep brown eyes gazing at him, devastatingly handsome.

“I can’t do this—with you.”

Arthur exhaled hard through his nose. Maybe Charles had wanted space, maybe he’d walked off to clear his head, to put distance between himself and everything Arthur represented.

Still, Arthur didn't believe that Charles would leave Taima.

Arthur tightened the last strap and swung up into the saddle, movements quick and sure despite the storm inside him. From up here, the camp looked smaller; contained, safe in a way that suddenly felt false.

He spared one glance toward Dutch’s tent, canvas glowing warm in the dark. Duty waited there for him, always had. Arthur steered Taima’s head toward the trees instead.

Whatever line Charles had drawn, whatever distance he’d asked for, Arthur couldn’t ignore this. Not when something felt this wrong. Not when silence pressed this hard against his ribs, against old wounds that made his chest ache.

He nudged Taima forward, and together they slipped past the edge of the lantern light, into the waiting dark until the forest swallowed them whole.

“Alright,” he murmured under his breath, more to himself than to the horse. “Show me where your man ran off to, girl.” Taima flicked an ear and veered slightly, following a narrow break in the brush Arthur might’ve missed on his own. He leaned forward, scanning the ground as they passed over it. He noted the small tells of disturbed soil; a scuff where a boot had slid. Another a few yards on, not rushed or panicked but not nothing, either.

Arthur’s chest tightened.

Charles always covered his tracks when he meant to disappear. That much Arthur knew, but even Charles couldn’t erase everything. Not when he was hurt; not when he was tired and not when he thought no one would come looking for him at all.

Arthur swallowed and pushed on.

With every step forward, his thoughts turned uglier; Bill’s drunken mouth, the hours gone unaccounted for, the way Charles had looked at him the last time they’d spoken—like someone already halfway gone, bracing for impact.

“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.”

Arthur had heard the words, he just hadn’t known how to stop being what he was.

The trail dipped, the ground growing rockier beneath Taima’s hooves. Arthur slowed her further, heart hammering now, senses stretched thin. He caught the faintest sound—foilage shifting, a breath pulled too shallow, maybe a curse.

“Charles?” he called quietly, the name barely louder than the wind. No answer came.

Arthur slid down from the saddle, leading Taima behind him as he moved on foot. It was growing dark enough that he could easily miss somebody needing help...or a corpse hunched over on the ground. Each step felt like walking toward a verdict, and as he rounded a stand of trees Arthur held his breath.

Charles was slumped against a fallen log, one knee drawn up, one arm pressed tight to his side. Blood darkened his shirt, tacky and black in the low light. His head lifted when Arthur stepped closer, eyes unfocused for a beat before they sharpened.

Arthur watched him reach for his hip in the darkness and he made quick work of coming into his view, holding up his hands as he approached, hoping Charles’ eyesight hadn't taken too much damage. “Easy, it's only me."

“Arthur..?” Charles sounded hoarse and uncertain of himself though he could hear the sound of relief wetting the edges of his tone.

“Yeah,” Arthur answered, dropping to a knee in front of him, fingers aching to reach out. “It’s me.”

Charles let out a slow breath, tension bleeding from his shoulders as his hand fell away from his holster. He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded like it hurt so bad. “Thought maybe I finally hit my head hard enough to start seein’ things.”

Arthur swallowed hard, eyes tracing the blood at Charles’ side, the way he was holding himself together through sheer will and determination. “Don’t joke,” he muttered, distastefully. “You’re hurt.”

Charles’ mouth twitched like he was amused by Arthur's chastising. “You noticed.”

Arthur reached out then, careful, one hand hovering– hesitating, before settling on Charles’ shoulder; solid and real. “You’re alive.” He said, the words coming out rough, and breathless and slightly ecstatic.

Charles’ gaze softened, just a fraction for him. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Reckon I am.”

Arthur leaned closer despite himself, forehead nearly brushing Charles’ temple as he exhaled shakily. Relief hit him hard enough to make his hands tremble. “You scared the hell outta me,” he admitted, voice low and raw.

Charles closed his eyes for a brief second, seeming to forget all that transpired between them as he leaned his head against him. “Wasn’t my intention.”

Arthur tightened his grip without thinking, holding him there, careful of the wound, but unyielding all the same. Just a second longer, just long enough to convince himself this was real, that Charles wasn’t already slipping away again.

“Arthur…” Charles started, voice thin, warning or protest—he couldn’t tell which.

“I know,” Arthur cut in softly, stubborn with a racing heart. "Just gimme a minute to catch my breath here."

He pressed his forehead to Charles’ hair, eyes closing, breathing him in. If he let go now, the fear would come rushing back in full force. If he let go, all the words he’d swallowed would claw their way up his throat.

Charles could’ve been dead, lying cold and alone out here while Arthur sat by a fire, listening to Dutch spin plans about tomorrow, about another dream they weren't ever going to make reality.

Arthur drew in a steadying breath and finally eased back, hands still braced on Charles like he was afraid the world might take him the instant he wasn’t holding on. “We gotta move on from here, can't have you bleedin’ out all night.” He muttered under his breath and propped his arm underneath Charles’, focused entirely on helping him to his feet and not the hard press of his body or the warmth radiating from him. “Can you ride?”

Charles nodded once, breath tight. “Proabably. Just… not well.”

“That’s fine,” Arthur hummed, distractedly. “I’ll do the work.”

Arthur led him back to Taima, movements slow and deliberate. He mounted first, settling into the saddle, then reached down and guided Charles up in front of him, arms firm around his waist as he lifted. Charles stiffened for half a second, surprised, maybe, but Arthur didn’t give him time to argue.

“Easier this way,” Arthur said quietly, close to his ear. “I can keep an eye on you.” Charles exhaled and leaned back, careful, letting Arthur steady him. Arthur adjusted his hold, one arm braced across Charles’ middle, the other guiding the reins, every muscle taut with attention and care.

“We going back?” Charles asked from below, making Arthur tighten his arm around him instinctively. Taima stepped forward when Arthur clicked his tongue, slow and sure. Charles’ head tipped back just enough to rest against Arthur’s shoulder, his weight warm and real and distracting above everything else.

“No, Rhodes ain't far from here,” Arthur mumbled as steady as his strength would allow him, given the circumstances. “Rhodes?” Charles grunted as he patted Taima's side, murmuring sweet praise to her as they rode along.

Arthur was more concerned about Charles’ wounds, he was still holding his hand against his side and with the night settling in, there was no hope of him being able to see what he was doing properly. “Yes– Rhodes, you need a doctor and lodgings for the night. Proper lodgings, not a cot on the ground.”

Arthur kept his voice low and even, knowing if he spoke too loud or wandered too far the whole damn situation might splinter apart.

Charles didn’t argue, which would've concerned him more if not for the blood loss and whatever else.

The road dipped into a shallow draw, moonlight breaking through the trees in pale ribbons. Arthur shifted his grip when Taima stepped down, feeling Charles tense against him, a sharp inhale pressed into Arthur’s collarbone. “Easy,” Arthur murmured without thinking, tone soft, wrapped around a promise. “I got you.”

Charles huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t catch halfway through. His fingers tightened briefly in Arthur’s sleeve before settling again at his side, already slick with blood Arthur didn’t want to think too hard about.

They rode on in silence for a stretch. The kind that stretches thin, full of things left unsaid because saying them would mean stopping or digging them up. Arthur could feel every shallow breath Charles took, the way his chest hitched when the horse jostled wrong. He adjusted again, angling his body to take more of Charles’ weight, even though his arm was starting to burn.

It didn't matter. Pain was familiar. This; this was something else.

“You should’ve waited,” Arthur said finally, not accusing, just tired. “Shouldn’t have been out there alone.”

Charles was quiet long enough Arthur thought he might’ve passed out, and his heart lurched hard enough it nearly climbed his throat.Then, quietly, perhaps a touch defensive, “Didn’t plan on it.”

“How unfortunate for you that Bill Williamson told me otherwise, Mr.Smith.” Arthur rallied, knowing that Charles had no other choice but to be honest with him now.

A noise of exasperation left the hunter, then a wince as he shifted atop his horse. “Didn't think he'd spill his guts.”

"A difference in personalities— he said." Arthur retorted, careful not to lecture Charles too deeply in his current state, but merciless otherwise. "Sounds like that was your plan all along."

Charles shifted against him, grumbling back, "Can you blame me?"

A noise between a scoff and a laugh fell from Arthur as they rode, Charles seemed perfectly content leaning back against him, potentially half-concious as they traveled towards Rhodes.

Before long, the town lights started growing closer, the smell of smoke and horses thickening the air. Arthur could feel Charles sag more with every minute, his strength leaking out of him in small, terrifying increments.

“Charles?” Arthur muttered, hot breath fanning against his ear, making him stir from his in and out state. “Try and keep your eyes open, just a little longer 'til we make it, Cowboy.”

Charles shivered, then nodded once, slow and careful as though he was fighting to stay conscious with him. “Trying."

Lantern light spilled out into the street, yellow and hazy, throwing long shadows across the packed dirt. Horses stamped and snorted at their hitching posts, riders calling out to one another over the din. A carriage rattled past, wheels clattering loud enough to make Charles flinch, his hand tightening in Arthur’s sleeve without thinking.

Arthur felt it immediately and leaned in closer, voice low. “Easy. It's okay, we're in Rhodes now, I ain't letting you slip away from me that easy."

A sign in the window of the Doctor's office told Arthur in plain, bold letters that the clinic was closed for the night, which did the pair of outlaws no favors at all. The next best option was getting Charles somewhere where he could rest for the night and Arthur could safely go over his injuries.

The saloon was alive—piano banging, laughter spilling through the open doors, someone shouting for another round. Arthur barely spared it a glance. He didn’t slow, didn’t look around, just guided Taima through the mess like it wasn’t there to begin with.

He turned Taima and headed straight for the nearest inn, its sign creaking softly in the evening breeze. Not unlike the Saloon, the place was busy, doors opening and closing, voices drifting out. Arthur had to narrowly avoid a drunken couple, falling all over one another as they stumbled into the crisp night but it was still quieter than the saloon.

Arthur swung down first, careful not to jostle Charles as he followed, one arm locked around him the second his boots hit the ground. Charles sagged into him more fully now, breath shallow, jaw set like he was grinding through every step.

“Almost there,” Arthur murmured, half to Charles, half to himself. A promise.

Inside, the noise dulled to a low hum—boots on floorboards, murmured conversation, the clink of glasses. Arthur didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate. He hauled Charles with him toward the barfront, already reaching for his satchel and his personal stash of gold hidden within it. “I need a room,” he said, firm and flat. “an’ I need it now.”

Whatever the clerk saw on them; blood, the way Charles was folded into Arthur’s side—it was enough that they didn't bother asking any further questions. “You want some help with your bath, Mister?” Arthur glared at the barkeep and the key to their room was slid across the wooden counter without another word.

Arthur swiped it and turned, steering Charles toward the stairs, his grip unyielding. “Just gotta get you upstairs,” he said quietly, reassuring. “Then we’ll figure the rest out.”

The stairs creaked under their weight, each step a careful negotiation. Arthur took them slow, angling his body so Charles didn’t have to twist, didn’t have to lift his feet any more than necessary. He felt every shallow breath Charles took, counted them without meaning to, held on like that was the only thing keeping him upright. Charles grunted halfway up, fingers digging briefly into Arthur’s coat. Arthur apologized immediately, knowing they had no time to stop or pause.

The hallway upstairs was narrow and dim, oil lamps casting long shadows that stretched and bent as they passed. Arthur found the room and fumbled the key in the lock with hands that had started to shake now that they were here, now that the urgency had nowhere else to go.

The door finally gave. Arthur nudged it open with his shoulder and foot while he half-guided, half-carried Charles inside. The room was plain with a bed, washstand, and a chair by the window—but it was warm, enclosed, safe. Arthur shut the door behind them with his heel and slid the bolt home before the silence could settle too heavily.

Only once they were behind closed doors did Charles’ knees buckle and he collapsed for real.

He caught him before he could fall, arms locking around him, one hand coming up hard between Charles’ shoulder blades while the other braced his weight at the hip. Charles let out a rough, broken breath and leaned into him without hesitation, forehead dipping to Arthur’s shoulder like he’d finally run out of fight. “Hey— hey,” Arthur murmured, steadying them both as he eased them a step farther into the room. “You're alright, I got you.”

Charles’ fingers fisted in Arthur’s coat, knuckles white as he latched on. His voice, when it came, was low and tight, stripped of its usual surety. “I don’t… feel so good.”

Arthur swallowed, jaw setting. He shifted his stance, wider, solid, letting Charles rest more of his weight against him. “I know,” he said quietly. “You been runnin’ on fumes a while now.”

For a moment, Charles didn’t move at all. Then, barely louder than a breath, “Thought I was gonna bleed out back there.” A pause. “Thought… I wasn’t gonna make it back.”

Something sharp twisted in Arthur’s chest. He leaned his head down, just enough that his mouth brushed Charles’. “You’re here with me,” he said, firm, like saying it might make it more real for both of them, “Ain’t lettin’ you go anywhere.”

Charles nodded once against him, a small, involuntary motion. “I was scared,” he admitted, like it cost him something to say it.

Arthur tightened his hold, thumb pressing slow, grounding circles into Charles’ back.

“That’s alright,” he said. “I was scared too— when I got back and you were still gone.”

He guided them toward the bed and eased Charles down to sit, but didn’t let go right away, staying close, one hand still anchored at his side like a promise. Charles stayed folded forward, breathing shallow, eyes shut.

“You’re tired.” Arthur said gently, a soft observation.

“Mm,” Charles hummed in agreement, unable to argue even if he wanted to. Arthur reached for his satchel and pulled free the spare clothes he’d packed, an overworn shirt of his and some pants—setting them within reach.

“We’re gonna get you cleaned up,” he continued, calm and methodical. “Change into somethin’ dry. Then I’m gonna take a look at that side, see what we’re dealin’ with.”

Charles cracked an eye open. “Doctor ain’t—”

“I know,” Arthur cut in, not unkindly but still with a sense of urgency that couldn't be missed. “Mornin’. Till then, you got me.”

That earned him the faintest huff of a laugh, quickly swallowed by a wince.Arthur stood, already moving to pour hot water into the basin, testing it with his fingers. He glanced back at Charles, voice softening. “You don’t gotta do much, just need you to stay with me, alright?”

Charles watched him for a long second, then nodded, heavy with exhaustion. “Alright.” he said, Arthur could do nothing but believe him.

Arthur turned back to the washstand, rolling up his sleeves, steadying himself. Fear could wait. Right now, Charles needed him and Arthur wasn’t about to abandon him.

Arthur set the washing basin on the chair and glanced down at the dark, sticky blood seeping through Charles’ shirt that made him grimace. He shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Damn it…” He wasn't completely unaffected by the scenario, if it wasn't for his own terror driving him onwards he was sure he wouldn't have made it this far.

Careful hands reached for the hem of Charles' shirt, tugging gently so as not to jostle the patient. “Gotta get rid of this, that okay?” he asked quietly, already anticipating the stiff wince or protest. Charles’ eyes flicked up, wary. “I-I don't think—”

“Don’t worry,” Arthur cut him off softly, firm but calm in the face of his uncertainty. “Ain't nothin' but necessary, I give you my word.” He started loosening the buttons, one by one, each tug slow, deliberate, keeping his body pressed lightly to prevent Charles from falling off the bed or shifting too much. Charles’ shoulders tensed, but he didn’t resist, just released a shaky breath and nodded.

He grabbed a cloth and dipped it in the warm water, wringing it out before holding it out to Charles. “Gonna get that blood cleaned off, nice and slow. You tell me if anything hurts too much.”

Charles flinched slightly as the cloth neared, but didn’t pull away from him. “I—thanks,” he murmured, voice faint and hoarse.

Arthur pressed the damp cloth to the wound at his side, careful, methodical, letting Charles feel the cool touch before he even tried to clean. “Easy now… easy,” he whispered, free hand brushing along Charles’ arm for comfort and reassurance.

Charles exhaled shakily, leaning just enough into him, trusting him enough to relax fractionally. “I don’t… usually let anyone do this,” he admitted quietly, a raw honesty Arthur wasn’t used to hearing.

Arthur only nodded, eyes focused on the task. “Well, you’re stuck with me tonight. Gonna make sure you get patched up, change into somethin’ dry, and rest proper.” He held Charles’ gaze briefly, letting him know he meant it. “Ain’t nothin’ happenin’ while I’m around.”

Charles allowed a small, tired smile, letting the tension bleed out just enough to breathe. “I reckon that’s alright then,” he murmured, half-awake.

Arthur leaned in closer to press the cloth with gentle insistence. “We’ll take it slow, you hear? Just stay with me.” Charles nodded again, eyes closing briefly as he leaned his head against Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur felt the weight of exhaustion and fear in him, and for the first time in a long while, let himself be entirely grounded in the moment. Right now, nothing else mattered but keeping Charles safe.

Arthur kept his hands steady, dipping the cloth into the warm water and wringing it just enough to be damp, not dripping. He pressed it gently against Charles’ side, careful not to aggravate the wound, and let the warmth do some of the work before starting to dab at the dried blood.

Charles tensed at the first touch, shoulders lifting as if bracing for more pain, but when Arthur murmured softly, “Easy… just slow,” he let out a shuddering breath and leaned closer into him. “I… didn’t expect anyone… to care,” he admitted, voice rough and small, sounding so unlike himself.

Arthur’s grip tightened slightly, just enough to ground him. The thought that Charles thought himself an expendable part of the gang, or not even part of it at all burned him to his core. “Gang's not always right or too smart about these things, you just worry about stayin' still for me.” His fingers pressed a little into Charles’ shoulder, steady, insistently reassuring.

Charles closed his eyes, tilting his head against Arthur’s chest. “I wasn't sure if I'd see you again.” He whispered, barely audible and sounding all kinds of emotional. Arthur pressed his forehead to the top of Charles’, inhaling the faint, tired scent of him. “I know,” he said quietly, voice low and firm. “Coulda ended up much worse. You're here now, with me."

Slowly, painstakingly, Arthur worked the cloth over the wound, cleaning carefully, keeping a hand on Charles’ back to steady him. Every flinch, every shallow breath, he felt it all, and he adjusted, pressed, murmured encouragements.

Once the worst of the blood was wiped away, Arthur rummaged around his pack for the bandages and salve he'd stolen from camp to wrap Charles up with. He didn't ask where it came from and barely flinched when Arthur began dressing his wound, doing his best to be considerate of Charles' current state.

For the most part, the Bowman was a perfect patient and when they were finally finished, Arthur retrieved the spare shirt he’d brought from his own collection. “Brought you some clothes to wear too, they might not fit perfectly on account of—” He stopped himself, before he said something along the lines of embarassing. “–well, I hope it does the trick anyways.”

Charles’ head lifted slightly, meeting his eyes with a quiet, sparkling amusement. “Thanks,” he said softly, voice hoarse.

Arthur managed a brief nod, exhaling slowly. “Don’t thank me yet. Just hold still, alright?” He helped Charles maneuver his arms enough so he could slide into the fresh shirt, keeping his hand lightly braced against him the whole time to anchor himself.

Once the shirt was on, Arthur allowed himself to exhale more fully, letting his hands drop to rest lightly against Charles’ waist. “There… that’s better. How are you feeling?” He threaded his fingers through oilspill hair, absentminded and wholly natural to Arthur.

“Like I could sleep a long time…” Charles leaned back against him again, exhaling shakily, and for the first time since that night, Arthur let himself just hold him, quiet and solid. Nothing else mattered but this—keeping him alive, keeping him here, safe, and still breathing.

“Sleep then,” Arthur prompted gently as he patted Charles’ hair, his wounds seemed surface level at best and the side that he seemed to be holding had stopped bleeding with timely pressure. Charles was lucky, it was purely blind luck that a bug was planted in Arthur's mind to look for him and it was blind luck had led them here.

The realization was daunting enough to rattle his bones, making his hold on Charles tighten exponentially. “You're safe with me Charles, I won't let anything happen to you."

Arthur felt Charles’ weight settle more fully against him, a slow surrender to exhaustion. He shifted them carefully, guiding him back “There you go,” Arthur murmured, bracing him, easing him down inch by inch until his back was pressed against the mattress. He didn’t let go; keeping a hand warm and steady at Charles’ side as he adjusted the pillows and drew him back until he was propped just enough to breathe easy without effort.

Charles’ eyes fluttered, unfocused now, lashes thick and dark against his skin. “Arthur…” he started, like there was something important he meant to say, something he didn’t quite have the strength to finish.

“I’m right here,” Arthur answered immediately, thumb brushing along his temple and over his eyebrow. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

That seemed to be enough. Charles nodded faintly, the tension in his jaw finally easing. His breathing evened out, shallow but steady, and Arthur stayed there, watching the rise and fall of his chest like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, elbow resting against his knee, one hand still curled around Charles’—feeling the pulse there, counting it, grounding himself in its persistence. Every beat felt like a mercy, like a second chance he hadn’t known he’d been granted.

The room was quiet but for the muted sounds of Rhodes outside the window, distant laughter, the rattle of wheels on cobblestone.

It all felt so close and so far away and none of it mattered to him as much as the man he was holding in his arms.

— 𐚁 —

The night passed quickly with little to nothing exciting happening, just as Arthur preferred. Other than Charles shifting and readjusting his positioning on the bed, he was not called to any serious action.

The night stretched on quietly, the world outside the inn moving at its usual, clumsy pace. Arthur stayed awake longer than he intended, perched on the edge of the bed, listening to the low hum of the town at night.

The creak of floorboards in neighboring rooms, the occasional stumble of drunken patrons trying to find their way back to lodgings, laughter and flirtations echoing down the hall, shouts that dissolved into the night. It was mundane and irritating in one sense, but grounding in another. Each small sound reminded him that life went on, that even in chaos, there were moments of quiet and rhythm to cling to.

He hadn’t moved once from where he’d settled, hand resting lightly on the sheet where Charles lay, the warmth of him still radiating through his fingertips. Every shift, every sigh from the man at his back, kept him tethered to the present. He thought about the hours of the past, the missions, the blood, the endless chase of obligations, and realized how exhausted he was—not just physically, but in every other way, too. But he also realized that keeping Charles safe, right here, right now, was the only fight that mattered.

By the time the first thin streaks of morning light crept through the curtains, Arthur’s eyes were heavy, but sleep felt untenable and impossible. He allowed himself to linger in the quiet, listening to Charles breathing, thinking about the miles they’d traveled, the foolish risks, the weight of the unspoken between them. It was dangerous to dwell too long on what could’ve been, but Arthur didn’t care.

When he finally stirred awake come proper morning, the air had warmed slightly, the sun spilling into the room in golden slices through the window pane. He moved to stretch and rise from the bed, unaware of when exactly he'd fallen in the same bed as Charles, only to realize the warmth at his back was not gone— or going anywhere for that matter.

Charles had somehow shifted in the night, finding him again, pressed close to his back and unwilling to leave. Two strong arms were looped around him, roped like chains, and Arthur felt the slow, steady thrum of Charles’ heartbeat against his own back.

Arthur exhaled softly, careful not to disturb him. The night had passed, quiet and ordinary in all the right ways, and now the morning promised something new. After all, Dutch was expecting him to rob those stagecoaches passing through town for him but for just a little while longer, he let himself savor the simple, grounding certainty of Charles’ weight against him.

Charles shifted behind him, a quiet sound in his throat, his grip tightening just enough to make it clear it wasn’t accidental or a subconscious movement in his sleep. Arthur felt it in his ribs, in the press of Charles’ forearm across his middle. The action was protective, instinctive, like he’d anchored himself there sometime in the night and decided Arthur wasn’t allowed to disappear.

The outlaw swallowed, throat tight, and stilled again rather than risk waking him too soon. For a man who’d asked for distance, a man that had ended their relationship, Charles sure held on like he was afraid Arthur might slip away in the night.

Arthur reached down slowly, carefully, laying his hand over Charles’ knuckles, brushing the rough edges of his fingers along his fingers. The skin there was warm to the touch, soft and alive. He felt the echo of last night come rushing back—the blood, the fear, the way Charles had sagged into him like he’d run out of fight. Arthur pressed his thumb lightly against Charles’ pulse, finding solace when its rhythm answered back in a steady thrum.

Charles moved behind him again, closer this time, his breath warm against Arthur’s shoulder. “You smell good,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and pain, words slurring just slightly with the early hour. “Are you staying?”

Arthur felt warmth lick up his bones, unfamiliar and forgotten with the amount of weeks and wasted hours between them. “If you like.”

“Mhm..” He squeezed Arthur, anchoring him to the bed. If it weren't for his injury, he doubted Charles would be reacting to him in such a way at all. While he may have been conflicted, there was no doubt in his mind that he missed Charles, more than he felt he was ever allowed to say. Still, the resolution in his expression while he announced that they were over was as fresh as ever in his mind. He couldn't just forget.

“We should be gettin’ you up and to the doctor, soon.” Arthur reminded him, eyelids feeling heavy again.

Behind him, Charles agreed with him in a sleepy murmur, “Soon.”

He attempted to fight against the weight against his eyes, slowly closing with fatigue as he melted back into Charles who seemed keen on petting and rubbing against him until he fell asleep with him. Maybe he was unwilling to leave the peace behind, Arthur didn't blame him whatsoever.

Arthur’s eyes closed somewhere between one breath and the next, the bed warm beneath him, Charles’ arm still heavy around his middle. The world narrowed to the steady rise and fall at his back, to the quiet certainty that for now, neither of them were going anywhere.

The knock came later—soft at first, then firmer.

Arthur stirred, blinking awake, his body protesting as he shifted. Charles groaned quietly behind him, tightening his hold for a second before loosening, still half-lost to sleep.

Another knock. A voice this time. “Arthur?”

Arthur stilled, and the walls began to close in on him. Once he was calm again, he carefully eased himself free of large, muscle bound arms— sitting up slow so he wouldn’t jostle Charles awake as he maneuvered out of bed. He glanced back once, Charles’ brow furrowed, breath shallow but steady, and began pulling on his boots and crossing the room once he was certain he was still breathing.

He cracked the door, John stood in the hallway, hat in hand, expression apologetic already. “There you are!” His brother practically shouted, making Arthur wince.

“Dutch sent me, says there’s a stagecoach comin’ through this afternoon that you were privy about?”

Arthur leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, lowering his voice. He felt his chest dance and twist with nerves. “Yeah, I know what Dutch wants me to do, but I'm tied up here. I can't— I can't leave, not now.”

John frowned, wholeheartedly confused. “Can’t or won’t?”

Arthur hesitated, considered his brother for a beat. Then, honest. “I can't, otherwise I would. You know that.”

John followed his gaze past him, into the room. Saw the rumpled bed. The shape beneath the blanket. Something in his expression shifted. “He hurt bad?”

“Bad enough,” Arthur said, ignoring the shame flooding his gut. John didn't seem to have any other emotion but concern for Charles, but what if he questioned why they were sharing a room at all? So many things had the ability to spiral out of control. “Doctor ain’t seen him yet.”

John sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Dutch ain’t gonna like this one bit."

“I know.” Arthur swallowed. “But this—” He gestured vaguely, helplessly. “This matters. I need you to trust me.”

John studied him for a long moment. After a lapse of silence, he nodded once. “Alright.” He clapped a hand to Arthur’s shoulder, firm and familiar. “I’ll tell him you’re laid up or drunk—or dead. One of the three usually works.” A crooked grin. “You owe me a drink for this.”

Arthur huffed softly, the knot in his chest slowly coming undone. “I’ll owe you two.”

“Damn right you will.” John tipped his hat and walked off down the hall. Arthur watched him go for a moment longer before he quietly shut the door and leaned back against it for a second, heart pounding—not with fear, but with something unfamiliar and sharp.

Choice. Freedom.

He crossed back to the bed and lay down again, careful, easing into the space Charles had left for him. Charles shifted instinctively, arm coming back around him without waking. Arthur watched him for a beat, quiet and patient, analyzing the details of his sleeping face with the pads of his fingertips.

“Charles,” He called gently, too soft to ever hope to penetrate through his dreams. Maybe he didn't want whatever this was to end. “You have to wake up, we gotta get you looked over, ‘fore you start to get a fever or worse, infection, you don't want that.”

He watched the corner of Charles' mouth twitch ever so slightly. “You really know how to talk sweet to a man, Arthur Morgan.” Hearing his name wrapped around Charles’ deep, half-awake brogue made his cheeks flush hot and he shook his head in fond disapproval to try and rid him of all the unholy thoughts that could possibly lead him to.

“Yeah, yeah. You're real funny, c'mon, the early bird gets the worm ‘n’ all that.”

Charles made a soft, reluctant groan, nuzzling closer into the curve of Arthur’s chest as if the pull of warmth and safety outweighed any thought of leaving it behind. “Don’t… wanna get up,” he murmured, voice rough and thick with sleep.

Arthur let out a slow breath, brushing his fingers lightly over the side of Charles’ face. “I get it," he said softly, voice low and patient. “But we can’t let this go, you hear? You’re lucky I found you when I did.” He pressed a brief kiss to the crown of Charles’ head, careful not to wake him fully, but enough to leave the warmth lingering.

Charles’ hand moved instinctively, brushing along Arthur’s ribs before settling lightly over his side, just enough to anchor himself. “Guess so,” he mumbled, half-lidded eyes staring at nothing, yet somehow entirely present in the moment.

Arthur smiled faintly, heart thudding in a quiet way. “Good,” he said. “Now, we’ll get you cleaned up, change your shirt, keep you from rotting away on me before we get you to the Doctor. After that, we can rest a bit longer. You’re not going anywhere fast, and neither am I.”

Charles’ chest lifted in a soft laugh, half-exhale, half-groan, before he leaned again into Arthur’s hold. “Fine, but you better not leave.”

“I won’t, you have my word.” Arthur promised, the weight of the vow settling between them. And for a while longer, neither moved, letting the sunlight creep across the room, letting the quiet hold them together.

Arthur waited until Charles had managed to shift upright, still leaning on him for support. “Alright, we’ll get you dressed proper,” he murmured, tugging the fresh shirt into place, then helping slide the sleeves over Charles’ arms. Pants followed, boots, hat—every motion deliberate and careful, a quiet rhythm of familiarity and patience. Charles swayed a little as he moved, his injuries and exhaustion still making themselves known, but Arthur’s grip on him was steady, unyielding.

“There,” Arthur said finally, stepping back to adjust Charles’ collar and smooth the crease from the shirt. “Ready for the streets of Rhodes. Don’t move too fast now, alright?” Charles grunted softly, a mix of fatigue and stubborn pride in the sound though he allowed Arthur to steer and guide him anyways.

Arthur hooked an arm gently under Charles’ and supported him down the stairs, careful of each step. The morning bustle of Rhodes was in full swing—horses’ hooves clattering on cobblestones, carts rolling, merchants calling out, townsfolk going about their routines—but Arthur barely noticed it.

Every step was calculated to keep Charles upright and stable. “I reckon ridin’ might do more harm than good,” Arthur muttered as he stepped onto the street. “Best keep your feet on the ground for now.”

They navigated the few blocks to the doctor’s office, Arthur keeping a steady hand on Charles’ back and side. A few townsfolk glanced at them curiously, some tipping their hats, but no one dared interrupt the careful, deliberate movement of the two men. Arthur pushed the door open and stepped inside, already reaching for his pockets.

“Doctor,” he said, voice firm but polite. “This man here needs to be seen before anything worse sets in. I’ll cover it, whatever it takes to get him looked at right now.” The doctor, a middle-aged man with graying hair and spectacles perched low on his nose, gave a nod of understanding. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s get him in.”

Arthur guided Charles towards the back of the clinic and into a chair, helping him sit before stepping back just slightly. Charles’ chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths. Arthur studied him, worry pressing against the edges of his calm.

“Think it’s just the fever and chills, maybe some early pneumonia,” The doctor murmured as he checked Charles over, pressing his stethoscope to his chest. “Nothing we can't fix with a few rounds of antibiotics, fluids and rest.”

“How much?” Arthur asked gruffly, with a sense of urgency neither of them understood. They had lost many people, Arthur had a few personal losses he wished to forget but he couldn't lose Charles. That much he knew. The man in the chair began to protest and Arthur shushed him with a look, when he pushed a gold bar from the inside of his coat into the Doctor's hands, he looked up at the outlaws in awe. “Will that cover it, Doc?”

“T-That should do just fine, Mr. Morgan's!” Charles glanced at him strangely but Arthur brushed the look aside. It was only when The Doctor shook Charles' hand, thanking him with the last name Morgan instead of Smith that he became genuinely suspicious. “Thank you!” He blubbering, “Thank you so much!”

When they were alone again, Charles took the opportunity to pounce. “What did you tell him?”

Arthur felt his face grow embarrassingly hot and a million different defenses rose to the surface. “It was the only way he'd let me in to see you…”

Charles cocked an eyebrow. “What was the only way?”

Arthur flushed red like a tomato, he buried his face in his hands and groaned, loudly. However, upon hearing the noise of genuine laughter— of joy escaping Charles’ at the notion of being regarded as his husband, well, Arthur decided his embarrassment was worth it; and grinned like an idiot behind his fingertips.

When he was finally able to face him again, he found Charles looking pleased by this information, expression sparkling with amusement and that secondary thing Arthur had yet to put a name to. There was still much that needed tending to between them, of that, he was certain. And yet, they were here and it felt easy. Not okay, but easier.

Arthur straightened slowly, dragging his hands down his face and clearing his throat like it might scrape the heat out of his cheeks. “Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, gruff as ever, though the edge had softened, considerably. “Was just… convenient.”

“Mhm,” Charles hummed, entirely unconvinced. He shifted carefully in the chair, wincing only a little as he settled back, eyes never leaving Arthur’s face. “Convenient,” he echoed, a smile still playing at his mouth. “You always were good at thinkin’ on your feet.”

Arthur snorted. “That so?” He moved closer again, instinct taking over, one hand settling at the back of the chair like he might steady it or Charles himself if needed. “Doctor says you gotta rest. Drink what he gives you and do what he tells you.” A pause, quieter this time. “I’ll stay as long as they’ll let me…Long as you'll have me.”

Charles’ expression shifted then, the amusement easing into something more earnest. “You don’t have to,” he said gently. “I know you got—”

“I want to,” Arthur cut in, firm but not sharp. His gaze held Charles’, unflinching. “Ain’t negotiatin’ that.”

Charles studied him for a long moment, then nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Alright,” he said, the word heavy with trust. “I won’t argue then.”

The doctor returned soon after with a glass of water, a bottle, instructions rattled off in a brisk but kind tone. Arthur listened to every word like his life depended on it, committing each one to memory. When Charles was helped back, settled with pillows and a blanket, Arthur took the chair beside him without hesitation.

The room grew quiet again, broken only by the faint sounds of the town outside and Charles’ breathing; still shallow, but steadier now. Arthur rested his forearms on his knees, leaning forward, close enough that Charles could reach him if he wanted. After a while, Charles did.

His fingers brushed Arthur’s sleeve, hesitant, then curled lightly into the fabric. “You really gonna play the dotin’ husband now?” he murmured, eyes half-lidded.

Arthur huffed, a low sound of reluctant amusement. “Careful,” he said. “Might start believin’ it.”

Charles smiled at that, not wide or teasing. Just soft and content. His grip tightened the slightest bit, then relaxed. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he said, already drifting off to sleep.

Arthur didn’t answer. He just stayed where he was, close and solid, keeping watch as the doctor had ordered. Outside, Rhodes carried on like nothing in the world had changed. Inside that small room, though, something had shifted in the quiet and Arthur intended to guard it as long as he was able.

It takes all of four days, just shy of a week before Charles is strong enough to be released from the Doctor's clinic. Arthur doesn't mind; at least he knows Charles is safe and being watched over, for now.

Not that he needs protecting by any means; Charles can hold his own ground better than any man he knows. Arthur just has a sneaking suspicion that something bad is coming— a nagging, dull blade digging at the back of his mind that won't let up. He chalks it up to paranoia for now.

While Charles is holed up resting and taking his medicine, Arthur takes advantage of the time to visit the Post Office and meet with Trelawny at the saloon. Dutch is still unhappy that his work horse hasn't returned to the stable, but Charles is a valuable member so he allows Arthur some discrepancy. He's just waiting to see how long it'll last, how long until Dutch's understanding is replaced with animosity and passive aggression.

His own injury, just barely a few months old burns and crawls with discomfort every now and again. A persistent reminder that Arthur wasn't as invincible as he liked to think, no matter how skilled or capable he was— eventually something was bound to catch up with him.

To Arthur's credit, he doesn't slow down or stop running Dutch's errands for him. He passed on messages for The Gang, picked up supplies, he even scooped up a new story book he thought Jack might like to read. He found himself looting and picking pockets at best, as long as he returned with something of value to Dutch the fallout wouldn't be as explosive.

He knows better than to draw Dutch's attention to him and Charles, especially while he goes over old plans and failed missions Dutch has sent them on with a fine-tooth comb. It's not an accusation brewing in the pit of his stomach, or a desire to fight or undermine anyone's authority. However, the ugly twisting in his gut skirted dangerously close to something very close to something of similiar taste.

Before he returns to the clinic he decides to bathe for both of their benefits, washing away the evidence of a productive day with his fingernails until he feels fresh again. In the back of his mind is the constant reminder that Charles deserves better than this, that deep down, if Arthur doesn't want to lose him— then he needs to do something about it. Soon.

The Lemoyne air is balmy and humid against his recently washed skin, making him grumble a string of grievances while making his way back to Charles. The Doctor's secretary acknowledges him with a tilt of her head when the door chimes open and shuts behind him, boots clunking against the floorboards.

She says nothing and he can't say for certain whether it's because she's afraid of him, or simply doesn't want to engage with the likes of him. He doesn't blame her. Arthur ducks into Charles’ room, it's quaint and claustrophobic for men of their size, but it does the job. At least here, under the Doctor's watchful gaze, he was safe from whatever Dutch had in store for their Gang next.

Arthur closes the door behind him with care, easing it shut so the latch doesn’t click too loud. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and clean linen, sharp and unfamiliar compared to camp smoke and sweat. Charles is propped up against the pillows, long legs bent off the side of the bed. He looks tired, a bone deep exhaustion Arthur knows all too well.

He's dressing slowly, breathing like the Doctor instructed. He looks better. When he sees Arthur, his expression softens, just a fraction. Relief maybe, or recognition painted across his face; like he knew Arthur would come back before the door ever opened.

“Took you long enough,” Charles says, voice dry but fond.

Arthur huffs at him, crossing the room in two strides. “Ain’t like I was sittin’ on my hands, somebody's gotta keep Dutch fed.” He sets his hat down on the bed, then stops, settling a hand on his shoulder. He hesitates before adding, quieter, “You doin’ alright?”

Charles gently prods him into the space between his legs and leans forward to wrap Arthur in an embrace. “I'm fine, you on the other hand look like you could use some sleep. You can't carry out Dutch's will if you pass out standin' up, you know.”

Quietly amused by his protective nature, Arthur hummed, “Yeah yeah, but you know what they say about makin’ deals with the devil, don't you Charles?” This prompts a smile from the larger of the two men, and for a quiet moment, Arthur is painfully aware of how much he's going to miss their time in Rhodes.

He leans his head against Charles’, drinking in the quiet warmth of their embrace, pressed flush against one another. “You shouldn't be trying to move around or sneak off— Doctor's orders, Mr. Smith,” Arthur chastised him gently, with a softness curling around his words especially reserved for him. “You're supposed to be taking it slow, not strolling the streets of Rhodes just yet.”

Charles tilted his head so he could arch a brow at him. “This is coming from the most stubborn man I have ever personally met.”

Arthur doesn't have much to say in retort, instead he slides his hands to Charles’ waist, thumbs tracing comforting patterns into his warm skin as though it's second nature to him.

"You left,” The Hunter added on simply, quietly, like the admission was dangerous. “I don't like being away from you for that long, stuck in here— not knowing anything, not even where I am.” He carded his fingers through Charles’ hair, his skin had long since lost its feverish slicking.

“I'm here now.” They stay like that for a moment—no rush, no need to fill the space. Arthur can feel Charles’ heartbeat through his chest, strong and even, and it eases something tight inside him. He shifts, resting more of his weight there than he probably should. Charles doesn’t complain. If anything, he adjusts to make it easier for Arthur to melt into him.

“Doc says you can go tomorrow morning,” He explained softly, Charles hummed against him, face pressed into his chest from their positions. “I cleaned out your room already, so we won't have to go back before.” Charles’ exhaled, a soft, strained noise that led Arthur to believing he was going to miss their short trip in Rhodes almost as much as him.

Charles was quiet for a long while. Not the kind of silence that implied distant iciness, or retreat, but the reflective, thoughtful kind that warranted more than a moment to steep in before rushing to a response.

His large, powerful hands paused in their roaming along Arthur's back, long enough to tip his head back. He recalled the moment several weeks ago when Charles claimed that he and Arthur wouldn't work, when he very plainly laid out his heart just to crush it under his boots.

Charles wasn't a cruel man, he was honest and honorable but not selfish or terrible like the rest of them.

“Arthur,” Charles called his attention quietly, the firelight caught in his eyes, made them look darker than usual. Older, and tired in a way that had nothing to do with the sickness or the lingering ache in his shoulder. He looked as beautiful as any dame Arthur had ever tried to bag.

His eyes glimmered with unspoken words—questions, he didn't want Charles to ask should he have no answer. Instead of asking him questions regarding their relationship he swung his legs back into the bed and scooted over, making a questionable amount of room on a cot meant for one person. “Will you stay tonight?”

Caught by surprise Arthur tilted his head in dazed confusion. “Huh?” Charles, amused by Arthur's thickness, patted his large hand against the vacant space beside him, inviting him to join. “Come on big guy, you look like you're about to give out any second.”

Spurred on by his casual, nonchalant nature, Arthur discarded his hat and boots in a pile on the floor before sinking into the space beside his lover. Arthur settled in beside him with a low grunt, the mattress dipping under his weight. The bed creaks in protest, narrow and unforgiving, but Charles shifts again to accommodate him without complaint, angling himself so Arthur has room to breathe.

Their shoulders brush. Their thighs press together. It’s close—closer than is strictly decent or polite, but neither of them make a move to separate from the other. “Reckon the Doc’d have a fit if he saw this,”Arthur mutters, staring up at the ceiling. Charles huffs a quiet sound, likely half-awake. “Doc ain’t here.”

That earns a crooked smile from Arthur. He turns onto his side, careful of Charles who still had time to worsen during the night. He draped an arm across his middle like it belonged there, his hand settles warm and familiar at Charles’ hip, thumb flexing once, absent-minded.

Charles’s breath stutters just barely, then evens out again as he relaxes into Arthur's touch.

For a moment, neither of them said anything and the sounds of Rhodes filtered in through the thin walls—wagon wheels rattling over dirt, a distant laugh, the muffled clink of glasses and drunken night goers. Life going on, indifferent and unbothered. Arthur focuses instead on the rise and fall beneath his palm, on the solid proof that Charles is here, alive, and healing.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” Charles murmured after a while. Arthur exhaled deeply. “Yeah, sorry, it's habit.”Charles shifted his head until he was resting his forehead against Arthur’s collarbone. “You don’t gotta solve everything tonight.”

Arthur swallowed. The words lodged somewhere tender and iced over after so much loss. “I know.” Another stretch of quiet passed between them. The Outlaw can feel the tension slowly leaching out of him, exhaustion finally catching up now that he’s stopped moving, stopped watching doors and corners and people over his shoulder.

His body knows the press of Charles and the safety of it—even if his mind is slower to catch up. Instead of breaking their quiet, peaceful silence, Arthur presses a slow, careful kiss into Charles’ hair, just above his temple. It’s not hungry or desperate, just real and tenable.

They fall asleep like that; tangled and breathing in tandem, the clinic room dim and still around them. Safe. For once, Arthur doesn’t dream of gunfire or blood or running out of time.

— 𐚁 —

Arthur takes Dutch's explosive anger in stride when they return to camp. He's not typically a fan of public theatrics, but he tears into Charles and Arthur the moment they climb off of Taima.

Charles watches him and waits while Arthur allows Dutch to fly off the handle, spewing accusations of not caring about them and manipulation attempts that fall short. He watches his father's face contort and flex, eyes snapping with flames as he gnashed his teeth at Arthur for abandoning and leaving them without support.

It occurred to Arthur, perhaps for the first time, standing at the edge of camp while Dutch berated them, that their leader— the man he considered a father, didn't express concern for their safety or wellbeing at all.

“Dutch,” Arthur snapped at him, eyes hooded with shadows and an eerie calm of unleashed fury. The arm roped around Charles to help steady him flexed gently, barely restraining his hurt and anger towards Dutch. “We'll talk later, I'm busy right now.”

Dutch froze mid-tirade, eyes swinging back to Arthur in surprise. Arthur didn’t raise his voice and he didn't need to. There was something in his expression now that he levelled Dutch with; controlled and dangerous in its restraint but sinister beneath. Charles sagged against him, ready to buckle and Arthur decided he didn't have any more time to waste on Dutch right now.

For a heartbeat, Dutch looked genuinely taken aback. Then his face hardened, wounded pride curdling into something ugly as he spoke. “I ain't done with you yet, son. You been gone on us for days and I let you be, I think I deserve some—”

“I said not now, Dutch.” Arthur interrupted him coldly. They glared at one another for a pregnant lapse, the camp falling silent around them until Hosea's hand on Dutch's shoulder broke the tension. He didn't wait to find out what Hosea was saying to satiate the beast— he didn't care; not when Charles needed his round of antibiotics and rest.

He steered Charles towards his tent, knowing they wouldn't be bothered so long as Arthur was hiding away in his lean-to and not his own. Charles said nothing, but the way in which his weight melted further into Arthur; purposeful and solid, encouraged him onwards despite his thundering heart.

Dutch hadn't asked after him aside from needing him for his usual, work-horse purposes; the only thing he was good for— and the lingering bitterness it left within him was new. Eventually, without fail, night turned into day time and time again and Arthur was called to action.

He had no choice but to drag his feet and follow through. Much to his own surprise, Charles didn't leave him for it. He still allowed Arthur to feed him his medication and apply menthol salve to his chest at night, but even he had returned to completing light duties around camp.

Dutch wasn't all the way satisfied, but he was happier when Arthur's focus was where he thought it needed to be. Days slipped past in a quiet procession, marked less by the rising and setting of the sun than by the gradual return of strength to Charles’ step.

At first it was small things. Charles sitting up longer by the fire before Arthur coaxed him back to rest. Charles insisting on saddling his own horse, jaw set in that familiar, stubborn way that made Arthur huff and give in. The doctor’s bottles emptied one by one, the lines of pain easing from his face, the strength returning to his frame.

He went where Dutch sent him, rode out on errands, chased rumors, shook down small-time marks when he had to and collected debts. However, something in him had shifted; he didn’t linger at Dutch’s side anymore, didn’t hover for approval or direction at his heels like a lost dog. When there was a choice to be made, when the work was done and the camp settled, Arthur’s boots carried him elsewhere— to safety.

Back to Charles.

Sometimes they didn’t speak at all. Arthur would sit nearby while Charles worked leather or sharpened a blade, the two of them sharing the easy silence of men who didn’t need to prove anything to one another.

Other times, Arthur talked—about Jack, about the way the gang felt different lately, about nothing at all. Charles listened, steady and present, and that alone felt like an anchor while he was adrift at sea.

Dutch noticed, he always did. There were looks; sharp, and measured, always analyzing. Assignments paired deliberately with Micah, Javier, Bill or any of the rest of them instead of Charles, subtle attempts to pull Arthur back into Dutch's orbit.

Arthur pushed back in the only ways he knew how; a clipped refusal here, a delayed return there, his body angled protectively toward Charles whenever Dutch’s temper flared. He didn't ask Dutch or Hosea for advice, instead when he wanted an opinion or help with a decision, he found himself at Charles’ feet, hanging onto his every word.

He stayed through the long days and the uneasy nights, through Dutch’s simmering moods and Arthur’s slow unlearning of groomed obedience. He stayed when Arthur came back exhausted and bloodied, when the camp felt like it was holding its breath. He stayed because Arthur was different; he felt it in his bones.

By the time Dutch announced they’d be going after the moonshiners, Charles was back on his feet fully, moving like the man Arthur knew him to be. Arthur didn’t argue when Dutch sent him out alone this time, insisting he and Bill would meet him there. He just nodded, saddled his horse, and rechecked his guns again.

Charles caught his arm before he mounted. “Don’t be stupid,” he said quietly, eyes searching Arthur’s face and expression incredibly soft for an outlaw. “Come back alive, you hear me?”

Arthur gave him a crooked, easy smile. “I’ll do my best.”

Arthur rode alone at first, much to his surprise, Dutch and Bill did meet him as promised halfway through the journey— badges pinned crooked to their chests like a bad joke.

He did what he always did to keep Dutch off his back; he followed orders, broke things cleanly without drawing attention, came home bruised and quiet. Charles always watched him with narrowed eyes and steady hands, helping him clean dried blood from his knuckles without comment despite not deserving it.

He was never given lectures or ultimatums or reminded of just how short he always seemed to fall. That alone, felt new and unexplored. There were errands after their moonshine heist, there was always another job to do and more money to get; lighter ones, but jobs and marks to follow and track down nonetheless.

Beau Gray’s letters passed from Arthur’s hands to Penelope’s like contraband hope, folded dreams carried through fields that already smelled faintly of rot from their family dramatics. Arthur recognized the look in Beau’s eyes all too well; the reckless softness of it. He didn’t say anything about it to Charles and he didn't ask—didn’t need to.

Some days Arthur rode out with Uncle, Bill, and Charles, chasing rumors of easy scores that never stayed easy.

Molly tried to talk to him in the middle of the chaos; catching Arthur near the edge of camp, voice brittle, eyes glassy—but the moment fractured before it could settle into anything real or helpful. Dutch loomed too large as a shadow in her mind; haunting her.

While she was distraught and heartsick, he couldn't care less and Arthur was never good at letting anyone down gently. He strategically escaped on horseback before she could catch his ear, guilt gnawing at him the whole ride out whenever her wobbly lipped, crestfallen expression came to mind.

When they weren't run ragged and worn-down from work, Arthur and Charles split chores between the two of them. Hunting runs turned into hours of comfortable silences broken only by birdsong and the creak of leather.

Arthur found himself turning before speaking, instinctively checking where Charles stood, what he thought. Sometimes Charles offered advice, sometimes just a look or a press of his weight. Arthur listened either way.

More and more he felt Dutch's scrutiny like a bad thunder storm rolling in on the horizon, pressing down on him. Assignments shifted and responsibilities were given and taken. Micah always smiled too sharp at Dutch's side for his liking, Arthur was being replaced.

He felt it in the pauses before Dutch spoke Arthur’s name, like he was weighing or testing something— his loyalties maybe.

Even so, he stood his ground. With their scams growing in risk and danger, Arthur had more recently started weighing between what he was willing to compromise on and what he wasn't. It wasn't a grand step by any measure, but it was small and of his own volition. That had to count for something.

When Hosea asked him to come help sell stolen moonshine back to the Braithwaites, Arthur went and played the fool, poured drink after drink, watched a town drown itself laughing. He came back smelling of liquor and gunpowder, ears ringing, patience worn thin.

Charles met him at the edge of camp that night, said nothing when Arthur leaned into him harder than usual. By then, Charles was fully healed. Arthur was still splitting himself in half, one part still answering Dutch’s call, the other already stepping away from it.

When the next job came—when Hosea sent word from Braithwaite Manor, when Sean grinned like the world was a joke only he understood— Arthur saddled his horse with a weight in his chest that had nothing to do with the guns on his belt.

The air over Scarlett Meadows hung thick and sweet, tobacco leaves rustling in the distance like dry paper waiting for a match.

Arthur rode toward the manor knowing with the sickly churning in his gut that whatever burned tonight wouldn’t stop with the fields. Dutch wanted to scorch the earth, and nobody was brave enough to stop him.

Time goes on.

Life at camp is the same for a little while. Arthur missed the humdrum, run of the mill, mundane parts of sitting back and enjoying the day most. Pearson and Grimshaw shouting across camp at one another, John and Hosea fishing at the shoreline for hours on end, content.

At times Javier strums his guitar for all to listen and Uncle tells his stories. Even Abigail does her part by cutting and grooming the men but Arthur passes up on the opportunity.

Instead he goes to Charles while he's inside his lean-to, hat literally in hand— shears in the other, and asks if he wouldn't mind. The Bowman doesn't promise he'll do a good job, in fact, he outright tells Arthur there's a likelihood that he'll end up with a chopped mane.

Fortunately for him, Arthur has never been more sure about anyone than he is about Charles.