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Chapter Text

Arthur is laying facedown on his pillow ang tangled in his sheets while he mentally tallies the ever-increasing reasons to simply toss his phone out of his apartment window. He’d very nearly run it over with his truck when Lenny told him that it tracked where he went and today he wishes he had. It’s buzzing away on his nightstand, making his pill bottles and the picture frames rattle around in a way that makes Arthur feel like his head might just split in half.

Without raising his head, he stretches his arm out and yanks his phone onto the mattress and fumbles with the screen, trying to silence the alarm. When it continues buzzing, Arthur prompts himself up on his elbow with a huff, blinking blearily at the screen when he realizes he’s getting a call.

“What in the hell could anyone possibly want from me. Better be good. What d’ya want?” If he sounds snappish, good. He’d gotten in late last night and this is the first day of his long weekend; he’d intended to sleep the morning away at the very least, and here he is, being pestered into interacting with other people.

“Well, is that any way to talk to your father? Someone should have taught you some respect,” Hosea’s rasping voice only eases Arthur’s upset slightly, but Arthur knows it could have been worse. Could have been Sean on the line, begging for a ride either to or from the local urgent care, again.

“Mornin’ Hosea,” Arthur grumbles, running a hand through his hair, wincing when his fingers catch on tangles. He really needs to get it cut, but he can’t seem to find the mental energy to drag himself to a barber.

“Morning? It’s past noon already, what are you doing? Are you alright?” The teasing tone vanishes quickly, replaced by one of concern and Arthur rolls his eyes.

“M’fine, just didn’t realize it was so late, is all. Had a late shift. You’re always tellin’ me I don’t get enough sleep.”

“And you don’t, but you know it’s important to keep on top of your sleeping schedule. Makes things worse for you when you don’t.”

“I said I’m fine, Hosea. Least I was, before you woke me up. Everythin’ alright?”

“Fine, fine. I just wanted to give you a call; I haven’t heard from you in a few days.” Hosea’s voice is deceptively relaxed, but Arthur can practically see Hosea’s hands worrying away at the buttons of that old vest he always wears.

It’s a nervous tic he’s had since Arthur was a teenager and he mostly does it when talking to Arthur about more serious things. Things both of them wish they could ignore and leave unsaid, but have learned from past experience not to. Arthur’s somewhat...volatile mental health is one of those things. It’s been years since the diagnoses and just about as long since they found the right combination of medications to keep Arthur’s depression and anxiety in check, but his bad days, when he has them, are often ugly things.

Arthur sits up and tries to extract his legs from the tangle of sheets with one hand, balancing the phone on his shoulder.

“Been busy is all. We got a new kid in the program and he’s havin’ a hard time. Real angry, you know? The horses are struggling with him and that only makes him angrier. It’s a whole thing.”

Hosea hums in understanding, “That reminds me of a certain wild young boy I knew years ago. Wanted to fight the entire world with his bare hands, but he turned out alright.”

“Just alright? Thanks for the ringing endorsement.”

Hosea laughs and Arthur feels himself smile at the sound of it. He lets out a triumphant sound when he finally gets free of his bed, swinging his legs off of the mattress and taking his time standing. He’s not as young as he was and the hours spent throwing bales of hay around and working horses are starting to tell on his body. They’re well-earned aches and Arthur is proud of them, even if his knees crack when he kneels. Plenty of worse ways to wear a body down and Arthur knows this from personal experience.

“I like to keep you humble, dear boy, it’s important. So, you said you’re still in bed?” Right back on it, like a dog with a bone.

“Gettin’ up now. Don’t go sending Sadie here again; I still haven’t quite recovered from the last time.”

“That? Oh, please, we’ve all seen you naked before, Arthur, it isn’t anything new. Or have you forgotten your partying days?” Hosea’s back to teasing and it occurs to Arthur that it is far too early in his day for quite this many barbs and quips. If it were anyone else, he might hang up the phone. But, since it’s Hosea, he has no choice but to suffer through it.

“She dragged me into the shower, Hosea. Like I was nothing more than a sack of potatoes! Woman is goddamn terrifying…” Arthur still blushes when he remembers Sadie Adler nearly busting his apartment door in and halling him out of bed to bathe. That had been a bad episode, one of his worst in years.

After nearly a week of dodging Hosea and John’s calls and texts, only getting out of bed to use the bathroom or pick at his dwindling supply of groceries, Hosea had called in for backup. Sadie was the only person Arthur knew that had absolutely no qualms about pulling a grown man out of bed, in the buff, no less, and yanking him into the bathroom to shove him into the shower. She’d even stood there to make sure Arthur actually washed, her face looking like thunder. It was plain undignified, was what it was. Thankfully, Sadie never mentioned it and Hosea was - as far as Arthur knew - the only other person who knew about it.

Hosea’s voice pulls Arthur back to the present, “That she is and woe to the fool who forgets it. You answered your phone this time, so I won’t be sending anyone by to look in on you, scout’s honor.”

Arthur grunts in reply, filling his coffee pot with cold water and coffee grounds and setting it to brew. He could use the whole pot if this phone call is any indication of how his day is going to go. As it is, his original plan of sleeping the day away is a wash; he’d feel too guilty going back to bed after this. He’s considering ordering pizzas and spending the rest of the day in front of the TV, not thinking anymore than is required to transport slices of pizza to his mouth. It’s a nice thought and he makes a mental note to text Charles and see if the other man is busy.

If Arthur invites company over, especially one of their group, word will get back to Hosea and the old man will, hopefully, relax a bit more. Arthur enjoys Charles’ company a great deal, in any case, and he’s one of the few people Arthur has met that understands that sometimes you just need to sit in silence. Come to think of it, Charles might be the only person Arthur knows who is not only able to do this, but is more comfortable in silence than filling a space with empty chatter.

“Scout’s honor, well that’s me reassured. What about you, old man, what have you got planned today? Any old ladies to fleece at Canasta, or is that only on Mondays?” Arthur smiles at the string of curses and mutterings coming from the other end of the phone while he watches the coffee brew.

“I do not fleece people, Arthur. It is simply not my fault that there isn’t a decent card player within twenty-miles.” Hosea’s indignant reply makes Arthur laugh in earnest, rough and throaty.

“Sure, sure. You’re completely innocent. I suppose it’s also a cruel twist of fate that you’re banned from ever playing bingo at the community center again?”

“That old crow Braithwait has it out for me, I’m telling you! I don’t know what stories she’s been spreading around, but they’re all bullshit. Crazy old witch.”

Arthur chuckles again and leans against his counter. The apartment smells like fresh coffee and just the smell of it makes Arthur feel more alive.

“Well, you spend your day nursing those grudges of yours. Seems like a good use of your time.”

“What about you, smart ass?”

“I was just thinkin’ about catching a game or catching up on some TV. I bought the damn thing and pay for them streaming services. Might as well use them.”

There’s a beat of silence before Hosea speaks, worry leaking back into his voice, “Just you?”

Arthur tries not to sigh too loudly into the phone as he says “No, I was thinking about asking Charles if he’s busy. Getting some pizzas too, or something, I don’t know.”

“Good, that’s a good idea. Charles is good for you, Arthur. I like him.”

Arthur’s brows furrow and he stands up straighter at this, “Good for me? What’s that mean?”

Arthur doesn’t need to be able to see Hosea to know his hands are raised in that take it easy gesture he used to use when Arthur was young and full of piss and vinegar. Hosea uses a tone very, very close to one Arthur uses when trying to calm an agitated horse and it would make Arthur even more prickly if it didn’t work so damn well.

“Don’t mean nothing by it, son. He’s good company, is all; doesn’t get as crazy as the rest of you young fools. He’s actually got his head securely on his shoulders and some brains between his ears, which is no small relief to me.”

“Well, it ain’t hard when his competition is Sean and John”, Arthur carefully pours coffee into a mug and wishes he had two hands to cling to it with. The warmth of the mug is comforting, as it always is.

“John is trying, Arthur. It may not look like it to you, but he is trying,” Hosea chastises, his voice just a bit tight.

“Could stand to try a little harder. Jack is, what, four now?”

“Enough, Arthur. Let it be. I don’t want to talk about this again. Now, listen, I’ve got to run, but if you need anything--”

“I know, I know, call you. I’ll be fine.” Arthur is reasonably sure this is true, anyway. Apart from his headache, he feels clear headed and calm. At ease in his skin and as energized as he ever is before his first cup of coffee. He feels like he’s in for a good day and he’s looking forward to seeing Charles more than he really wants to admit, even to himself.

“I’m sure you will. Give my best to Charles and try to eat a vegetable today, will you? A man can’t live on steak and potatoes alone.”

Hosea hangs up before Arthur can fire back and Arthur shakes his head.

“I eat vegetables. Had a salad two days ago, thank you very much.” There isn’t anyone or anything around to hear him and it takes a moment for Arthur to remember that fact. His dog, Copper, passed recently and he still forgets that his dog is gone every now and again. Arthur still talks, expecting Copper to be listening patiently as always or wakes up in the middle of the night, confused by the empty space in his bed where Copper used to sleep.

Tilly had suggested he look into getting another dog, but it’s too soon for Arthur to even consider it. It’s too raw and the idea of another dog taking Copper’s place makes his breath seize up in his chest something awful.

In an effort to pull himself out of this train of thought, Arthur picks up his phone and sends a quick text to Charles before he forgets.

A: hey Charles, you busy today?

The reply is swift in coming and Arthur ignores the butterflies that flutter around in his stomach when his phone vibrates.

C: Hello Arthur. Not busy as at. What did you have in mind?
A: Nothing fancy. I was gonna get some pizzas and maybe put a movie or two on, if you wanted to join?
C: Sounds good. I could use a lowkey day. I’ll bring the beer. Same as last time, or did you want to try something new?
A: Whatever you want is fine with me.
C: Alright. I’ve got to shower and then I’ll head to the store. I’ll text you when I get to your place.
A: What do you want for pizza?
C: You know what I like.

The last text hits Arthur in a way he doesn’t expect and he feels his cheeks flush. The crush he’s been nursing - might as well call it what it is - has been going on for months. Nothing Arthur tries seems to work and the feelings linger, growing slowly and steadily, despite the lack of interest on Charles’ side. Arthur isn’t stupid, he knows Charles values their friendship and likes Arthur a great deal, but as a friend, nothing more. Arthur hasn’t gotten any sign or indication to hope for anything more and his feelings for Charles only leave him feeling guilty and frustrated.

“Get a hold of yourself, you damn fool.” Arthur mutters, opening a local pizza delivery app to place an order before he has a chance to think himself into a corner about if Charles would prefer regular cheese or extra cheese.

Charles was a more recent addition to Arthur’s circle of friends. He’d started as a coworker; a steady, quiet hand with a gift for horses and ornery young boys. Arthur had been overjoyed to hire him; it kept a man of Charles’ talent out of the claws of Emerald Ranch and the web that was spreading further and further toward Valentine with each passing year. The owner - a bastard, according to rumor - had a habit of forcing out any smaller farms or stables and then buying up the land himself. Farms, some six or seven generations deep, turned into pasturage or empty space. The former owners would appear almost without fail in Valentine, hunting for ‘help wanted’ signs in the overly posh coffee shops or, in some heartbreaking cases, lugging bags to the train station.

The way Arthur saw it, The Emerald, as it was known in horse and livestock circles, didn’t need a good worker. Amos Levi Livery, however, was in dire need of a man or woman with a steady hand and a cool temper. It had taken time for Arthur to find someone to fill his former role; turns out that hiring your own replacement was more complicated than it looked. Over months, Charles and Arthur had developed a friendship. It was easy and natural which was in and of itself a new feeling for Arthur. He wasn’t the sort of man who developed friendships easily and he was often regarded as ‘old fashioned’, even by folks his own age. Charles Smith, a man a decade younger, had simply accepted Arthur as he was and never expected him to be anything more.

When exactly the other feelings began, Arthur can’t say and it’s not something he wants to examine too closely. His romantic history is…tragic, at best and as far as sex went, well, that was even worse. Best to leave it all alone and save them both the grief. Shaking himself out of the increasingly dark thoughts that gather in his mind like storm clouds, Arthur turns his mind to the task of choosing pizza toppings.

Charles is considering the merits of hard cider in place of beer when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He half expects panic-induced texts from Arthur regarding topping choices on pizza, but it’s Sean’s name that shows on the notification. Charles tries not to groan too loudly; it’s not necessarily Sean’s fault that he gets himself into so many messes, but being himself doesn’t help either. He considers ignoring it, but it might be an emergency, or emergency adjacent, so he has to at least read it.

A quick swipe and he chuckles to himself. It’s just an invitation to his yearly Halloween party, though, calling it a party is somewhat dishonest. Parties have a sort of code of morality that guests are expected to abide by. The last time Charles had attended one of these parties, he’d seen at least two strangers naked and Arthur had had to carry John into his truck. Charles wishes he could have seen the look on Abigail’s face when Arthur dropped him off inside their apartment. Arthur hadn’t been nearly as amused when he was telling Charles the story over coffee a few days later. Arthur had a lot of strong feelings regarding John’s idea of fatherhood and he wasn’t shy about verbalizing them, regardless of the fact that John was his brother. In fact, it was most likely because John was his brother that Arthur had so much to say about it. Charles could only imagine how painful it must be for Arthur to see his younger brother dodging his responsibilities to his son and generally behaving like a child. Charles often wondered how the two men turned out so differently, given they’d both been raised by Hosea and his wife, Bessie.

Charles had asked Hosea that very question once, years ago. The old man had simply chuckled and shook his head before muttering ‘Arthur was cut from a different cloth than most people, Charles.’ And that was the end of that discussion. Now, after all of the time they’ve spent together, just the two of them or with the entire group, Charles could only agree with Hosea. Arthur wasn’t much like anyone Charles had ever met before.

Turning back to his phone, Charles sends a thumbs up emoji back to Sean and slides his phone back in his pocket. It’s neither a concrete confirmation of his attendance, nor a refusal. It gives him room to go or not go, depending on what Arthur decides to do when Charles mentions it to him. Arthur loathes Sean’s parties, but he goes more often than he doesn’t. Too much of a mother hen to let his friends get wasted without his supervision.

Charles can partially hear the theatrical groan and see Arthur’s nose wrinkle. He picks a six pack of what looks to be hard cider that will actually taste something like apples - what was mango hard cider even meant to taste like, really? - and heads to the checkout lines.

The drive to Arthur’s place is quick and he’s buzzed into the building so quickly that Charles suspects that Arthur has been standing by the button just waiting for him to arrive. He’s so god damned earnest in everything he does and Charles is still surprised by it. Most people Arthur’s age were jaded and apathetic, too tired with life to put much energy into enjoying the little things. Arthur wasn’t like that; he frequently stopped on hikes to study flowers and trees, sketching everything of note in that journal he always carried around. He learned the names of local birds and he could identify them by sound alone; Charles had never seen Arthur not stop to pet a dog he met, if the owner approved of it. And he always walked away, eyes shining and grinning ear to ear in that way that made Charles’ bones turn to jello. He could be irritable and his temper was ferocious when set off, but he was kind and caring in his own awkward sort of way. A man trying to be better than whatever his upbringing had been prior to being placed with the Matthews family, a man trying his utmost to keep up with an ever changing world.

Charles could count on one hand the number of white, cisgendered men who made as much of an effort to learn and grow as Arthur did.

At the moment, though, Arthur is busy apologizing that the pizza hasn’t arrived yet, despite the fact that it had only been maybe 20 minutes since he’d ordered it. Charles tells him it’s fine, really, it’s okay, but he just looks even more exasperated after that, so Charles lets him pace. When Arthur’s circuit he’s walking around his apartment takes him near to Charles, Charles hands him a bottle of hard cider, top already off.

“What is this? Don’t smell like beer…” it’s the equal mix of curiosity and wariness that makes Charles smile, small and privately to himself.

“Hard cider, made from apples. Figured you should try something new, for once.”

The annoyed huff makes Charles smile again, “I try plenty of new things, thank you. And what is it with everyone pickin’ at what I eat today? Huh? First Hosea, now you.” Arthur stops stomping around just long enough to take an experimental sip and he nods, lifting the bottle toward Charles.

“It ain’t beer, but it ain’t bad.”

“Expanding and growing a bit every day” Charles says, deadpan.

Arthur grumbles, coming to a stop in front of his couch, tapping his fingers on the pillows. Top, tap, tap, tap. It’s a nervous tic, Charles knows, and he wonders what’s got Arthur so worked up.

“You okay, Arthur?”

The other man turns to look at him, expression a bit surprised, like he’s been caught in something.

“‘Course, why?”

Charles gestures toward his tap-tapping fingers and Arthur looks down and sighs.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just...had Hosea on my back about sleepin’ too long. Got me feelin’ like a kid again, is all”, his tone is more worn out than annoyed, but the annoyance still doesn’t make quite a lot of sense to Charles.

“He’s your father, Arthur, he worries about you”, Charles says, taking a sip from the long neck of his own bottle.

“I know, I know. I just wish that he would give me a little credit. I can look after myself and most of the time, I do okay. I don’t need to be managed like a child. If he wants to worry and fuss over someone, he should do it to John. That idiot needs all the help he can get.” His tone has turned hard and bitter and Charles sighs and stands up straight from where he was leaning against the small dining room table.

“Enough of that. I didn’t come here to listen to you bitch about John. We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves and talking about him only ever makes you pissy.”

Arthur honest to God pouts at Charles, “I don’t get pissy.”

“Yes, yes you do. Exactly like the child you claim you aren’t. Now, can we please find something to watch and talk about something else. Like, Sean’s Halloween party, for example.”

The groan is every bit as overdramatic and ridiculous as Charles had imagined and he loves it. He flops onto Arthur’s couch and watches as Arthur stomps over to sit on the other side of the couch, limbs splayed dramatically, like a puppet with it’s strings cut.

“Not that again, honestly. We just had one last year”, Arthur whines.

“Yes. And Halloween is an annual holiday, Arthur. It comes once a year.”

“ I can’t do another one, Charles, I don’t got it in me. Not again. Not after last year.”

“I highly doubt Karen and Sean are going to have sex in the back of your truck again, Arthur.”

Charles remembers how angry Arthur had been after that one, the way Sean kept his distance from him for a solid few weeks until he was certain Arthur wouldn’t knock his teeth out. Karen had been suitably embarrassed and contrite. She’d even paid to have the inside of Arthur’s truck detailed. But, even after that, Arthur had confessed to Charles that he’d still briefly considered setting it on fire. Charles hadn’t blamed him.

Arthur’s head shoots up from where it had been laying against the back of a couch cushion, ‘No, of course not. Something worse will happen and then I’ll have to strange one of them idiots or truss them up for their own good. Bunch of wild animals.”

“You love them, you know you do,” Charles admonishes, perhaps a bit too soft and fond for the conversation, but if Arthur notices, he doesn’t let on.

He waves a hand at Charles and makes a series of noises, but doesn’t outright deny it.

“I ain’t got no idea what’s on today; I figured we could just flip through until we find something.” Arthur tosses the remote at Charles and stands up, probably to resume his pizza-pacing.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I was surprised he wanted to watch a game; I don’t think I’ve seen you enjoy a sporting event in the time I’ve known you.” Charles flips through the channels, not really paying attention to what he sees. He’s not here for television. In truth, Arthur could have invited him over to make soap and knit blankets and he would have agreed.

“It’s what you do, ain’t it? Sports and pizza and usually beer.”

“I’m not really familiar with what’s usual, Arthur, hate to tell you.” Charles settles on a documentary about national parks, the droning voice of the announcer is soothing and the footage is beautiful. Charles is content to let the silence stretch over them until the pizza arrives. He’s got something he needs to bring up to Arthur, though he’s less than thrilled about having to do it on their day off. Arthur’s reaction might be a bit…tempered after he’s had some food and beer.

Arthur munches on slices, charmingly oblivious the Charles’ unease. Charles slips the sheet out of his pocket and tosses onto the empty couch cushion between them, saying nothing.

“Wassat?” Arthur grunts, licking his fingers before picking up the paper. It crinkles as he unfolds it and Charles very pointedly keeps his eyes on the TV. A moose is picking its way through the lush grasses of Big Valley on the screen.

“He’s supposed to be leavin’ us the hell alone,” Arthur mutters, voice dark, “Amos turned down his last offer.”

Charles sips his beer and hums, “I thought you said Levi told Cornwall to ‘shove his money up his waxed ass?’”

“He did.”

“And he’s back again.”

“Seems to be,” Arthur says, tearing into another slice of pizza.

Leviticus Cornwall, a man with more money than sense, was swallowing up all the undeveloped or underdeveloped land on the opposite side of the river to Valentine. Word was that he had his eyes set on the town itself, but Charles didn’t consider it likely. What he did believe was that any foothold on property within an hour’s drive, that was something Cornwall did want. And Amos Levi Livery, an old family owned barn, was on the outskirts of Valentine. Cornwall had made a handful of offers to Amos Levi III, great-great-great grandson of the first Amos Levi who, apparently, built the Old Main Barn with his two hands in the 1880s.
Each offer has been refused and each refusal grew more direct and less polite. Amos Levi III was an old fashioned man, a real cowboy, if Charles had ever met one. He dealt squarely with people and expected others to do the same. A business practice that ensured that the barn struggled and customers dropped in number as business was stolen away. Still, he staunchly refused to sell, and the last offer from Cornwall had prompted the threat of legal action. Apparently, not even that was enough to stave off Cornwall’s appetite for conquest.

“What will you do?” Charles looks at Arthur over his beer, studying the older man’s face. His expression isn’t one of irritation, which Charles had expected. Instead, he looks…tired, for lack of a better word.

“All any of us can do. Keep him back as long as we can,” Arthur mutters, scratching at his chin.

“You think it’s inevitable,” it’s a statement, not a question, what Charles says.

“This way of life, it’s on its way out. All them ranches and farms in the Heartlands? They belong to The Emerald now. Christ, I mean, look at that,” Arthur’s hand gestures to the TV screen. The scene is one of Big Valley, it’s growing development of condos spreading across the formerly pristine valley like a cancer. “It’s everywhere, Charles. Goddamn eyesores. Amos’ll keep sayin’ no, but he ain’t gettin’ younger and his son don’t give a hoot in hell about the place. Cornwall will cut him a fat check and then that’s it, as soon as his Pa’s cold in the ground.”

Charles sighs, deeply regretting he’s brought this up at all, necessary as it is. Charles is a believer in facing problems head on and it’s a trait he shares with Arthur. All the same, it didn’t make confronting this very likely future that Arthur is describing any more pleasant. “I wish I could argue that. It’s a good place; the people are good. Most of them.”

Arthur merely grunts and takes a long pull from his bottle, his brows creased with worry. Charles wants, more than anything, to smooth those wrinkles away. It’s not a helpful feeling, this crush he’s been nursing. They’ve got enough on their respective plates without adding any sort of…entanglements to the mix. All the same, Charles finds himself longing for more and more of Arthur Morgan.

Chapter Text

Arthur wakes up slowly. Slowly, like the way someone floats to the surface of the water, breaking through inch by inch and then all at once. His mouth is dry and his limbs feel heavy, almost like they don’t belong to him at all. It takes a minute for Arthur to register the urgent knocking at his door and even longer to piece together what his response ought to be. Person knocks at door -> Answer. It’s more mental processing than he is capable of at…whatever time of the morning it is. And morning it must be, if the soft light peaking through his curtains is any judge.

“Won’t get no damn peace at all, will I? Hold on!” Arthur grabs the first clean, or clean-ish, shirt he can find and adjusts his sweatpants. He hisses as he catches his fingers on a knot when he tries to comb through his hair. Pointedly avoiding the mirror that’s propped on his battered dresser, Arthur stomps to the door, grumbling under his breath all the while. He hardly gets it open a crack before Hosea pushes his way inside.

“Well, it certainly took you long enough. You know what day it is, don’t you?” Hosea turns to look Arthur square in the face and his slightly put out expression dissolves into one of amusement. “Well, I take that question back. Clearly you haven’t joined the land of the living just yet. Have you had coffee, at least? I don’t smell any brewing.” Hosea gives Arthur all of a second to reply before he makes himself busy opening and slamming shut cupboards in Arthur’s tiny kitchenette. He lets out a triumphant sound when he finds coffee and sets about the process of brewing a pot. Arthur, for his part, simply watches his father wearily, wondering if he can get away with going back to bed and locking his bedroom door. Probably not.

“Nice to see you too, Pa,” Arthur mutters, voice thick with sleep and the effects of last night’s medication.

“Oh, come now, you know I’m happy to see you. I’m always happy to see you; which is sayin’ something, because those wild animals that seem to have attached themselves to me really do try my patience.” The coffee maker gurgles and the apartment fills with the smell of fresh coffee. The steady drip, drip, drip is not fast enough, though, not for the sheer volume of words being lobbed at Arthur before noon.

“I ain’t sure what you’re complainin’ about. You adopted half of ‘em,” Arthur starts edging toward the couch - which looks soft, warm and inviting - but Hosea grabs him by the elbow and steers him into the kitchen.

Hosea is dressed for their weekly walk - a ritual Hosea considers to be sacred, along with all other standing outings and appointments he has with his children and various other hangerson. All throughout the week are dinners, lunches, quick phone calls or other meetings with Arthur, Tilly and John - - the three children that Hosea and Bessie Matthews legally adopted - - and more often than not, at least one other friend comes along for the ride. Sean with Lenny, much to Hosea’s exasperation; Karen and Mary-Beth, to Hosea’s endless amusement. Arthur brought his dog, but for the last few months it has been just the two of them.
One of Hosea’s standing visits with Arthur involves a walk down the old hiking trails that run along the bank of the Dakota, a little ways outside of Valentine. Hosea pretends it’s for his benefit, spouting this or that about wanting to remain an ‘active senior’ despite the fact that Hosea himself is the biggest menace and troublemaker Arthur has ever met. Arthur pretends to be fooled and they both pretend it isn’t to ensure that Arthur gets at least a few hours of outdoor exercise once a week. As it turns out, running a stable from the inside of a double wide trailer, largely from behind a desk, does not agree with him.

It isn’t that Arthur isn’t happy to see his father, he is. It’s just the heavy feeling in his limbs that’s dragging him down. His legs and arms feel like someone filled them with cement. Even just the idea of a walk feels like so much.

“And the strays brought back strays of their own. It’s like a traveling circus,” Hosea grouses as he fishes out what might be the last clean mugs Arthur has left. Arthur is busy trying to work out how the pile of dishes in his sink got so high when Hosea pushes a steaming mug into his hands.

Arthur gets one glorious, wonderful sip of the strong, bitter brew before Hosea’s long, skinny fingers are poking and prodding into the meat of his shoulder. “Alright, okay, Christ alive. You a pushy old man, you know that? Can’t you give me a minute to enjoy my coffee?” Arthur does not whine, he absolutely does not.

Hosea smirks at him, all annoyingly put together and far too awake and ready to face the world, “Someone has to keep you on track, you know. Copper isn’t here to force you to get up before noon anymore.”

Arthur grunts, the mention of his dog stinging just a touch. The place really did feel too empty without that too large bundle of joy and energy walking into every piece of furniture. Before Hosea can get back to poking and prodding, Arthur ambles back to his bedroom and shuts the door. The process of dressing is daunting; most of the clothing Arthur has doesn’t exactly…fit as well as it once did. The endless shuffle of medications and dosages has led to some unfortunate side effects and the extra weight Arthur carries around his middle is one of them. Everyone in his family insists it ‘suits’ him, whatever that means. Even Susan Grimshaw, the unofficial den mother and the closest thing their family unit has to a voice of reason, insists that Arthur looks better for it. ’No longer half-starved, but still filthy. Arthur himself is unconvinced. He’s not vain, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he had been lean and trim six months ago. Now, well, Arthur looks like he rides a desk all day and all of his efforts to shed it have thus far been in vain.

So, Arthur has pushed his older, smaller sized clothing into a corner and he rotates between a few newer items that fit decently - the girls have made it their personal mission to make him look presentable. Tilly had texted Arthur not just the other day asking for his company out shopping. As much as Arthur hates shopping, the people, the sounds and endless buzzing of voice around him, he misses his sister something fierce, so he’d agreed. He feels all but certain that he’ll regret it later, but it’s too late to back out now. Tilly would probably send him a selfie of her making that puppy dog face of hers. It’s the same face she had used to con Arthur into playing dolls with her when she was a girl and Arthur was a grown(ish) man. That was simply not something Arthur could survive.

Arthur throws open the door to his cramped closet and frowns as he pulls a shirt and a sweater over his head, not paying any attention to anything beyond warmth the clothing might offer. Winter was closing in on them quickly; the Grizzlies were covered with fresh snow and it was bound to find its way down to their area sooner rather than later. Arthur makes a mental note to ask Abigail about the state of Jack’s winter coat whenever he has a moment to do so. It’s unlikely John will pay enough attention to make sure his son has a coat that fits, after all. A threadbare pair of jeans follow and finally, his boots, scuffed, beaten to hell and perfectly broken in. Arthur is half way out his bedroom door before he remembers to rake a hand through his hair, wincing at the snags and tangles he catches.

“Could brush your hair, at least.”

Arthur grunts at his father as he scans his living room for a knit cap, “Whatcha gonna do? Tell Susan on me?”

“Don’t you test me. If she could see you now, she’d shout herself hoarse,” Hosea is only half-joking.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. S’jus’ you an’ me. I’ll shower when I get back,” Arthur scoops up the orange hat and slips it over his head. Hosea squints at the hat, probably reading the patch sewn to the front.

“‘You are on native land.’ Huh. Well, it isn’t wrong. That some sort of statement, I take it?” Hosea opens the front door and leaves it open for Arthur to follow. The hallway is frigid and poorly lit, owing to the property manager’s general disinterest in maintaining the building. Hosea and Susan had been pushing Arthur to consider moving, but he’s hardly making ends meet as it is, even in his rent-controled shit hole. The door slams shut with an ominous rattle and Arthur’s lock sticks in the keyhole. He spends so long trying to coax it out that Hosea stops walking at watches him from halfway down the hall, disapproval palpable even at that distance.

Arthur holds up a hand in a ‘Don’t start’ gesture and shoves his knees into his pants pocket. “I guess so. If you consider tellin’ the truth a statement.” Back to the hat, which Arthur considers a safer subject than discussing his living situation.

“These days, I would certainly say so. Lenny?” Hosea pulls his coat tighter across his frame and picks up his speed, no doubt eager to get back into some sunlight.

“Charles.”

Hosea’s face lights up, all mischief and nonsense and it’s all Arthur can do to choke back a groan, “Oohoo. Buying you gifts now, is he? Interesting, very interesting.
“It ain’t like that. He has one too and I told ‘im I liked it so he just–”

“Bought you one. As a present.”

“No. Yes…no. He was just bein’-- it weren’t…” Arthur can feel his face flushing, betraying his complicated and useless emotions. In truth, Arthur had been touched by the gesture. He had made the comment to Charles in passing and forgotten about it soon afterward. A few weeks later, Charles had shown up with a hat for Arthur and a smile that almost looked shy.

Hosea cackles, his grin nearly cracking his weathered face clean in two, “Alright, alright. I should take pity on you. Ain’t fair to tease you so soon after you crawl out of bed. You haven’t even gotten your few remaining brain cells goin’ yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, old man. Just be careful I don’t ditch your ass out there,” Arthur grumbles. He bites back a smile when Hosea laughs again, a bright and happy sound.

~

The walk goes well enough in spite of the clumps of flannel-clad city folks taking endless shots of the river and puffing on their e-cigarettes. They had paid Charles and Hosea no mind, hardly even moving aside to allow the two men room to scoot by on the trail. The weather had been stunning and the tranquility of the trail never failed to ease the worries Arthur constantly seemed to carry. The busy sound of the river dashing over rocks, accompanied by the cheerful singing and calling of birds made him feel lighter than he had in days. Hosea, bless him, had let the walk pass mostly in silence, though Arthur suspects that had more to do with his wheezing than a true desire to let Arthur take in nature in peace. By the time they had gotten back to the truck after completing a short mile and a half loop, Hosea’s wheeze had worsened. The old man had coughed into his fist and waved away Arthur’s questions and concerned noises, so Arthur had put it out of his mind and drove home.

Faced with the rest of the day with nothing but his thoughts for company, Arthur had taken his time with his shower, only stepping out when the spray abruptly turned icy. Now, he was sitting cross-legged on his bed with a sketchpad in his lap, pencil in hand. He hadn’t done more than scribble dark, ugly shapes in months, try as he might to find inspiration elsewhere. Arthur had even looked online for reference photos in the vain hope that he might find something that inspired him, but that had proven to be a waste of time.

Letting his eyes slip closed, Arthur takes a deep breath and holds it fast in his chest, like Dr. Balfour had taught him. It was meant to help him calm his mind and clear it, or some other nonsense. Arthur wasn’t too certain he believed in half of what the doctor pushed him to try, but he had promised his family he would give therapy his best shot, this time around. He intended to hold to his word even if it meant looking like a fool while doing it.

Flashes, bits and pieces of memories danced across Arthur’s closed lids like scenes from movies all stitched together. Bright green spring grasses, Copper’s shinning coat and gray muzzle. A mess of dark, tangled curls; a face full of freckles, blue-green eyes wide with wonder. That same face, pressed against a car window, a little boy’s warm breath making puffs of condensation against the glass.

Daddy! Come with us! Please? Arthur’s chest constricts and his stomach rolls. The memories wash over him like waves and he is lost in the roiling, foaming sea of the past.

You be good for your Mama, an’ maybe Santa Claus will leave an extra present under the tree, huh? The car seat secured behind the driver’s side seat. The night was dark, rainy after a day of below freezing winds. The roads were mostly frozen over and accidents had been happening all day. Eliza’s car had been outfitted for the snow and ice, but that hadn’t meant that the other drives were prepared, or even knew how to handle a car in those conditions.

A different voice, aiming at sympathy but falling short, almost robotic in its delivery: As far as we could tell, Mr. Morgan, it was instant. Neither of them suffered. I am sorry, very sorry. The sorry had been an afterthought, hastily tacked on after the officer had pulled Arthur’s entire world down with his bare, soft, pink hands.

The tide of memory pulls Arthur along, even as he grasps the sheets, clinging to any anchor he can find as the force of it threatens to carry him away.

His father’s hands were holding him tight, like he’d been afraid of what Arthur would do if he let go. My poor boy. Oh, Arthur. I’m here, I’m right here. I’m so sorry, son. So god damn sorry.

With a gasp, Arthur wrenches his eyes open, stumbling off the mattress as his stomach pitches and rolls. He barely makes it to the toilet before the coffee and meager breakfast come back up, burning his throat and bringing more tears to his eyes. How long Arthur kneels there, clutching the toilet bowl and alternating between dry-heaving and sobbing, he has no idea. By the time the nausea fades, Arthur’s stomach and back are burning. His vision is blurred with tears, his face smeared with a mess of fluids and flecks of vomit. It takes every bit of spare energy Arthur has to flush the toilet and raise himself back up to his feet so he can rinse out his mouth.

Without so much as a glance at his reflection, Arthur pulls open the medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror, fingers reaching mechanically for a bottle of pills. Once opened, Arthur tips a fit yellow pill into his trembling palm, washing it down with water from the faucet. Two years and the attacks were no better than they had been weeks or months following the worst night of Arthur’s life.

It had all come down around him so quickly, he still couldn’t make sense of it. The police had conducted their halfhearted investigation and spit facts at Arthur, Hosea and John that had meant almost nothing against the ravenous, endless cavern of loss. Slick roads, poor visibility. The ice, you know…it happens every year….terrible, just terrible. The officers had harped back to the same things, as if they might be a comfort, rather than added fuel for nightmares and a lifetime of guilt. It came out of nowhere….killed instantly, both of them. In their clumsy scramble to soothe a grieving father, the young, baby-faced officers had spit out a piece of information that would haunt Arthur for the rest of his life and had sent him into a fit of wild, animalistic wailing as soon as he had processed what it meant. The car seat was behind the driver’s side, where the other vehicle hit. The officers had been ushered out of the hallway, a flurry of voices; Hosea, trying desperately to calm Arthur down, John’s rasping voice, thick with worry and heartbreak.

It had been Arthur’s own voice, cracking, hoarse and wracked by grief that silenced all the others competing for space, “I put it there. I put the seat there. What did I do! What did I do! Oh God, what did I do!?”

Chapter Text

TILLY
The rumbling sound of Arthur’s old beater truck pulling up never fails to make Tilly smile and she doesn’t give a damn how childish it might be. It was one of those rare things in the world that only had good, light and warm memories attached to it: afternoons after school driving the dirt roads outside of Valentine and up to Cumberland Forest with Arthur’s old country music crackling through the pitiful radio. Tilly can still feel the summer sun shining on her face and the scratchy sensation of the truck floor mats on her bare feet. Taking drives was her and Arthur’s thing, always had been. It had started as a way for Tilly to settle before dark when she had first come to Bessie and Hosea as a kid. Something about that rumbling, bouncing truck soothed her in a way nothing else could. Or, more accurately, maybe it was Arthur’s quiet, steady presence in the driver’s seat mumbling out half-right lyrics to songs she had never heard, but liked in spite of herself. Whatever it was, it was the first root that took in her new life. The very beginning of Tilly being able to relax and say I’m home. I have a home. At nineteen, that pitiful engine still sounds like home and Arthur’s low drawl still makes her feel safer than anything else could.

The sun is peeking through puffy white clouds, making the puddles of rain water in the parking lot shimmer and Tilly watches the light dance on the surface of the dirty puddles while she walks to the truck. The door creaks loudly as she heaves it open and the cabin smells like it always has - - old cigarettes, coffee and the faint smell of dog still left over from Copper. The only thing missing is the smell of horse or a few pieces of hay scattered across the seats.

“You finally take this poor thing to the car wash and get it vacuumed out? This is the cleanest I’ve ever seen her!”, Tilly is only half-teasing. Bo, as Arthur calls her, is in fact looking surprisingly clean and polished, at least on the inside.

Arthur shoots her a look, playing at the role of Annoyed Older Brother as he pulls out of the lot and onto the busy highway. Tilly studies her brother out of the corner of her eye, pretending to fuss with her hair in the front facing camera of her phone. Arthur either doesn’t notice or is pretending not to, she can’t tell which. Arthur had always hated being ‘fussed over’, as he tended to call it. Tilly herself preferred to describe it as ‘looking out for her brother, thank you very much’ and it's a job she takes seriously with regard to both Arthur and John, though they needed minding in different ways. John was easier, by far. Drying out would fix most of his problems, but as Hosea never tired of pointing out, no one could force him to put the bottle down before he was ready. So, Tilly spent most of her time focused on Arthur.

The things that pulled Arthur down were…complicated, to say the least. Old wounds that ran deep and still bled at the slightest poke or prod. Heartbreak, the kind that broke most people clean in half and nearly did so to Arthur himself. It had been a long, hard and terrifying road, if Tilly is honest with herself. John being unsteady was fine, she was used to that. But Arthur coming as unglued as he had had been…there hadn’t been words for it then and there still weren’t words for it now. All Tilly had were stern but loving words and a standing promise to never mention if her shirts were wet when Arthur finally untangled himself from one of her hugs. Four years after that loss, Arthur is better in many ways, but some days, the cracks look as wide and endless as the Grand Canyon. Today is one of those days.
The dark circles under his eyes are the first hint and Tilly files it away. Arthur never slept well, even when life was good, so it might not be something to worry over on its own, but the tight set to his jaw is another red flag. Tilly locks her phone and slips it back into her coat pocket, plunging onward into conversation, whether Arthur wants it or not.

“So how’s things? And don’t try and feed me any of that ‘Oh, m’fine. Nohin’ goin’ on,’ bullshit,” Tilly’s impression of Arthur’s accent never fails to bring a smile to his face and it succeeds again today. The corner of his mouth twitches before blooming into a small smile. Tilly counts it as a victory, taking in his trimmed beard and clean hair, Maybe not so bad after all, then.

“M’just…its work, is all. Same old drama,” Arthur says, checking over his shoulder before he takes the new exit leading toward Cumberland Forest. The highway is comparatively new and while it makes some things easier, Tilly still finds the ribbon of cement and metal an eyesore. Something that mars the beauty around them; the sunlight shining between the pine and evergreen boughs as it finally breaks free of clouds and the occasional songbird that flits from tree to tree. The old familiar dirt roads are long-since paved over and Tilly finds herself feeling sad for it, silly as it is.

“I thought Mr. Levi got a lawyer involved?” Tilly twists in her seat so she faces Arthur full on, but it’s less than a moment before he fixes her with a stern gaze and she goes back to ‘sittin’ proper’.

“He did, but I guess Cornwall don’t feel like he’s gotta follow those rules anymore. Probably wasn’t him, just someone on his payroll. Between him and the Emerald, we’re gettin’ squeezed out.”

“It isn’t getting any cheaper to keep that land, either. Not with all the new building and development goin’ on,” Tilly muses.

“We barely scraped by last tax season. I don’t know what he’s gonna do this year,” Arthur mutters.

“Not that many people still there, I take it?”

“Nah. They want…somethin’ else. Somethin’ Levi Livery never was and doesn’t really know how to be. No call for stock and workin’ horses in town anymore. They want polish and flash and…all kindsa shit. But they don’t wanna do the work; you know how rich folks are,” Arthur’s face twists with disgust, like he’s tasted something nasty. Tilly may not share his distrust of white collar folks, but she understands it. Arthur’s birth parents had been done dirty but some bigwig back in San Francisco when he was little and it had landed them on hard times. Times so rough that his Mama got sick and never recovered. Lyle, his biological father, had turned to booze and the occasional B&E until it landed him in prison. Then Arthur found himself in the system at eleven years old; one parent dead and the other so apathetic about his own child that he willingly signed his rights away to the state, before dying in a fight in the prison yard one summer morning.

So, Tilly understands, she does. It’s simply one of the many things that sets Arthur’s teeth on edge and turns him, as Sean likes to put it, ‘into a puffed up cat.’

“I know how much you hate it when folks play at being cowboys,” Tilly says as she holds her hands in front of the heating vent. The chill is worse the higher they travel. Patches of snow are clinging to the semi-frozen earth around them.

“Ain’t that. S’just…don’t commit to an animal if you ain’t gonna be there to care for it, is all. There’s plenty of good animals rotting away at the place, I swear.”

“I suppose we’re just lucky that you can’t steal them all and hide them in your apartment, huh?” Tilly laughs at the image of it; Arthur’s shoebox apartment filled with horses milling around in the kitchen and his bathroom.

Arthur covers his own laugh with a hand, blushing slightly, “Not sure Herr Strauss would appreciate that. Tight ass barely tolerated Copper and the dog was a saint.”

Tilly barks out a loud laugh, “A saint? I think Susan would disagree. He was a menace and a fish thief, if you recall.”

“He was just hungry, that’s all. He had a big day…” Arthur pouts, almost sounding petulant.

Tilly shakes her head, smiling at her brother, “That dog could have killed someone and you would’ve found a way to justify it, I swear.”

“Only thing he ever killed was a whistle pig and that was just once. He didn’t even mean to do that, he was just playin’.”

“See! Exactly what I mean. Thank you for proving my point.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, “Alright, alright. Enough about me. How’s school? How are the girls? How’s Lenny?”

“They’re good! Mary-Beth is lovin’ her classes, of course. It’s all reading books and writing about them; arguing over who’s interpretation is better. Though, her book collection is starting to get a little…out of control. We might find her buried under a pile one of these days.”

That earns her a soft chuckle and the expression on his face is fond, soft and open. Arthur missed his extended family, but he had been fiercely proud when Tilly had gotten accepted into college, even if it meant moving to Saint Denis in order to go.

“And Karen?”

Tilly rolls her eyes and shrugs, “Oh, you know her. She just goes to campus for the parties. That thing with Sean is still goin’ on, by the way.”
Arthur groans, only partially out of a sense of dramatics. Karen and Sean’s relationship was firmly stuck somewhere between friends with benefits and a couple.Their constant fighting-flirting rotation was an annoyance that everyone has learned to accept and tease Karen about whenever the occasion arises. Mary-Beth insisted it was romantic, ‘like something out of a romantic comedy’. Tilly found it tiresome, but it was entertaining, at least. “Don’t remind me. She still swearin’ they ain’t together?”

“She says it’s casual. A low-key thing,” Tilly turns to watch the treeline thicken as they round a series of twists and turns. There’s no destination in mind; there never is.

“Low-key. Yeah, well, that ‘low-key thing’ happened in my damn truck,” Arthur grumbles, sounding so much like Hosea that Tilly has to bite her cheek to contain her laughter.

“Ugh! Don’t, Arthur. That’s disgusting,” Tilly shivers at the images that come to mind and the effect is only made worse by memories of noises that she truly wishes she hadn’t heard…

“Right back there on that seat. Like a couple’a animals.”

“Stop!” Tilly can’t help but laugh as she swats her older brother on the arm, feeling a warm, familiar glow settle in her heart at the sound of his deep laugh.

Taking her chance to change the topic, Tilly shoots Arthur a sly smile, “Mary-Beth met guy she likes, too.”
The way Arthur’s face turns back to the mask of tough-protective-brother at the mention of a new boy is comical. Arthur had always taken his job of vetting dates and potential boyfriends more seriously than he really should, but for all of the complaining Tilly has done, she appreciates the care. Karen was less understanding, preferring to snap at anyone who showed too much interest in her romantic life. Mary-Beth was some curious mix of the two, depending on who was doing the questioning. She had gushed about him to Tilly at the slightest provocation, but had dodged the question when Lenny had needled her about it later the same day. Tilly suspects it has more to do with Lenny and Arthur’s friendship, more than anything else. Arthur knew he could scare the shit out of anyone, if he decided to and it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that Arthur would feel tempted to put the fear of God into some poor boy who looked twice at one of his sisters.

“What’s his name? Where’d she meet him?” Arthur’s tone is hard; already ready to weigh and calculate potential risk, seeking threats where there are none to be found.

Tilly holds up a hand and speaks softly, hoping to bring Arthur’s guard back down, “His name is Keiran and she met him at some poetry night thing she went to. He’s harmless, I promise.”

That earns her a hard look, almost disapproving, “You met him?”

“I did and he’s a puppy. She’s got him wrapped around her finger, so don’t feel like you need to throw your weight around if she brings him home, okay? She really seems to like him.” Tilly is beginning to regret bringing the subject up at all, but it is a decent segway into what she really wants to talk about, which she knows Arthur will like even less.

All she gets in a noncommittal grunt in reply, but it’s the best Tilly can hope for, really. She lets the silence stretch on for a few minutes; the radio signal had gotten fuzzy when they were enveloped in thick woods. Cumberland Forest was state protected land and a popular camping spot in the summer. The chill of fall turning to winter meant that it was more or less empty of anyone but the most dedicated hiker or day-tripper. After a few minutes, Tilly steels her nerve and moves on.

“I saw Mary.”

Tilly’s eyes don’t leave Arthur’s face after she says it. It seems to hit him slowly; when he registers what he’s been told, his eyes widen and a tell-tale flush creeps to his cheeks. The mix of hurt and longing is clear on his face before he shutters himself away and his face goes blank. It happens like the flick of camera shutters, snap snap snap. It breaks Tilly’s heart to mention Mary Gillis, now Linton, but she doesn’t want her brother caught off guard if Mary ends up following through with what she had mentioned to Tilly during their short conversation.

It had been purely by accident, of course. The last Tilly had heard, Mary had tucked tail and run back to her Daddy in Chicago after she had called the wedding off six or so years back. So, running into her, literally, on the crowded streets of Saint Denis hadn’t been something Tilly had expected. Mary’s memory was sharp as ever and she had recognized Tilly almost immediately, offering a flurry of apologies as she brushed her dark hair out of her face. Tilly had been annoyed to see that Mary looked well; polished and well-dressed as always and just as beautiful as she had been when Tilly had seen her last. Tilly had been polite, of course, but cold, which she figured was no less than what Mary had deserved. After a couple polite questions about Tilly’s life and wellbeing, she had asked after Arthur and for a moment, Tilly considered walking away. Sitting there in the truck with Arthur, watching him retreat into himself like a turtle withdrawing into its shell, Tilly wishes she had.

“S’that right.” It isn’t a question, but more of a statement. Arthur knew even less about Mary’s life than Tilly did, as far as Tilly knew. Mary had cut off all contact, blocking his number and refusing to answer agonized letters begging for an explanation. The last Arthur had heard, she’d married a son of one of her Daddy’s business partners. Some pampered rich boy from the right side of the tracks.

“I don’t know why she was in Saint Denis, but that isn’t important. She…” Tilly chews on her lip, her courage wilting like a dried out flower now that the time has come to tell him what he needs to know.

“What is it, Tilly,” Arthur has pulled the truck to the shoulder of the highway and put it into park, but he doesn’t meet her eyes, choosing instead to stare out the windshield.

“She asked after you. Asked how you were doin’. Said she might reach out to you and asked if your number had changed.”
Arthur pulls in a breath slowly through his nose and rubs his eyes, like the idea itself is physically painful. Perhaps it is. “What did you tell her?”

“I couldn’t think of a lie; I was too damn shocked. I told her the number was the same. I’m sorry, Arthur. I shouldn’t have done that–”

“S’fine, really. She, uh, has that effect on folks. Knockin’ you on your ass and all. That all she wanted?”

Tilly drops her gaze to her hands and shrugs. Truthfully, she hasn’t the slightest idea what Mary plans to do and the guilt she feels for opening Arthur up to whatever new games Mary Linton might be gearing up to play is nearly eating her alive.

Arthur hums and they sit in silence for a while, idling there on the side of the highway until Tilly shivers. Bo’s heater was shoddy at best and today the pitiful gusts of air do almost nothing to keep her arm. He must see her tremble, because he pulls back onto the highway and turns back toward town without a word.

“I really am sorry, Arthur. I just didn’t want you to be…unprepared. Keeping it from you seemed…worse than telling you.” Tilly has to swallow thickly at the closed-off expression that’s still fixed on Arthur’s face.

“I’d rather know when it comes down to it.” Arthur has always been a believer in facing something head-on, no matter how painful it might be. Normally, it’s something that Tilly has always admired and tried to emulate herself, but in that moment, she can see how draining it must be.

“Whatever it is she wants…whatever she says, don’t let her pull one over on you. Can you promise me that?”

Arthur’s hands tighten on the wheel and he says nothing, so Tilly continues speaking, “Please, Arthur. What she did was fucking terrible and you and I both know she always knew how to…” Tilly isn’t sure how to finish the thought without setting off Arthur’s temper. She feels like she’s walking a tightrope and has no other choice but to keep putting one foot in front of the other. “I don’t know what to call it, but you know what I mean. Just, whatever she says, don’t let her get her hooks in. You deserve better than Mary Linton. You deserve someone who wants you and only you and doesn’t give a damn what anyone else thinks. Someone who will love you just as much as you love them. Okay?”

Arthur remains silent and his grip on the wheel is still vice-like when he drops Tilly off back at Hosea’s house a half an hour later.

Chapter Text

Arthur’s phone lights up and he’s powerless to stop the flutter of butterflies in his stomach when he reads the name of the caller.

“Hey Charles,” Arthur winces, worrying he sounds too eager, too excited to hear from Charles. But they’re friends, it’s allowed, isn’t it?

“Morning, Arthur. What are you up to?” Charles’ voice is rough, warm and groggy, like he’s just woken up. And for whatever reason, his first thought was to call Arthur. It shouldn’t be flattering, but God damn if it doesn’t fill Arthur with a soft, almost gooey glow of joy.

Arthur has to tuck his free hand under his armpit before he starts twirling his hair or something equally as insane, “Oh, nothin’ much. Just at Hosea’s for breakfast; Tilly, John, Lenny and myself.” The sound of chatter gets louder for a moment as the door to the backyard opens and shuts; Arthur has the silly instinct to bolt down the hall toward his old bedroom, as if he’s doing something elicit.

“I’m sorry I bothered you, then. I’ll go ahead and let you get back to it.” Charles sounds….almost disappointed, but Arthur isn’t certain he’s not reading too much into things. Looking for something that doesn’t exist, but he is no less hopeful to find.

“No! Nah, you ain’t– you’re never botherin’ me, Charles,” Arthur winces, cursing his chronic inability to keep his mouth in check. There’s a quiet huff of laughter on the end of the line and before Charles can get off the phone, Arthur finds himself opening his big mouth, yet again, “Why don’t you come on over? We got…got enough donuts and all to feed a damn army. And uh, coffee. The good stuff - - Hosea don’t stint on his coffee.”

The silence stretches on for what seems like a lifetime and Arthur briefly considers locking himself in the linen closet for the rest of his life, or however long it might take to live this down. Fifty years, at least, he reckons.

“Are you…sure? I don’t want to interrupt or intrude on a family thing,” maybe it’s the fact that Charles seems to have just woken up, but he sounds more open, more vulnerable than Arhur is used to. Arthur stands up straighter and turns his back to the kitchen, concern coiling tight in his gut.

“You ain’t intruding if I’m invitin’. Besides, I need someone else to talk to once Lenny and Hosea start goin’ on about all of that highbrow learnin’,” Arthur isn’t sure what makes him so certain of it, but the idea of leaving Charles to whatever has him sounding so raw, in his own way, feels wrong in more ways than Arthur can count. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust the other man to handle himself; if anything Charles is far more put together and mature about some things than Arthur himself is, despite the age difference, especially where his feelings are concerned. But Arthur knows enough of Charles’ history to understand that if Charles is feeling bad enough to reach out for company, or even just a phone call rather than keep to himself, he must be pretty shaken up.

That earns him what could pass for a laugh, though a weak one. Arthur will take what he can get, “If you’re sure, I guess it would be stupid to turn down free food and decent coffee. Give me twenty minutes.”

Arthur can’t help but smile as he exhales a sigh of relief, “You got the address, right?” He’ll be able to keep an eye on Charles, that’s his concern. That’s the cause of the fluttering and flurries in his gut, or so he tries to tell himself.

There’s rustling and shifting on the other side of the call before Charles confirms he does. Arthur lets him go and is turning back toward the kitchen to double check there’s a fresh pot of coffee on for Charles when he gets here, when he nearly walks right into Tilly. She’s watching, mouth pulled up into a smirk that brings a thousand memories rushing to the surface with it. Pranks on Arthur, pulled off by both Tilly and John. A younger Tilly following Arthur around the house, begging to come along, wherever he went, it didn’t matter, she wanted to tag along. Where most older brothers had a younger brother to shake off, Arthur had had Tilly. Not that he had minded, most of the time.

The expression she wears now is a slightly more grown version of the one she would have right before she set to teasing him about something or other. Years ago, it had been his relationship with Mary, or more his awkwardness around Mary, to be more specific. Arthur holds up a hand and rolls his eyes before he walks past her, intent on making sure Charles has hot coffee, no matter how much ribbing and needling it might cost Arthur personally.

“Who was that?” Tilly singongs, right on Arthur’s heels, exactly as he was expecting her to be. For a brief second, Arthur considers lying to her, but he knows that Tilly will sniff it out in an instant.

Arthur shrugs and turns toward the coffee maker, feeling Tilly’s sharp eyes on him all the while, “Arthur…tell me that wasn’t…has she…”

Arthur has to count his way through two deep breaths before he can answer with a steady voice that almost, almost sounds bored, “No. Weren’t….weren’t her.”

“Oh! Who then?”

Arthur glares at his little sister over his shoulder, but she simply blinks at him, bright-eyed and impossible for him to scare off. Unlike John, Tilly never once believed any of Arthur’s postering or the teasing required of an elder brother. All too happy to call his bluffs, even as a twelve year old, all elbows, knees and preceptive gazes. Arthur has been wrapped around her finger ever since her first overnight visit, when she had wormed her way into his bedroom to watch him sketch.

“Charles.”
The grin she gives him makes Arthur want to scurry under a rug; it’s a wicked smile and her eyes are positively alight with mischief and nonsense. “What did Mr. Smith want? Can’t have been work - - it’s a weekend and even you are taking the day off.”

“He’s just comin’ over for some coffee, that’s all,” Arthur mutters as he pours the cold water into the coffee maker. He studies the assorted coffee grounds before selecting a dark roast that he suspects Charles will like best and scoops the grounds in. The end result will be strong enough to set anyone else’s hair on end, but Charles had mentioned once or twice that he struggled to sleep well at night. It’s something Arthur more than understands, that sluggishness and looking at the world as if it were a copy of a copy. Like everything slipped through your fingers before you could get your hands on it. Coffee might not fix things outright, but it’s something small Arthur can do to help Charles and he has no other choice but to do it.

“Coffee, I see, I see. If it’s just coffee, why are you turnin’ the color of a tomato?”

“Tilly, for Christ’s sake…”

The sound of Tilly’s laugh echoes throughout the large room and Arthur can’t stop himself from pulling his shoulders up higher around his ears at how delighted she sounds.

“Don’t worry, Arthur, I won’t tell anyone,” she giggles.

“Ain’t nothin’ to tell. We’re just friends, is all.”
A pair of thin arms wrap around his middle and he jumps at the contact, shocked at how tightly his sister holds on to him. She’s got her face pressed against his back, like she used to do before she got too big and grown to hug and hang off of Arthur and John. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Arthur.”

As suddenly as she appeared, Tilly vanishes, slipping out the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard, leaving Arthur swallowing down a lump in his throat. After clearing his throat once, or half a dozen times, Arthur turns on the coffee maker and turns the boxes of donuts strewn across the kitchen island. Bessie had started the tradition of Saturday breakfasts, not long after Arthur had been legally adopted and they continued them for years, feast or famine. When Bessie’s illness had landed her in the hospital full-time, they had carried on the tradition in her room as best they could. Hosea continues the tradition now and Arthur suspects that he does so because of a promise to his wife, as much as out of the desire to see his children.

Thoughts turning to Charles again, Arthur wonders if Charles has ever had that sort of experience before. Arthur knows…a bit about Charles’ childhood - - just enough for them to bond over shared experiences and twin scars on their hearts. Charles keeps things close to the vest, which Arthur respects, as curious as he is to learn anything new about the younger man that he can. With a shake of his head, Arthur focuses on the task at hand: saving Charles’ favorite donuts from the grubby, filthy hands of Sean and the rest of the miscreants currently making a ruckus in the backyard.

The doorbell rings not long after and it takes Arthur a moment to place where the sound is coming from. No one who comes over regularly bothers to ring the bell, or knock and most of them have keys - - Sean being the glaring exception for reasons Hosea still refuses to explain. Arthur jogs to the door to let Charles in before anyone else has a chance to comment on it and he feels like a fool for how…giddy he feels.

Arthur opens the door to see Charles looking somewhat disheveled; his hair is tied up in a loose pony and his clothes are wrinkled. He does look like he’s been through the ringer and Arthur feels his heart squeeze at just how run down Charles looks. Normally a stoic, self-contained man, Charles tended to keep to himself in most cases, but if he’s reaching out to anyone….to Arthur...well, it feels significant in a way Arthur can’t quite put his finger on.

“Hey Charles,” Arthur works to keep his voice low, though he doesn’t really understand why that’s so important to him now. Speaking any louder than a low murmur seems like it might set Charles on edge or send him scurrying back to his apartment and that’s the last thing Arthur wants.

Charles gives a wordless, small wave and the eye contact is fleeting, darting from Arthur’s eyes and away again. Arthur had seen Charles like this a time or two before, at least enough to have an idea of what the other man needs and Arthur hopes he hasn’t got it wrong.

Without a word, Arthur ushers Charles inside the house, but rather than directing him to the kitchen, he steers the younger man down the hallway to the left of the entryway, where the bedrooms are.

“My old room is at the end of the hall; jus’ go in there and I’ll bring the coffee and stuff in to ya. Everyone’s in the backyard and I don’t think–I mean it seems like…” Arthur stutters, gesturing vaguely with his hands as his thoughts come to a screeching halt. It happens to him, sometimes; his thoughts get lost or tangled up in themselves so much that his mind seems to stop working completely.

Charles seems grateful, even a bit touched at the thought and pads quietly down the hall before opening the door and slipping inside without a sound. Arthur makes quick work of gathering the donuts he’s saved and pouring the coffee into a mug - - only spilling a little on his hands in his haste to get back to Charles. He has to balance the plate of donuts on the mug to open the bedroom door, but that’s fine. They’ve gotten by unnoticed and the last thing Arthur wants to deal with is Sean sticking his beak in where it isn’t wanted.

Charles is standing in the center of the room, examining what he sees. Hosea and Bessie had insisted on keeping his room exactly as he had left it when he’d moved out. His old sketchbooks are still piled on the desk, with some drawings pinned to corkboard or taped to the wall. Tomes about nature and plant life of the area are shoved onto a small bookcase, with horse figurines standing proudly on the top shelf, all without a speck of dust. The thought of Hosea coming in weekly to dust Arthur’s things before carefully putting them back in their place…well, it chokes Arthur up something fierce. Even his bedding is the same; a deep navy duvet, carefully tucked, as if Arthur is expected to tumble into this bed at night, rather than his own. Arthur squeezes by Charles and sets the food and coffee on the desk before pulling out the desk chair to fold himself into. Or, he tries, at any rate. Squeezing his thighs into such a narrow space quickly reveals itself to be an exercise in futility and Arthur flushes and cusses under his breath as he pulls himself free.

“S’smaller than I remember,” Arthur mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “You can sit on the bed, s’fine. I haven’t slept here in years; Hosea just keeps this stuff here. Same with John’s room, but Tilly stays here when she ain’ away at school an’ all.”

Shut up, Morgan.

Charles tucks his hands between his legs, still not saying a word. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it is concerning. Arthur isn’t sure if he should keep talking or shut his trap; he’s about to ask Charles which of the two he needs when the younger man clears his throat and spits out a few words, voice sounding almost hoarse.

“Thank you for inviting me.”

“Oh, ‘course. Ain’t nothin’, really. You sounded…real rough an’ I didn’t want you to, uh, you know. Be alone if that ain’t what you want…or need…right now, so..” Arthur winces, bemoaning his awkwardness, though Charles doesn’t seem to have noticed.
Arthur picks up the mug of coffee and holds it out and there’s no small amount of pride he feels when Charles takes it, cradling the mug close. He pokes the plate closer before he sits on the bed, careful not to touch Charles anywhere.

It takes a few sips of coffee before Charles is able to speak again, “Just a…rough night. You know?”

“Oh, yeah, of course I do. How many times I call you at 3 in the mornin’, a damn mess,” Arthur chuckles darkly. It’s true. Reaching out to Charles on especially bad nights when he’s dry heaving into a toilet or curled up in a fetal position, too afraid to move is much easier than calling Hosea or anyone else. Charles worries, but he doesn’t hover. His presence is steady, grounding and unobtrusive. Where most people seem to suck the life right out of Arthur these days, Charles appears to have the opposite effect.

Arthur sighs and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, “I ain’t much good at this, but I…I’m here for ya, you that don’t you?”

Charles turns slowly, meeting Arthur’s eyes for longer than a moment, for the first time since he’s arrived and the warmth Arthur sees in them sets his heart to jackhammering in his chest. “I know.” It’s all Charles says, but Lord above, it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

Chapter Text

Most terrible days seemed to begin with a phone call, at least recently. There was one exception, of course, but Charles was quickly turning into an exception for many of Arthur’s self-imposed rules. It’s something he tries not to dwell on too much, even when the hours behind his desk stretch on and his eyes start to cross out of sheer boredom. But sure as shit, he isn’t bored anymore when he glares at the flashing screen of his phone and sees an old contact name: Mary Linton. Arthur had never told anyone, not even Hosea or Tilly, that he had transferred Mary’s number dutifully from one phone to the next over the ten years since they’d parted ways. It was a shameful thing Arthur couldn’t bring himself to confess, but neither could he stop doing it. Whether that was born of some insane hope that she might come to her senses - she didn’t, she married some rich man from Chicago - and call him up. All to tell him she’d been wrong - Arthur can’t say that she had been, not after so much time to chew it all over and reflect on it. He knows now that if they had gone ahead with it, more than likely they would have divorced in few years, on the absolute outside.

Time and perspective has made it clear just how mismatched they were as well as just how willfully blind they both were to the fact that they were not compatible in any way that ensured a successful marriage. He had loved her, of course, fiercely he’d loved her, desperately, but that had been part of the trouble. That desperate love came from a desire for escape, for him and for her. But they wanted the other person to offer them a route out and that wouldn’t have happened either. All the same, the pain still lingers and Arthur still feels himself getting short of breath when he picks up the phone, trying all the while to keep Tilly’s request at the front of his mind.

“He-hello?” Arthur swallows thickly, clearing his throat and mentally cursing himself, awkward start already, wonderful.

There’s a beat of silence before she speaks and her voice is as bright and lovely as Arthur remembers, “Arthur? It’s- It’s me, Mary Lin–Gillis.”

He knew her married name already, but Arthur doesn’t harp on that point. She sounds as uneasy as he does and Arthur can’t work out if that hurts him or fills him with a strange sense of righteousness. She’d broken it off, after all and had done it in a…bad way. Cowardly, some said. Maybe it was right that she felt ill at ease calling him up after all of this time?

“Yeah, I uh…Tilly told me to expect– Well not expect a call, but she’d said she seen you in Saint Denis, so…”

“I was glad to see her, really. She seemed like she’s doing well,” the openness in Mary’s voice is cloying false, as if she’s playing the part she thinks she needs to. The warm and open person, a good conversationalist dutifully overlooking an ugly topic that hangs over their heads. It’s got Arthur rolling his eyes, already growing impatient with the song and dance. The Mary he remembers hadn’t been afraid to go toe to toe with him, to scream and shout right back at him, no matter how ugly the topic was. It had been he’d respected about her as well as something that drove him damn crazy.

“Yeah, college is really agreen’ with her, for sure.” Arthur lets the sentence hang there, just to see how far Mary intends to take this. He’s got nothing else that really needs doing and there’s still half an hour left before he can head out for the night.

“I didn’t…I didn’t call about your sister, as nice as it was to see her and all.”

“No, I expect you didn’t. What’dya need?” It’s an old question, worn and broken in like old boots. She would call him for all sorts of things; the tires needed filling with air, she couldn’t remember where she’d left her checkbook, could he come take a look at her leaky kitchen sink? All small things, really, but Lord, they made him feel needed. Made him feel valuable and necessary to her life in a similar way to the way she’d become to his. Arthur is both eager for the answer and wary of what she might want from him now, after all these years. Surely he’d run out his usefulness to her when she’d shacked up with Linton, whatever his name was.

“I was wondering if you’d heard anything from or seen Jamie at all?”

Arthur sits up and the old office chair creaks ominously beneath him in protest, “Little Jamie? No, no ‘course not. Why would I?”

“It’s a long story,” Mary sighs, sounding suddenly drained. As if it's a story she’s had to tell and re-tell a dozen times or more. For Arthur’s part, he can’t think of anything that would bring young Jamie Gillis out to New Hannover, let alone Valentine. So, whatever it is that’s going on, Arthur is out of the loop.

“Okay..? I’m gonna need to hear it, if you expect me to understand what the hell–heck this is about, Mary.” Arthur rubs his temple and leans an elbow on the desk.

“Jamie’s been struggle at university in Boston for some time now. He and Daddy have been fighting about it, I guess and he - Jamie - left. Left college, I mean. Dropped out.”

Arthur’s eyes widen and he chuckles, shocked at Jamie’s guts, “He quit school? Damn… Bet Daddy weren’t too pleased about that.”

Mary huffs in exasperation, as if Arthur is failing to grasp something obvious, and he almost certainly is, “He left Boston, Arthur. We don’t know where he is and I can’t reach him; I’ve been trying for weeks. Daddy was saying something about Jamie being on his laptop all hours and I didn’t think anything of it at first, given all of the studying he had to do in that program, but then I went into his room and checked it.”

Arthur furrows his brows at this, “He left it behind?”

“Yes! Which is strange enough, but when I checked his search history, I saw some…strange things, Arthur.”

Arthur has to nearly bite the tip of his tongue clean off to avoid making a pointed remark at what exactly Mary had likely found, given she was snooping around her nineteen year old brother’s private laptop. She doesn’t notice his silence, just keeps going on, getting more and more upset as she does.

“He’s gotten involved in some…dark things, Arthur. Odd things, insane things. This group, I– I don’t know what to make of it. Have you heard of the Chelonians?”

Arthur had, but only bits and pieces. He spends as little time online as he can get away with, between work and keeping tabs on his sisters. The sinister workings of some…gaggle of nutcases doesn’t really rate high on his list of concerns. After all, he lived in a town that folks had been insisting was cursed for more than a hundred years. It wasn’t exactly uncommon to stumble across some crackpot spouting bullshit, offline or online. “Not much, no. Mary, why’re you talkin’ to me about all of this? Seems like a job for the police.” Besides all of that, Arthur hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Jamie since the wedding had been called off.

Mary sighs again and Arthur winces at the teary, almost frantic edge to her voice when she speaks, “I have gone to the police, Arthur. Both in Boston and in Valentine; they said the same thing. They can’t do anything about it. He’s an adult and if he wants to leave school and ‘go his own way’ there’s nothing we can do about it.” Arthur sits up with a jolt the bit Mary had let slip, intentionally or not, he doesn’t know: Mary is, or very recently was, in Valentine. “We could file a missing person’s report, but I don’t think they’d do much about it.” Her voice has the brittle edge she had used on Arthur during the tail end of their relationship. As if she expects nothing of use or value from the police in Boston or Valentine. The sound of it still makes Arthur’s heart ache in a dull way.

Arthur blows out a breath and runs his free hand through his hair. He’s not sure what good he’d be to her, but it feels wrong to turn her away without at least offering to keep an eye out. “I can keep a lookout for him, or this group you said. Ain’t sure it’ll do much of anythin’, but don’t hurt either way, I guess.”

“Oh, thank you, Arthur. Really, you have no idea how much better that makes me feel. You’re…you’re the only person in town that I can trust with….this sort of thing.”

Arthur has to close his eyes to against the warm, glowing feeling that washes over him at her thanks. Has to try to tune out the soft way she says his name, so close to the way she would whisper it against his bare skin, Oh, Arthur, sweetheart…

“Yeah, yeah sure. Like I said, don’t cost me nothin’ and I always did like Jamie,” Arthur catches sight of the time on his computer screen and latches on to the excuse to back out of the call, before he agrees to something that might hurt him more than his conversation already has, “I hate to, uh, cut you off, but I gotta get goin’, Mary.”

“Oh, of course. Thank you again, Arthur, really.”
Arthur is nodding, just about to mutter a final goodbye, when Mary adds, hastily, “Oh, I wanted to say, Arthur… I heard about-about your….well. I wanted to say I’m sorry, Arthur. Really, really, sorry. It’s horrible, just horrible.”

Something just inside Arthur, maybe tied to his heart, or his lungs, judging by how quickly the air has been sucked out the room, snaps. He closes his eyes tightly against the prickling of tears threatening to spill and clears his throat - away from the phone - twice before he spits out a rough, “Yeah, thanks. Gotta head out.” He taps the red button and drops the phone onto his desk before pushing the palms of his hands against his eyes. He’s tired of crying, so damn tired it. Of the brittle, fragile way he feels and the way that any memory or mention of Isaac shatters him completely. The counseling was meant to help, so Hosea and Susan had insisted when they’d driven him to that first appointment with Dr. Balfour. And there was something…nice, maybe novel, about having someone to tell his concerns to. Someone without a stake in the fights and tangled mess of relationships that made up his family. But for all of that, the grief feels no less sharp. No less overpowering, for all of its ability to bring him to his knees, literally or figuratively.

With a huff, Arthur wipes his eyes and hastily clocks out and shuts the head office down for the night. With a trembling hand, he locks the main gate and walks to his truck - the only one left in the lot - and pulls out of the gravel drive faster than he ought to. The drive back to his complex is quiet; not many cars are left on the road at this time of night. The 24-hour gas station several blocks away from the barn is likewise quiet, and Arthur drums his fingers on Bo’s stearing wheel before he grumbles a low, “Oh, fuck it,” before cutting across an empty lane to pull into the station’s parking lot.

The bright neon signs are flickering, the sidewalks are cracked and stained in a way Arthur finds comforting. Working class neighborhoods still felt safer, even after all those years with Hosea and Bessie. They hadn’t been rich, but they’d certainly been a hell of a lot better off than Lyle and Beatrice - his biological parents - had been. Arthur had never truly adjusted to what he considered to be affluence and soft living. The wear and tear of the gas station is familiar to him, as is the tired, apathetic expression of the attendant who tosses him a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in exchange for crumbled dollar bills.

Arthur only just waits until he’s out of the store before shaking a cigarette loose from the packaging and Christ, the feeling that washes over him when he takes that first deep inhale might be the best thing he’s felt in months. He’ll have to deal with the disappointed looks and pointed comments from Hosea and many others, but just now, Arthur doesn’t give a damn. As he brings the cigarette to his lips for another lovely drag, a voice pipes up just behind his left shoulder, making Arthur just about jump out of skin, “Help a blind man!”

“Jesus fucking shit!” Arthur fumbles with the cigarette, hissing as he catches the lit end in his palm and the lighter clatters to the ground. His heart is pounding as he wheels on the stranger - an old man it turns out, looking beat to all hell. His eyes are milky white and his clothes are filthy and patched in a way Arthur recognizes. There’s a hefty pack on the old man’s back and he leans heavily on a gnarled walking stick.

“You scared the shit outta me, old man! What the hell you doin’ sneakin’ up on someone this late at night?” Arthur waits a beat, two beats for a reply and all he gets in return is:

“Help a blind man,” this time said with a playful sort of lilt. He’s outta his damn mind. Figures, poor bastard, Arthur thinks to himself as he takes a step back.

Shoving the cigarette between his lips, Arthur sighs and digs out his wallet, “Yeah, yeah, just a damn second. Got a couple more dollars in here, I think.” Arthur fishes out his last few dollars and holds them out to the man, only to have an honest-to-God tin cup shoved in his face.

“You’re kiddin’ me, right? Really stickin’ with that whole Oliver Twist deal, huh? Fine, here. Money’s in the cup now, Mister.” Arthur shoves the bills inside and turns to leave, only to find a bony hand reaching out to grab him by his coat sleeve.

“Hey now, I gave you what I got, leave off, I mean it,” Arthur mutters. He doesn’t want to make too much of a fuss, on the off chance that the cashier decides to call the cops over it. There’s no reason to chase the old man off over something like this, or worse, get him arrested over it. But the old man’s grip is stronger than it looks and Arthur has a hard time shaking himself free. Before he can bring his other hand up to yank the filthy hand away, the old man starts to mutter in a soft voice.

“Look carefully, sir. Look carefully at what stands before you. You must choose, sir. Choose between the darkness that calls to you, or the light you so dearly long for.”

Arthur scowls, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the…prophecy…or fortune he’s just been given. The old man’s hand finally releases him and Arthur wastes no time beating a retreat back to the safety of Bo’s cab.