Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The crisp, cold forest air rumbled in his chest, assaulting his lungs. His feet pounded against the forest floor and every running step he took made his entire legs dully throb. The almost healed gunshot wound in his shoulder shot jolts of pain across his torso, despite being weeks old. He had been chasing this god damned deer for more than an hour, not stopping for a moment.

 Earlier in the day, in a rush to get back to camp with some actual food, he had shot the same deer. Shot from too far a distance and inevitably missed, that is. Well, technically he hadn’t missed entirely. The bullet had pierced its hind leg, causing the animal to limp and scream in anguish. Arthur had thought he’d simply chase it down with his horse, but that had proven difficult the second the creature scrambled its way into a particularly dense patch of forest, impossible to safely maneuver with his large shire at any speed higher than a gait. So, he decided to abandon his horse and gave chase on foot.

Any sane person would have let the deer go and most likely die in a matter of hours or days. But when you’ve been avoiding heading back to camp for nearly a week, to the point that Javier had come to track you down days ago and told you to drag your ass back to Clements Point, a man often feels prompted to come back with presents. So here he was, in the middle of god knows where, without his horse, chasing a deer that– thinking back– looked skinnier than a stray dog on the streets of Saint Denis. 

He was just about to let the trees know all about his frustrations, when a familiar whitetail clumsily jumped out from behind a bush, only a few dozen feet away from its hunter. Arthur immediately got down and shuffled behind a close-by boulder, hands flying up to tightly grasp his Springfield rifle. The deer remained still, basking in the sunshine peeking through the thick foliage and eating the green grass below. The entire display looked almost– peaceful. Or it would have, if Arthur ignored the gashing hole in the deer’s leg and its strained whimpers.

A pang of guilt rose in his stomach, only to be quickly brushed aside in order to finish the job at hand. Slowly, he propped up his rifle on the steady surface of the rock, trying his hardest to calm his ragged breathing. Jesus, his shoulder was giving him a hard time. 

As he lined up his sights and gently placed his pointer finger on the trigger, the deer’s head rose from ground-level. The frail creature was looking straight at Arthur. If he’d been a religious man, he would have taken it as a message– a sign of some sort. But he’d grown far too accustomed to the cycle of nature–life and death– to believe in talks of eternity or salvation. With a swallow, he pulled the trigger.

BANG

The deer fell with a heavy thud and the echo of a gunshot. Arthur quickly shot up from his position to confirm the kill. 

“That’s it!” He couldn’t help himself from exclaiming. Jogging over to the fallen animal, a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding left his lungs. The sharp, iron-like- yet familiar smell of blood soon overpowered that of wet grass and pine trees. Despite the leg wound being almost two hours old, it had remained as wet as the new one in its head. Looking at it made Arthur wonder, how the hell had it continued to run for so long with an injury that severe. Judging by the amount of blood on the deer’s leg and how skinny it was, it was practically running on empty, like a steam train without coal.

He had to give it to the deer. It was one hell of a fighter. He swung his catch over his shoulder carefully so as not to get too much blood on his jacket. Also in an attempt to not absolutely destroy his shoulder.

–

Arthur was lucky his horse was a lazy bastard, as the raven black stallion had stayed exactly in the place he’d left him, happily munching on the tall grass. Luckily, he had managed to find the clearing relatively quickly, not having ended up more than a mile away from his original starting point. The deer and him had been running around in circles. He chuckled to himself, and whistled his horse over.

Brutus, he had named the large equine. Thinking back on the incident that led him to pick the name, Arthur swore he could still feel the pain of hitting the ground, after being thrown into the air like a first-time bull rider. The O’driscolls that had been after him were only a quick and metaphorical pain in the ass. Landing on his behind, on the other hand had not. After sorely climbing onto his (then unnamed) horse, he recounted muttering some words along the lines of “traitor” and “backstabber”. Although he couldn’t stay sour for too long. Especially when he had bravely dragged Arthur home after his recent run-in with the O’Driscolls.

He stowed the deer on Brutus and jumped up onto the back of his not-so-trusty steed.

-

Fresh forest slowly transformed into warm and humid swamp, causing him to have to shed his coat and roll up his sleeves. As Clemens Point came into view from behind the trees, Arthur felt the pit at the bottom of his stomach deepen. The same feeling of ever-lasting dread that had arisen in him after the disaster Blackwater, had since dug a comfortable home for itself in the confines of Arthur’s stomach.

It made him want to run, even when his feet were tired and eyes could barely hold themselves open after a long day– or rather days, as sleep had become less and less of a priority, being given a job after another at an increasing rate. He didn’t want to run away , no. He’d never do that. Looking back to his shot up deer swaying in the rhythm of Brutus’ hoofbeats, a phrase stuck to the forefront of his mind. Running on empty, like a steam train without coal. 

Arthur felt like he was being stretched far too thin from all directions. By Dutch and his big plans, by Strauss and the poor bastards he was robbing blind, the Grays, the Braithwaites, hell even Mary and old heartaches never properly healed. Almost a month ago, he had decided to take a day– one day– for himself. To read a book, have a shave and a bottle of whiskey. He ended that day hiding in an actively ablaze shed while getting shot at with Uncle, Bill and Charles. Although he only had a problem with the first two. Still, it was like he was the only damn outlaw in Lemoyne.

With a sigh, he dropped down from Brutus’ back, gaining a satisfied snort in response. Arthur patted his companion's neck a couple of times, before swinging the deer back over his shoulder and sending the horse on its way to the rest of the herd. 

He turned his attention to the camp and begrudgingly made his way in. They had really hit the jackpot with deciding to camp down here, instead of Micah’s utterly ridiculous and honestly idiotic suggestion of Dewberry Creek. Seriously, not only was the entire place surrounded by higher ground and open plains, but anyone with a set of eyes would have noticed that the bottom of the small ravine flooded the second it rained.

Apart from simply being better than Micah’s idea, the lakeside was beautiful. Looking out into the far distance– nearly being able to see all the way to Blackwater, Arthur could almost forget about the chaos that often overtook the camp. The calm lapping of waves against the rocky shore, the birds that sung out their consistent chorus and the hum of grasshoppers that emerged out of the camp's most quiet moments, were all things Arthur felt himself getting lost in at times, before getting pulled back to reality by one thing or anoth-

“Hello there, Mr. Morgan! You got something for me there?” Pearson chipperly called out from behind his table. At first Arthur only blinked in response, being snapped out of deep thought so suddenly. He’d been standing in front of Pearson's wagon, mindlessly staring at the shore. Pearson gave him an anticipating look, his eyes set on the deer carcass over Arthur’s shoulder.

“Yeah-” Arthur said and flipped the deer from his shoulder onto the wooden table with a grunt. “That should do for a bit, right?” Looking up from the deer, he could see Pearson’s disapproving expression upon inspecting his new cooking material. Pearson shook his head and gestured to the animal.

“I’ll be lucky to scrape two pieces of meat off this thing, Arthur.” The man complained. His round features seemed frozen in place, looking at Arthur like he’d lost his mind for even bringing it in. 

An annoyed groan escaped Arthur’s lips as he threw his head back in frustration. “Well, I’m sorry but that’s all I got! If it ain’t up to your standards you can do with it what you please. Make a hat outta’ it for all I care.” He grumbled at the camp cook. “I wouldn’t have spent all day tracking the thing, if I knew you were only gonna whine-” 

Pearson cut him off, throwing his hands in the air in surrender.“Fine–Fine, I’ll take it. But we’re gonna need more, real soon.” 

Arthur sighed and began to turn away. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And Mr. Morgan!” Pearson yelped out from behind him, causing him to turn back around. “Almost forgot, no more venison. People are getting tired of it.”

Arthur only closed his eyes momentarily, biting back a snarky remark about turning into the camp errand boy. Instead of starting an argument, which someone would most definitely have to break apart, he simply nodded and began making his way to the coffee pot. 

Only the coffee wasn’t the sole thing boiling over. Molly and Dutch were at each other's throats, once again. And from where he was standing, Arthur had the perfect view of their unfolding melodrama. Their arguments had begun far before their hurried escape to the East, but had gotten noticeably nastier and–to all their misfortunes– louder.

The bitter scent of coffee in the air was accompanied by equally bitter comments from the couple. Arthur tried his best to not listen, having bigger matters to concern himself with than his friend's relationship issues. But through all his trying, he could very much still hear Molly screaming her head off. Something about him looking at someone else, not paying enough attention to her, not loving her right. The usual. 

Arthur felt bad for the woman, having left her previous life filled with riches, only to fall in love with an outlaw. One who most certainly couldn’t–and wouldn’t provide her with anything close to an ideal partner. His cup was now full of the almost black, scorching hot liquid. Wanting to leave the two to their bickering, he decided to head for the beach. 

The yelling soon faded into the background, nearly inaudible to Arthur’s ears. He found an old, dried up log right next to the water and sat down. The tension leaving his tired legs, he let out a deep exhale. He rolled his left shoulder, which eased some of the remaining pain. Despite the southern Lemoyne air feeling suffocating at times, Arthur felt the air returning into his lungs. He took careful sips of his coffee and let his tense shoulders drop. His gaze traveled to watch the bold colored cardinals dance in the air, swaying and flipping from one direction to the other.

After a while, a pair of bright red birds landed on the beach, only a few feet from where he was sitting. A small smile rose on his lips as he watched them peck at each other and search for food from the ground.

Suddenly both stopped what they were doing and went still. Arthur looked around, but couldn’t find the culprit for their disturbance. The birds quickly took flight and flew away back in the direction they came. He returned to watching the horizon, until he heard footsteps behind him. Turning to look who was approaching, he sighed in relief upon discovering that it was only Charles. The man walked over to him.

“Mind if I sit?” 

Arthur set his coffee cup down. Looking up at Charles, he noticed how the gentle sunlight behind him turned his few loose hair almost a shade of gold. It was a sight he felt strangely grateful to bear witness to. 

“Sure, but I’m afraid I ain’t too much company at the moment” He responded as Charles sat down a foot or so to his left. 

“I understand,” Charles stated. Of course he did. Sometimes it felt like Charles made it his personal job and duty to understand him. He turned to look at Charles, to find him already gently smiling at him. “everything alright?” He asked. For a moment, Arthur considered telling his friend the truth, that he was so spent that he was unsure if his eyes would stay open for the rest of the conversation. But his stubborn nature instinctually opted for lying in matters such as these.

“Yeah m’ fine– just thinkin’, ’s all” He drawled. Charles gave nothing but a neutral hum in response and pulled out a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. His eyes came to meet Arthur’s in question. Arthur nodded at his wordless request and took a stick from the near empty pack. His own hands traveled down to his satchel in search of a box of strike-anywhere matches.

After successfully obtaining the matchbox, he struck one on the bottom of his boot. He gestured with his free hand for Charles to scooch closer to the flame. 

As he leaned in, Arthur suddenly found it hard to take his eyes off him. The warm, subtle glow of the flame caressed Charles’ features. The way he guarded it with his palms made it appear as if he was the source of the light himself. 

 The moment was quickly over, but the man remained in the same position, taking a long, drawn out drag of his cigarette. Arthur followed in suit and flicked the flame away, their faces only inches away from each other. The burn of his throat as he inhaled emulated the burn that settled somewhere in his lower stomach as he met Charles’ gaze, replacing the dread and exhaustion.

His lips were draped in a small, knowing kind of smile. They often were, which at times annoyed Arthur, and at others made him feel all kinds of things he didn’t have enough words to describe. Especially in the grueling weeks after getting shot, Arthur had found that smile a relief from some of the pains tormenting his body and mind. He cleared his throat, ridding his head of strange thoughts. Although glad of Charles’ friendship, the amount of silence he offered often gave too much space for Arthur’s mind to wonder. 

As much as he wanted to avoid his mind from wandering off, away from his grasp, Arthur found himself to be disappointed when that silence was interrupted by quick footsteps and the ruffling of a skirt.

He didn’t have the energy to turn around to confirm his guess as to who it was. There was only one woman he knew who’s steps could beat against his eardrums from their frustrated determination. Soon enough, the steps ceased in front of him and Charles and left a stern-faced Susan Grimshaw in their place. 

“Miss Grimshaw” Arthur greeted, tapping ash away from his half-finished cigarette. In return, he got a menacing smile from her as her hands came to sit at her hips. 

“You want us to starve out here, Mr.Morgan?” She asked, not even addressing Charles, as if he wasn’t even there. He might as well have not been, remaining quiet as a mouse and continuing to smoke his cigarette. Charles and Grimshaw had developed a sort of mutual respect — which was rare for Grimshaw, who preferred to take the leading role in whatever she could—mostly caused by Charles not staying stagnant for even a second, always on guard duty, fixing broken down wagons, chopping wood or whatever he could. Even more than Arthur himself.  

After a long sigh, Arthur replied: “We ain’t starvin’, Susan.” He paused to take a drag “Just got back with a deer” He gestured with his head in the broad direction of Pearson’s wagon and Susan did not look any more impressed.

“One malnourished deer isn’t going to feed all of us! You of all people should know that”

“Christ, a man’s gotta breathe now n’ then, Grimshaw” He grumbled. Even when he knew ever since arriving, that someone would be on his ass about doing something, it didn’t irritate him any less.

“Breathe on your own time! We need you out there, not lounging by the beach” 

“I know, I know,” Arthur mumbled. His free hand ran across his face. She did have a point. Debts needed collecting, prey needed hunting and money needed making. Arthur let his head drop down for a second before continuing in a calmer tone. “Fine– I’ll go. Just- lemme finish my cigarette, okay?” 

Grimshaw’s eyes narrowed as she looked between the two, but softened after a short while. “Okay…” She said with a sigh. “Charles?” She continued. Charles turned to face the two, encouraging Grimshaw to go on. Probably hadn’t been listening all that much, as he didn’t usually take much interest in other people’s arguing

“Make sure he actually does something, alright?” She instructed him. 

“Alright.” Charles responded dryly with a nod. Grimshaw looked between both of them, and finally walked off, shaking her head. They could hear her mumbling something unintelligible in the distance. 

Both of them watched Grimshaw disappear in the camp before relaxing. Arthur sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day. His shoulders dropped slightly, but stayed tense with the weight having to leave soon. Staying there on that log smoking with Charles seemed like a much more pleasant activity.

“...I could join you? Could finally get some proper game in.” Charles asked suddenly, bursting the bubble of exhaustion Arthur had momentarily found himself immersed in. 

There was no actual hesitation or questioning in his mind, the answer was going to be yes, despite the thinking face he put on while taking a long inhale. The question strangely played again and again in his mind, it felt like his head was spinning more than a rancher’s lasso. His eyes met Charles’ and he knew his answer. He puffed out the smoke he had collected in his lungs.

“Sure, wanna head out now or later?” 

“I think if we don’t head out now, Grimshaw just might skin you instead of an animal, based on the way she’s lookin’ at you” Charles stated bluntly, but with a humorous tone. He gestured in the direction of the camp, where Grimshaw could indeed be seen glaring at Arthur. With that uniquely intimidating stare only the woman herself could master. Arthur turned his eyes away from her, and chuckled out a cloud of smoke.

“I think you’re right. You ready to go?” He agreed and stumped out his cigarette.

“Yeah, I’ll go grab my rifle” Charles nodded, now finished with his smoke as well.

Both of them got up and headed back into the depths of the camp.

Chapter Text

With their horses just about ready, Arthur began walking over to Charles, leading Brutus behind him.

“So, where we gonna go?” He asked, scratching his short beard. Charles looked up from brushing down Taima, the edges of his mouth tensing in thought. Clouds of built-up dust and dirt surrounded them.

“I heard some talk about a ram North of Valentine, a real big one.” He finished cleaning his horse and gave Taima a few solid pats on her withers. 

A large ram near Valentine sounded oddly familiar to Arthur’s ears. And he couldn’t for the life of him remember why. He didn’t talk much to the locals in any of the places they had recently camped nearby. Maybe the trapper he’d sold pelts to in West Elisabeth? The guy sure liked to talk. Those couple of big and expensive pelts he had sold, thanks to that map he’d gotten from Hosea–

That map. 

Charles’ expression turned slightly confused, as Arthur’s hands went to search for the roll of paper. He'd been gifted it when it's previous owner had been nearly eaten by a building-sized bear, and got so spooked that he had decided to retire from hunting big game all together. He pulled it out from his satchel.

“What’s that?” Asked Charles, who had taken a few steps closer to take a closer look. It had the map of West Elisabeth, New Hanover, Ambarino, Lemoyne and New Austin. Several drawings of animals were scattered around the different states.

“A map Hosea gave me a while back–” Arthur pointed to a white ram on the page, right over Cattail Pond. “Is this what you’re talking about?” 

Charles squinted his dark eyes and inspected the drawing for a moment.

“I think so, you wanna go for it?” He asked and took a couple of steps back to place the brush he’d been holding back into Taima’s saddlebag.

“Sure,” Throwing the reins over Brutus’ neck, he placed one foot in his stirrup and swung himself onto the saddle, the leather squeaking under him. He guided Brutus to take a few steps aside, in order to give Taima some space. “Let's get goin’ then. Better if we get there before nightfall” 

While waiting for Charles to mount his horse, Arthur spotted Hosea, walking down the slope from the second campfire. 

“Hosea, come over here!” He yelped, which made Brutus’ ears snap back. A few apologetic pats later, Hosea had made his way over to him, coffee cup in hand. 

“What is it?” The old man questioned, eyes briefly flicking to Arthur’s previously shot-up shoulder.  He continued in a more concerned tone “You’re heading out again?” 

“Me and Charles are goin’ hunting up north, won’t be back for a couple days”

Hosea took a small sip before making eye contact with him, saying his next words carefully. As if  to make sure they got through Arthur’s thick skull “...Alright…just– don’t overwork yourself, Arthur. We need you in good shape now”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll be fine.” Arthur scoffed, but knew Hosea hadn’t meant anything bad by it. Noticing that Charles and Taima were ready to go, he tipped his hat at Hosea and urged Brutus into motion.

“I’ll catch you later, then” 

Hosea waved the pair goodbye and disappeared into Arthur’s peripheral. 

Arthur followed closely behind Charles, through the twists and turns of the small pathway– molded by regular use from even before they had arrived. 

Both men stayed quiet, listening to the soft thumping of their horses’ hooves, which fell into sync with each other. His eyes began feeling heavier not before long, as if anchors were trying to pull them closed, attempting to sink him into much-needed sleep. The warm air and the gentle rocking of his horse made it impossible to stay alert. Blinking the heaviness away didn’t work, neither did sitting up straight.

 Colors and sounds faded together and left a blurry haze in their place. The birds, grass, stretches of beach, all of it simply merged into one consistent static that he couldn’t get a hold of.

 The way Arthur was hanging onto his saddlehorn would have earned him a scolding from Dutch, if he were to bear witness. The only thing he could consistently keep his eyes on was Charles’ back. 

In what felt like a blink of an eye, they were riding along the train tracks leading to Valentine, not too far from their previous camp at Horseshoe Overlook. Charles suddenly slowed Taima down and came to trot alongside Brutus.

“You alright there, Arthur? You look like you’re gonna keel over” 

“M’ fine–  Just ain’t been sleeping.” He uttered, a deep yawn interrupting his sentence. This response didn’t seem to satisfy Charles, who’s brows furrowed.

“...I think we should leave the hunting for tomorrow, probably best if you rest up today”

“I’ll live, Charles…You sound like Hosea with that fussin’....” He groaned, mumbling the last part. Pity was something he most definitely didn’t need. The camp needed food. Sleep could wait, rest could wait. Hell he’d put his entire life on hold for the gang, if he had one outside of it.

“Good, ‘cause I think he’s right.” Charles sighed “Just– take it easy for today. We could go pick up some bait from Valentine instead and go set up camp?” 

A sudden burst of noise in the distance caught Arthur’s attention, making his heavy head snap towards it. They had passed the crossroads to Horseshoe Overlook, now met with a small ledge to their left. There, he could hear an incoherent mix of laughing and cursing.

“Arthur?” 

“Yeah– yeah sure, whatever–” He squinted to see the source of the commotion better, when it emerged from behind a tree. What he saw ran a frantic shiver through his entire body.

 Below them, next to a much taller and rockier ledge, was a group of young men. All dressed in the colors Arthur had grown much too familiar with. 

Green and black. 

O'Driscolls. 

The sight alone brought a phantom smell of gunpowder and blood to his nose. 

His hand reached for his holster and retrieved his revolver. Muscle memory.

“Okay, then. Let’s go–” Charles said, suspicion coating his voice. Taima sped up her pace.

Only Arthur didn’t follow suit. Instead, he pulled Brutus to a quick halt. 

“No, Charles shut up and look.” He pointed at the O’Driscolls.

Now with both of them looking at the men, Arthur cleared his throat and quietly loaded his revolver. There were only six men down the ledge. Maybe he recognized a couple of them, maybe not. The days he had spent in Colm O’Driscoll’s dingy cellar had faded into a blur in his mind. Even if he tried, he doubted he could fully remember a single face. 

 The vague memories flooding his mind made his shoulder ache worse than it had in weeks. He gripped his reins tighter. The last remains of exhaustion were swept away, replaced by a pounding heart and racing thoughts. 

“O’Driscolls?” Charles looked back at Arthur, who kept his eyes locked on the men.

“Yeah.”

They seemed to be all barely standing up straight, drunk out of their minds. Like O’Driscolls usually were. Arthur checked their surroundings, luckily not finding anyone else nearby. The angle their position granted them was slightly off, no chance of getting a good shot in. Analyzing their position, he noticed a good spot about back along the trail. It provided some cover and a straight shot to the camp.

“Alright then.” He gruffed out, determined and spurred his horse into action. 

“Wait, Arthur–” 

But Arthur was already cantering his way towards the camp, revolver ready and loaded. In order to have a swing at the sons of bitches, he would have to hit them head on, to corner them between him and the ledge. He was about to turn around the corner leading to the lower level of rock, until Charles steered directly in front of him, causing Brutus’ hooves to skid on the dry gravel road.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Arthur barked in a hushed voice. The way he was gripping the reins turned his knuckles white.

“What are you doing?” 

“Getting them damn O’Driscolls, what’s it look like?”

“It looks like you’re trying to get yourself shot again by rushing into a pointless gunfight!”

“It’s not pointless! Those bastards nearly killed me, Charles!” Arthur argued through his gritted teeth. It was almost desperate, his attempt to make Charles understand. Understand how it had felt to be locked up down there, in the dark, with no idea when–or if–someone was coming to get him. 

“Look– I get that you’re angry– and for good reason–” Charles met his eyes and continued in a calmer tone. “But is it really worth putting our lives on the line over a couple of piss-drunk fools? Especially this close to Valentine.”

Arthur looked over Charles’ shoulder at the O’Driscolls. Then back at Charles, who was patiently waiting for his answer.

He couldn’t just let them get away, could he? After the things he’d been through in the last month, all because of them. Sweating, screaming in his sleep, his body feeling like he had died and come back. Perhaps he had. Lowering his revolver seemed to slightly relax Charles’ high-strung posture. 

Charles’ words rang through his head, where the two opposing options wrestled with each other. On the other hand he could spare his bullets, just go hunting like they had planned. Or he could not. He could also go shoot them right back to whatever hellhole that entire gang had crawled out of.

The more sensible and merciful side of him wanted to leave them alone. Revenge was a fool's game after all. But the vengeful, uncontrollable, angry side of him wanted to give them a taste of their own medicine. Both seemed like admitting defeat in one way or another.

His gaze switched between Charles, the O’Driscolls and finally the ground.

Arthur sighed and slowly holstered his gun. Everything was screaming at him to bolt past Charles, guns blazing. To go get them. But the way Charles had looked at him, patiently understanding but stern, made his thoughts slow down.

“Yeah…yeah..you’re right. It ain’t worth it.” He mumbled and turned Brutus around without another word. 

Charles caught up with him and settled into a steady pace. The silence felt heavy. Almost as heavy as the weight sinking down in Arthur’s stomach. 

His head felt fuzzy from the fading anger, the exhaustion slipping back into his body. Just a second ago every sensation had been numbed out, faded into the haze of his mind. Now it felt like he was too aware of himself. His shoulder was cramping, his hands felt clammy, the sun was beaming down on his neck and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. 

After about five grueling minutes Arthur grew too restless to not say anything. He rarely felt like he had to say something in Charles’ presence, but the shame built up in a pace so quick, he swore he felt it bang at the inside his chest and rattle his ribcage.

“M’ sorry.” Arthur eventually muttered after a few more minutes.

“It’s okay.” Charles answered almost too quickly. 

Valentine was slowly approaching. Arthur knew this despite keeping his eyes on the back of  his horse’s head. The smell of sheep shit, mud and chimney smoke, made every small town easily distinguishable from their larger counterparts. Apart from open country and untouched forest, towns like Valentine felt like a second home to him. It had been similar places where he’d spent most of his childhood after all. At least the parts he still remembered.

Once they were fully past Citadel Rock, he guided his reins to the right, making a left turn before the train station. Only a couple of paces later, Charles yelped out from behind him. 

“Hey wrong direction, Arthur!”

Arthur’s head whipped around in the direction of Charles’ voice, a look of confusion on his face. 

“Huh? Ain’t we going to Cattail Pond?” Arthur asked as he turned his horse back around.

“Not yet, we got that bait to pick up, remember?” Charles chuckled under his breath. “You agreed barely ten minutes ago.”

“Hey– well, no offense, but I weren’t payin’ much attention to your plans of goin’ on a shopping trip–” 

“You still agreed.” 

“Charles–” He complained, but Charles’ stubborn expression didn’t let up.

“Come on now, you idiot. We’ll be quick.” 

With that, Charles encouraged Taima back into a trot, leaving Arthur no choice but to follow him. It was the least he could do for what he did earlier. 

Brutus was already following behind Taima, without Arthur having to move so much as a muscle.

As much as he generally liked Valentine, it didn’t shake any of the uneasiness he felt upon visiting. The looks they got the second they entered the town, made Arthur want to sink down into the brown sludge under their horses’ hooves. 

With everything that had been going on, he barely had had the time to think back on the mess they’d made. Suspicious mutters and venomous glares were nothing new to him, but they didn't made him feel powerful or like more of a man. Unlike many others in their line of work. Unlike himself in his younger days.

Once again his focus was drawn onto the curve of Charles’ back, away from the scowling locals. He didn’t want to meet their eyes, which proved to be an easy task, since he could barely keep his open.

They approached the hitching posts next to the general store and walked in. During his browsing, Arthur could feel the clerk staring holes into the back of his neck. 

After both had checked out at the counter, they returned to their horses with new bait, canned food and two bottles of Kentucky whiskey. 

The bottles were briskly stuffed into Arthur’s saddlebag, and he hoisted himself back on his black shire. Much to his pleasure, the shopping trip had indeed been a short one. 

The shadows on the ground had begun to stretch, which meant the sun would soon set behind the large mountains. They would have to be quick if they wanted to make it to their destination before nightfall.

Arthur clicked his tongue to get Brutus going, Charles a few feet behind him. As he was turning the corner next to the stables, he made sure to keep Brutus on the other side of the narrow road, away from the horses in the pen. The stallion had problems with most other horses. Despite Arthur’s hardest efforts to change this, the only horse Brutus would tolerate was Taima. 

With the only structures in view being tents and the small riding arena, he could finally take a deep breath away from the constant reminder of his past actions. 

His breathing was rudely interrupted by a familiar blue figure stepping into his line of vision. From behind one of the tents, emerged Mickey. 

“My God, what does he want now?” Arthur groaned, mostly to himself. Charles hummed a low ‘?’. 

Honestly, he usually didn’t have much against the disheveled veteran, but his over-friendly demeanor was the last thing he felt in the mood for.

Mickey’s face practically lit up like a light bulb as he spotted the two of them. 

“Hey, buddy!” Mickey greeted as he excitedly ran up to Arthur. 

“Hi… Look– we’re in a real hurry here, I ain’t got time for chattin’ today.” He murmured, stopping his horse for a moment.

“Well, that’s alright Mr. Arthur! I just wanted to thank you for last time, you know for–” 

Good lord not this.

“Oh you don’t gotta go into details–” 

“ –letting me hold you. It was real nice of you. Not many folks in this town who’d do that for me.”

Arthur physically winced, swiftly covering his expression under the brim of his hat. Charles could be heard stifling a chuckle, the bastard.

“Yeah, yeah— you’re welcome, I guess.” He responded, voice strained through gritted teeth.

If he wanted to sink into the mud before, now he was close to jumping down from his saddle and actually digging his way down there. An unbearably heavy sheet of silence fell upon all three of them. But with it being Mickey, the quiet didn’t last long.

“Anyways, who’s your friend, friend?” The veteran inquired, stepping back to get a better view of Charles, who was all but biting his cheeks to conceal a laugh.

“That’s– That’s Charles. He n’ I gotta keep goin’, like really gotta keep goin’— So, uhm, bye for now, partner.” Arthur muttered and kicked Brutus back into motion, before Mickey could even respond.

He briefly looked behind, to see Charles nodding goodbye to Mickey.

“Bye mister’s!” Mickey shouted, waving his hand frantically. He turned his head back around.

Taima and Charles soon caught up to Arthur’s gallop. Still embarrassed out of his mind, Arthur opted to keep his eyes on the road ahead. Unfortunately, his peripheral vision still worked, and he could see the shit-eating grin on his companion's face. 

Their silence lasted all the way until they reached the pathway formed by steep cliff walls, leading down to the coursing river below. 

“Didn’t think you were the type to hand out hugs to strangers on the street, Arthur.” Charles spoke up, his voice not even trying to hide the amused smile on his face.

“Jesus– What was I supposed to say? No? Look at him!” Arthur grumbled. “It was outta’ pity, okay?” 

The cool air did little to calm the rising heat on his cheeks.

“So… you would’ve had no problem leaving Sean to hang in Blackwater, but you draw the line at not hugging a homeless man?” Charles teased, turning to Arthur.

“I wouldn’t have let the kid hang, and you know it.” Arthur tried his hand at deflecting.

“I know. I also know you wouldn’t have let that guy off without ‘holding him’ first.”

“Shut the hell up.”

“No, I think it’s real nice of you-” Charles laughed.

“Christ…” 

After carefully crossing the river, they headed up through the twisting and turning pathways. On the steep incline into the mountains, the large pine trees slowly came to completely replace their green leaved relatives. Small splotches of snow came into view, as their path transitioned from uphill, to an even cliffside. Large clouds draped the warm pink and yellow sky, framing the dwindling sun in soft silhouettes of dark orange.

The air was thinner and colder, though not by much. Instead, the wind was relatively strong, which helped soothe some of the remaining heat on Arthur’s face. 

He sat back on his saddle and let his reins drop slack. Charles once again took to riding ahead. Taima– who had more energy than Brutus and Arthur combined–eagerly took the lead.

Arthur finally let his eyes close. He trusted his horse enough to follow neatly behind Taima. 

Sounds of the surrounding nature painted a picture so clear in Arthur’s mind that he almost actually saw it. Small fluttering of wings on the ground, birds scurrying out of their horse's ways. Somewhere further up, he heard a loud elk call, the shriek echoing through the forest. The wind picked up, making the tree branches brush together. 

It felt weirdly loud, but simultaneously came together to create the perfect mixture of background noise required to make Arthur border on passing out right then and there. Maybe he could leave the hunting for the next day.

They rode past Cattail Pond and ventured further in search of a good camping spot. It took some looking, but eventually they settled on a pretty enough cliffside within spitting distance of the train tracks. The spot where they had conducted the Leviticus Cornwall train robbery wasn’t too far either. In fact, the bridge where Bill had fumbled the bag with the explosives (definitely not Arthur) was just behind some rocks to their west. 

The sky darkened into a deep blue and the only light left was the crackling orange of their campfire. Both men were sat around it. Arthur yawned and ran a hand across his face.

“I s’pose we ain’t goin huntin’ today” He stated through the yawn.

Charles only hummed in response, fatigue creeping up on his gently-lit features. 

They rested next to the fire for some time, before Arthur got up to stretch his limbs. 

“Right, I’m gonna turn in.” He mumbled as he crawled into his tent. “Night, Charles”

“Good night, Arthur” Charles yawned from his bedroll, placed next to Arthur’s tent. He had insisted on sleeping out in the open to keep watch.

The hot campfire left a sense of calm over Arthur's body. His usual tossing and turning was left far behind, as sleep swallowed him whole the second his head hit the bedroll.

Chapter Text

Arthur awoke to the smell of coffee filling the air. His ears were already braced for the impact of somebody yelling, for the skull-piercing tone of Grimshaw’s scolding or the booming echo of one of Dutch’s speeches. But none of it came. He was met with complete, long-awaited silence. The morning sun peeked from between his tent’s flaps and Arthur let his head drop back on the bedroll for a couple more seconds before exiting his tent. 

The strong winds from the previous day were gone, enveloping everything in a slow calmness. As he stepped out of the tent, he noticed Charles sitting in front of the fire, watching over the coffee pot hung above it. The man had been an early riser for as long as Arthur had known him, always the first and last on guard duty. Sometimes he wondered if he slept at all. Arthur walked to the campfire and took a seat next to him. 

“Mornin’,” Arthur greeted with a nod. 

“Morning,” Charles said, returning the gesture. 

No more words were spoken for a long while after that. None were needed. 

What little noise there was became amplified in Arthur’s head, the opposite of the day before, where all sensations had melted into one murky mixture that he couldn’t make heads or tails of. The previously blurry edges of the world sharpened, making everything feel clearer, easier. The wonders of a good night’s sleep. 

But like on any other morning, his shoulder came to remind him of its existence, like getting a solid punch into the collarbone. A punishment for staying still for too long. His face scrunched up as he suppressed an involuntary grunt. Looking to alleviate the pounding throb, he placed his right hand firmly on the gunshot wound and got to rolling his shoulder. As always, the motion shot sharp surges of pain all throughout him, but as his body grew accustomed to it, the sting eased up.

While letting out a relieved sigh, Arthur glanced over to Charles, who had apparently been watching him wake up his shoulder. His breath hitched. In some way, he felt exposed, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. 

There was a moment, a look of understanding. That goddamn look was going to drive Arthur insane one day. The way Charles’ lips were curled in the smallest of smiles, brows subtly raised, expression otherwise neutral. A look only a trained eye could catch. He’d seen it many times around the campfire, when others were sharing their usual stories. In those moments, he had caught his gaze drawn to Charles more often than not. Probably the whiskey, but still, he wondered if the others shared the same sentiment. Arthur could probably recount that look even with his eyes closed, could trace the other man’s features and pinpoint exactly when it made an appearance.

He swiftly looked away from his friend, deciding to distract himself from the strange sensation building in his chest. His hands found a can of beans. 

Just hungry, hungry and tired. Nothing else. 

A knife was handed to him. Arthur muttered a ‘thank you’ and began pushing the blade through the metal. From the corner of his eye, he saw Charles turn back to watch the fire. 

The knife was having a harder time piercing the top of the can than usual. He guided it to another spot and tried his luck there, nudging the knife back and forth, like a stuck lever. He cursed under his breath, before lifting it to give the can one big stab. The blade went askew, slicing into his left hand, instead of the top.

“Oh! Shit–” Arthur shouted, dropping both the can and the knife. Blood started gushing down his hand and his other one flew up to cover it.

Charles had moved to pour himself a cup of coffee a few moments ago, but hurried to Arthur when he heard his yelp.

“Are you alright? What happened?” he asked, concern coating his voice. Arthur bit his teeth together and kept tightly clasping onto his injured hand.

“It’s fine–knife slipped, s’ all,” Arthur rasped, restlessly looking around for bandages or a cloth to soak up the blood.

“Let me see,” Charles scooched next to him, hovering his hands over Arthur’s. In return, Arthur moved his clasped hands away from Charles. 

“No– Just give me some bandages, I’m fine,” he huffed, gesturing to the cut with his head. Deep brown eyes sharply stared into his, analyzing, searching for something, until they looked away. Charles shook his head and got up to search for something.

He shortly returned with a roll of bandages and a couple of pins. Arthur took the bandages, propping up a knee to stabilize his left hand. Upon closer inspection, the cut wasn't nearly as deep as it had felt. Despite it being shallow, blood was still steadily dripping all over his hand. Sweat began building up at the crook of his neck as Charles stood above him with his arms crossed.

With an unsteady hand, he shakily wiped the cut down. Just as he was finishing up with the cleaning, Charles spoke up in a humorous, but gentle tone.

“Would be a lot easier with two hands, Arthur.” 

“I can do it just, give me a second–” Arthur groaned. Only, just as he was about to start wrapping the cut, his grip slipped. The bandage dropped down on the ground, making Arthur groan again. 

“...You sure?” Charles smiled. 

“Fine.” 

Charles let out a satisfied ‘hm’ and took a seat opposite from Arthur. His eyes traveled to the cut. Arthur’s remained fixed on Charles. Strong, but a strangely soft hand gently gripped his injured one. 

Charles shook the fallen bandage of stuck leaves and dirt, before angling it a few inches above Arthur’s hand. 

“It’s gonna sting,” Charles stated, making stern eye contact.

“I know. This ain’t the first time I’ve gotten a cut, Charles,” he snarked, but Charles remained unamused. A strong hand moved away from the underside of his palm, and went to aid the other in dressing the wounded one. He hissed from between his clenched teeth. The bandage was carefully wrapped around the hand twice. Once above his thumb, once below it.

“...Thanks,” he said after rolling around his thumb a bit. 

“No problem,” Charles replied.