Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arthur Morgan can’t tell if his final gamble was worth all the trouble he’d caused.

Tilly and Jack had run. Sadie and Abigail had gone to meet them. Their pity — no, their premature grief, had made Arthur look away the minute his name spilled out of Abigail’s mouth in a sob.
And here he was. One punch too many taken to the lungs, dying, crawling at the summit of a stone goliath, with his grip shaking around the hilt of a pistol.
No dice. He had known he was bound to lose this bet riding into it.
His hand had been stopped by Dutch, his Dutch, the one he’d followed like an old lost dog since his youth without a trace of uncertainty — with a painful press down of his boot, crunching Arthur’s knuckles between the gravel of the mountainside and the trigger of the pistol. He glanced upwards, pain messily blossoming in his chest as he craned his neck. Micah heaved air into his lungs just behind him, shadow lingering just like the metallic scent of blood on the stone.

“Oh, Dutch, he’s a rat. You know it and I know it.”
The words hung thick and tepid in his throat, Arthur’s voice straining against the barely-there air in his bloody lungs. Micah sneered behind him, almost like it was obvious — he could do no wrong. Not good, old, reliable Micah.
“He's sick... he's dying... he's talking crazy!” He laughed, expression betraying his confidence, though Arthur couldn’t take a look and bask in the glory of the blond haired, blue eyed Icarus’ fall from grace. He took longer than he should’ve to form his words, every movement sending shards of glass ripping through his blood.
“I gave you all I had... I did.”
As Dutch’s boot moved from his hand, Arthur fell sideways, back to the ground. His sunken eyes met those of the raven-haired outlaw, unfamiliar and pitiful, as he rasped in breaths.
“I…”
For the first time in months, the first time since Micah began whispering sweet ideas of nothing and nowhere into his ear, Van Der Linde’s voice was unsure. The distant sound of Pinkertons made Arthur’s head pound, no thanks to the beat of his heart already thumping waves of pain through his mind.
“Come on. Dutch... let's go, buddy. We made it. We won! Come on!” Micah pleaded.
Arthur heaved again.
“John made it. He's the only one. Rest of us... No.” He tasted blood on his tongue. “But... I tried. In the end... I did.”
Micah grimaced as Dutch shook his head. “Come on... let's go. We can make it.”
He was met with a response of gravel crunching underfoot. Dutch Van Der Linde, terror of Lemoyne, scourge of Blackwater. On the run again—
“Come on, Dutch, COME ON!”

— And this time, he went alone. Micah stood for a moment, defeat apparent in his eyes. If Arthur had the energy or the will, he would’ve pitied the poor bastard for the first time.
Arthur closed his eyes in a slow blink, the two figures remaining beside him slowly fading into footsteps, and then… Nothing.

He was alone.

In his lonesome, as he rasped and shook with the slow explosion of his being, Arthur dragged himself, inch by inch, to the edge of the cliff. Every inch, every crevice of his body ached and hissed with the pain that had infected him on that street corner in Saint Denis following the doctor’s diagnosis… Or maybe the pain had started back then, all the way at the Downes’ farm, but he’d grown too accustomed and apathetic to notice. Slow breaths kept him on the edge of life as the sun, alive and beaming, began to creep below the trees.
His vision warped and muddied, colors unlit by the setting sun filling his eyelids as he took a final, painful breath, pins and needles fading from his lungs as the oil slick of hues took over his view. The ache he’d carried for so long, so quietly, started to die with him as he witnessed the crash of his worlds.
The devil was waiting on him, he bet one final time. The devil was a patient one.
Patient enough to entertain one last dream.

— — —

The next time the outlaw dared to open his eyes, Arthur was sitting on that little worn bench in Emerald Station, the very same he’d said goodbye to Sister Calderón by just days prior. In fact, her train remained at the station — blowing one last whistle before beginning its slow, arduous chug along the line towards Mexico.
As the steam engine picked up speed, Arthur took a moment to get his wits about him. His eyes, feeling more refreshed than they had in weeks, flicked to his hands before his surroundings. No blood. No dust. Just plain old skin and bone. His horse was nowhere to be seen. For a moment, he felt like he should’ve been more surprised, not seeing that familiar beast. Hosea’s black shire, the angry and tempered old boy, had carved himself a home in Arthur’s heart — only to be ripped out of it and splayed across the side of a mountain in the east Grizzlies. A father’s final gift to his son, laid to rest by a bullet.

That’s right. He was gone, wasn’t he?

Hosea. The Shire. Himself. They all blended together, sharing the same dirt for their graves at the end of the day.

Arthur took a deep breath. A deep, wanting breath. For the first time in months, it didn’t burn or sting or send him into a fit of coughs that rattled his bones. And as the train’s caboose finally passed his gaze, with a hand pressed to his chest, Arthur looked across the tracks.
A familiar face met his gaze. Still. Beautiful.

A single, brown-eyed buck. His tail flicked, having raised his head to take a curious look at a man waiting for the next train down to the underworld, opposite the wise old sister he’d guided onto the railcar. Arthur squinted, his breath escaping just as easily as he'd caught it.
“I’ve seen you before, old boy.” He rasped, “Ain’t you the one I saw, leaving the… The doctor?” He laughed, however hesitantly, like one exhale would send him barreling back towards a fit. “One brave ol’ buck in the streets of Saint Denis.”
He didn’t feel crazy. Though, he should’ve, talking to an animal as if he were an old friend, as old as Hosea. As old as Dutch. The buck looked back at him with eyes understanding. They were familiar, comforting; a stark contrast to the deep brown of Van Der Linde’s when he needed him most.
“I know you ain’t real.” Arthur whispered. “This ain’t…” He swallowed back a lump in his throat, some uncomfortable grief unplaced in his chest.
“… Guess you’s a- A sign. Sean would’a called you that, huh? Not a clue what for. Just a sign.” Sean. Arthur wonders which of these trains he caught.

The buck didn’t move. Just watched, calm and steady. Watched as Arthur caught a sob in his throat, as he damned Micah to hell, as he wrangled betrayal at the hands of the only father he had left. He watched as Arthur paced the station, as he shook in anger. In sadness. In fear. Watched longer as he mourned the memory he had of those who were left. John, Sadie, Abigail, little Jack and sweet Tilly. Rains Fall. Charles.
It could’ve been minutes, or it could’ve been hours. The buck was as patient as Arthur had expected the devil to be, but as kind as a God he’d long forgotten how to pray to. And as Arthur resigned himself back to his bench, empty of Sister Calderón’s comforting presence, The buck moved towards him.
Gentle, easing steps, padded by the grass, then defined by the click of wood on the horn of his hoof, were made louder as the buck snorted in Arthur’s direction. The outlaw glanced up, eyes once again meeting the kind beast’s. There was a kind of comfort there, in that single moment, that sunk deep into Arthur and anchored him to the approaching creature.

The buck stood close, just as his reliable Shire had once. The creature glanced back at Arthur, its serenity coaxing a sense of exhaustion out of the unforgivable man it stood beside. One final loving act from a creature as wild as he once was. One final goodbye to the world he knew.
Its coarse hair was familiar to Arthur’s hands, a welcome feeling as the buck rubbed against him. To feel the wild softness of the buck’s hide without the chill of death and hunter’s steel — Arthur furrowed his brow before he closed his heavy and misty eyes, resting his head on the back of the buck as he, for the first time in what felt like years, let tears roll.

— — —

He was enveloped in darkness again. This time, it was peaceful. Quiet. Unlike the cold stone of the Grizzlies, it felt like an embrace. The buck had huffed one last time, sound in tandem with the distant whistle of a train. A train, and hoof fall.
The sounds grew. The sound of a horse’s whinny and a calming voice especially, and as Arthur attempted to open his eyes, to see who was calming the beast, he began to realize the darkness wasn’t as easily chased away as it had been before. Although the warmth of its hide remained, the buck seemed to all but disappear from his senses — the musky scent of it now rid from his nose and its coarse hair under his cheek replaced with rough, bloodied fabric.
As the buck was replaced, so was his comfort. The pain in his chest blossomed again, excruciating after its prolonged absence in his mind’s Emerald Station, and in his attempt to scream in reaction, he produced some pitiful excuse of a groan. That sound was enough to elicit a reaction from whoever he leaned against, it seemed, as Arthur finally peeled his eyes open.

“Hang on, Arthur!”
Sadie.
“We ain’t buryin’ you in Annesburg!”
Propped up on the back of her Turkoman, Arthur heaved in half a breath and exhaled what felt like heavy, still-burning smoke. His arms hung loose at his sides, head propped between the wild woman’s shoulder and neck in an attempt to keep him breathing. It was a miracle he was able to stay on horseback, with his strength continuing to fail him. The light of dawn sent railroad spikes through his eyes, each thump of Bob’s hooves knocking the air out of him.
But he was alive. He was breathing. That alone was a miracle in itself. Sadie, alone, was his lifeline now. As darkness enveloped his vision again, Arthur didn’t feel its suffocating presence this time. Despite his pain, his wheezing, despite the rain on the wind, Sadie rode on, and Arthur endured as the mountains and rivers had.

Left alone on that mountain — but not to die.

Chapter Text

The news hadn’t reached Charles for nigh on a month. For a while, he had focused on the Wapiti, on packing them up and guiding them out of the mountains, until he managed to help them find a safe haven for the time being. He had left with urgency, despite Rains Fall’s offer for shelter if he so needed, south to Valentine on the back of Taima.
He only knew because of a stray newspaper. It was weeks old, dated twenty days prior, being used as a maché cover for a recent foreclosure’s window. Dutch’s face cast a shadow over the front page.
“INFAMOUS GANG LEADER STILL ON THE RUN! Van Der Linde’s gang broken, two killed”
Two killed.
Charles felt sick as he squinted, trying to make out the now splotched ink of the article.
“Susan Grimshaw… Shot, Beaver’s Hollow — .. Morgan. — presumed dead upon inspection — unknown cause.”
Morgan. Arthur Morgan.
Charles’ stomach twisted in a knot. Fate really had caught up to him, just like he said it would. Third times a charm, it seemed. After the O’Driscolls took him, after Guarma, Arthur had always found a way to come back from the dead. But this time? Charles grappled with burying him for good. He leaned against the building for a moment, turning a corner into the little alleyway for some semblance of privacy before giving himself a moment’s opportunity to cry.
Cry he did.
— — —
His hair shaved easy, for the most part. The sides of his head had barely begun to grow back in after the gang’s return from the Caribbean, and here he was, lopping it off again. His braid, too, fell to the ground of the shoddy rented room. He hadn’t been able to find accommodations in town; as such, he resorted to the outskirts, making his temporary home in a little farming shack rented out by a widow. Charles sat in front of an unpolished mirror. Looking straight back at him, a short haired stranger sniffled with a crease in his brow, eyes clouded by the grief that, suddenly, felt too heavy for his shoulders.
Tradition had always been something Charles held close to his heart. It was his lifeline — to his mother, his home, His sanity. He reached towards it when he lost his way. It usually grounded him, gave him the peace he needed to continue to survive in a world of bastards and their victims. Tonight, however, as his hand drifted over his scalp, he wasn’t met with the familiarity of the hair he would’ve found comfort in tending to. All that remained was choppy cuts, short and foreign against his hand, and another thing to mourn the loss of.
Something about that clip of newspaper had boiled up in Charles, a fire in his chest that hadn’t burned that intensely since his mother’s kidnapping. He recognized the pain of it all too well, knowing that its coals would stay hot for far too long. The memory of the outlaw had stoked them with timber and floss to light once again. Charles knew that he’d be grieving Arthur for far longer than he’d known him.
— — —
As he had suspected — the saloons of Valentine were just as welcoming as the hotels. His lonely entrance, no longer flanked by allies as he had once been entering the same establishment, was met with side eyes and concerned glances. These people weren’t all too different from those in Rhodes, after all — every part of Charles’ body and spirit seemed to carry a stigma only the white man recognized as a danger.
It didn’t take long for one man to say the wrong thing. Charles was never one to throw the first punch — he knew better than to start fights over words he would hear regardless, time and time again. But there had to be a straw that broke the camel’s back that night. The moment he broke the man’s nose by the bar, he was hauled off by the sheriff’s deputy. He had to be so lucky, to commit such a crime the night the deputy had come in for a drink.
So here he remained. Locked for his third day in that cramped little jail cell in the armpit of New Hanover, waiting with his head against the wall as he continued to grieve in silence. The officers had tried to taunt him, showing off their food while giving him whatever shit they threw in his bowl today, or spinning the keys of the cell on their fingers. He never justified their attempts with a reaction. Not until said keys landed by his door, the sheriff clicking them onto the keyhole and opening the door.
“Lucky day, Mr. Smith. Someone paid your bail.”
What?
Charles cautiously stood, exiting the cell with bated breath as he watched the sheriff tuck the keys into his pocket.
“Can I ask who, exactly?” He asked, voice low. The sheriff sighed.
“Some Mrs. Adler. The notice came with a telegraph to you. Here, son.”
Hearing the word “son” come out of the sheriff’s mouth after 72 hours of tormented waiting was whiplash enough. Charles took the cardstock from between the man’s fingers, flipping it over to see a message written in blue ink.
C.S. -(STOP)-
THIS IS ADLER. -(STOP)- PAID YOUR BAIL SO MEET AT DEWBERRY CREEK -(STOP)-
A.M. HERE. -(STOP)-
Charles stared at the telegraph.
A.M.
Good God.
— — —
Sadie crouched beside the newly lit fire, her shoulders drooped with fatigue beside Charles in the dry bed of Dewberry Creek. The plait she’d usually pull her hair back in had been taken out, and she sighed heavily as she turned to the man beside her.
“I’m glad you came, Charles. Real glad.” She said, eyes darting from the flames to him. “I ain’t too good with medicine. Can’t imagine he’d have pulled through a lot longer if I were the only one here.”
Charles shifted uncomfortably, his hand still running through his chopped hair. He glanced at Sadie and nodded.
“Of course. You have my gratitude. You know, for- for getting me out of jail and all, but mostly for getting him out of there when you did.” He shook his head, “He told me… Not long before it all fell apart, he told me he was sick. I knew it was bad, but… This is…” He furrowed his brow and rubbed his eyes with a hand, misty eyes hidden well by the shadows cast in the dead of night. Sadie gave him a stiff pat on the back.
“I know.” She replied gently. “He’s breathin’, though.”
“Barely.” Charles whispered, “This is no way to live. He looks half dead, Sadie, I can barely look at him sometimes.”
She pursed her lips, eyes back on the fire. “I… I know. Charles, I know it’s real hard.” She said, “We can only hope he gets better, somehow. It might take a miracle, but I’d rather try than lose another good man. I’m betting on that miracle.”
Charles looked at her again, his subtle fidgeting stopping as he felt a little anxiety build in his chest.
“… Are you sweet on him, Sadie?”
Sadie lifted her head and swiveled it towards Charles.
“Me? On Arthur?” She raised an eyebrow, “Nah. I don’t think I could be even if I wanted to. All o’ my heart died with Jake. Don’t think I’ll ever find that kinda love again.” She smiled bittersweetly. “Guess I could’a been sweet on Abigail, if Marston hadn’t put on his big boy pants by Shady Belle.” She chuckled, looking up at the stars as if to send one last kiss to a lost love before she stood up. Charles’ lack of reaction to her little confession made some realization clear to her in the time she stretched out her legs.
“I’ll take first watch. You keep an eye on Arthur, yeah?” She hummed. Charles nodded in agreement. She nudged him with her boot before grabbing her rifle.
“And, Charles?” She piped up. The man hummed.
“Projection ain’t a good look. Believe me, sweetheart.” She looked at him, knowingly. Charles felt himself freeze under her piercing gaze before she smiled, giving him the little comfort he needed.
— — —
Charles tucked into the tent, his footsteps quiet as he tried not to wake the dying man in front of him. His efforts were in vain, however, as Arthur shuddered and tried to lift his head in the midst of a nasty fit, hacking and heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Charles felt his heart sink to his stomach as he crawled beside him, panic spreading quickly.
“Charles- Ch-“ Another heave. Arthur’s arms shook beneath his own weight, leaving the younger man to take his head and back in his hands, guiding him back down as he struggled to breathe again. Charles positioned himself against the back of the tent, with Arthur’s head propped up by his legs.
“I’m here, Arthur.” He replied. The man’s name felt like a prayer now — a plead to the heavens for mercy. As his lungs settled, he tried opening his eyes in the dim light of the fire and moon. His face was sunken, angles clear as day even in the long shadow of night. The moment Charles brought him back down, he’d noticed how frail Arthur had become — the sickness wracking him having stripped him down to skin and bone. His decline had been so fast. Within months, Charles had seen him go from a proud man, a strong man, to a living corpse.
Every moment beside him hurt. Thinking he died allowed Charles some selfish grief — but knowing he lived didn’t give him the solace of knowing he wasn’t in pain.
“You came back.”
Arthur’s voice was rasped with the little air he could take in, his eyes beyond bloodshot as Charles looked down upon him.
“Always.” He replied, choking back the tears that had cursed him since Valentine.
“Where’s Sadie?”
“Outside. She took up guarding for the first leg of the night.”
“Where’s John n’ Abigail?”
Charles felt his eyes go misty again and his brow furrow.
“I don’t know.”
“Tilly and Jack?” A cough.
“I don’t know.”
Charles put a hand on the crown of Arthur’s head, gently filing his hair back. Arthur closed his eyes in response to the touch, his lungs whistling with every breath.
“‘S alright. Glad you’re here.”
“I could say the same about you.”
Arthur hummed. “Y’cut your hair again.”
Charles sighed. “I thought you were dead. Again.”
“Sorry.”
“What for?”
“Dyin’ again.”
“Hush.” Charles replied, closing his eyes for a moment. “You did what you had to do. I knew what I was in for when I joined the gang, as did you. I just… I never imagined it would end like this. Not for me. Especially not for you.” He glanced towards the entrance of the tent, the breeze blowing back the flap of it to briefly show Sadie standing guard. “What you went through… What you endured, I can’t imagine. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take a toll on me. Or on the rest of us. When Colm got to you, I never imagined you’d come back. And Guarma…” He shook his head, “Sadie and I near made a grave.”
Charles paused for a moment, studying the face of the man he held. Veins showed blue under his skin, his mouth parted open to breathe as quietly as he could despite the pain. Charles felt his breath, that vital inhale, catch in his throat as he tore his eyes away from Arthur’s face and took his hand.
“How many times do I have to bury you, Arthur Morgan?” Charles muttered, voice barely above the crackle of the fire outside. The man who laid before him glanced up with bloodshot eyes and a voice that crackled with the pops of his lungs.
“Never, Charles. Never again.”

Chapter Text

The reins of John’s wagon snapped in tandem with the man’s “hyah!”, urging the horse in front to snort and pull harder down the worn tracks. Beside him, Abigail sat, enjoying the small breeze that followed the Lower Montana River downstream. If it had been a regular shopping trip, John would’ve wrapped an arm around his wife, maybe given her a kiss on the cheek, before making some comment that got him a slap on the back of the head. However, this trip was consistently interrupted by a low, wheezy snore coming from the back of the wagon, and it was starting to fray John Marston’s patience.
Turning his head to look behind him, John waved his arm wildly behind the seat until his hand hit a face he couldn’t see. The response, in turn, was met with a slap to the arm and a quick, loud groan of disapproval from the trunk. Abigail raised an eyebrow before she frowned at her husband, pulling his arm away from their passenger.
“Let Arthur sleep, John!”
“Yeah, John, god forbid a man take a nap!”
Arthur sat up with a grunt, putting his hat back on his head after Marston’s flailing had knocked it off. His hair was now peppered with strands of white and grey, having lived through the pleasure of growing old and stressed. John just huffed and snapped the reins again, trying to avoid Abigail’s disapproving glare.
“Yeah, God forbid, Arthur, you’re loud as a damn cow back there! I’m sick of you snorin’ while I haul your sorry ass back home.”
“You offered the ride, John, that ain’t my fault,” Arthur responded flippantly.
“You know what? I should make you walk home if that’s how you’re gonna be.”
Abigail groaned at their spat. “Oh, be nice, John!”
“What? He’s gettin’ to be just as bad as Uncle!”
Arthur let out a short, loud laugh. “Oh, sure. Next thing y’know, I got terminal lumbago.”
“Or Lupus,” John added.
“Or maybe compulsive lyin’ to add to this ol’ cough, huh?”
“Arthur Morgan, if you become even half of the kinda old coot Uncle is, consider yourself barred from entering my house.” Abigail grumbled, glancing back at the passenger. John and Arthur both snickered. John shook his head and turned the wagon down a thinner road, east of Aurora Basin. He looked back at Arthur one more time.
“Alright, old coot, let’s get you home.”
— — —
Arthur stretched as he entered his cabin, joints cracking as he threw his jacket onto the coat hook next to the door. The smell of firewood and leather and drying herbs hit his nose — a familiar smell, now associated with the home he never thought he’d have.
It had been a few years since the dissolving of the gang. After Sadie found Arthur, and he had recovered slightly more, she found herself helping him buy a home.
“Home” may have been an exaggeration, at the start. Just west of the river, she’d found some beaten up cabin for sale, barely able to hold its own roof. Arthur had kept that gold bar he was given by the German family he helped — a fond memory, it seemed, for him and Charles. The last new beginning for the gang before it all fell apart. The bar was worth just enough to buy that little plot of land in the trees.
It took months to fix it up right. Sadie stayed and helped, but Arthur’s condition continued to pose major problems in the exhaustion department. Before long, though, between Sadie Adler and the few good Samaritans who had passed by and offered help, Arthur was finally, for the first time, able to rest.
Only weeks later, Charles had shown up at the door, and Arthur can’t remember a day that had gone by without him since. He had returned from the depths of the Grizzlies, battered and tired, apologies all too ready on his tongue as he settled in. Arthur had no qualms. Sadie had left, and he had not yet finished recovering; far from it; which left the house in a permanent state of minor disarray.
It was quiet improvement. The two spoke of the happenings in each other’s absence, laughing and crying over meals. Charles built a coop for hens to the side of the house — Arthur usually cared for their horses, Taima now old and graying. Arthur’s cough, slowly but surely, became less rattling and terrifying, the cool air of the forest allowing him some respite from his illness. Every time he began to wheeze, Charles stood by, a hand supporting his back every time.
the pains of their past never faded, but the grew around it. They grew around each other. For years, they had connected through that alone.
They’d never given their love a name, never recognized it with words. But as Arthur thought, the warmth of his life and his love for the past few years sinking deep into his bones, it seemed that time blended the moments they spent together.
How long had it been, since he’d last slept alone in his bed? With Charles tucking himself right beside him the moment a cough was heard, presence made known by a gentle hand on his back or being guided into a loose embrace. Would he notice the absence, if Charles ever stopped, defined by that piercing cold of night Arthur had since become so sensitive to without the warmth of another beside him?
How long had it been, since he’d last woken up without the smell of coffee being brewed by their little fireplace, and how much longer had he been thanking Charles for it by hugging him from the side and tucking his chin to the man’s shoulder, lingering long enough for Charles to always push him away with a laugh and a smile?
They were both men with high, strong walls built around their hearts. Neither ever really caved to the temptation of affection, save for Arthur’s love of Mary and Eliza, once upon a time, that still lingered in bittersweet memories and the occasional tear.
For years, however, those fortress walls had begun to chip away under the weight of something unspoken. The weight of making dinner for one another without being asked, of Arthur sneaking Taima and Falmouth peppermints and sugar cubes to Charles’ eternal chagrin. The weight of a pencil in Arthur’s hand as he secretly penned his companion’s portrait into his journal; a journal that, after his old one had been filled to the brim with memories fond and awful alike, Charles bound and tied just for him.
He could not forget or ignore the confessions he’d given in the walls of their home — about the O’Driscolls, Eliza, that grisly cabin in Lakay, Guarma, about things he’d lived through and would like to forget — things that had happened and, had he died on that mountainside in Ambarino, he certainly would’ve been damned for the moment he took his last breath. Words he had whispered to Charles in trust, and would have never admitted to otherwise. Nor could he bury the mottled shame that Arthur felt prick his heart whenever he looked at the other man and met his gaze, or when he took his hand and kept him in bed for far too long on especially cold and quiet mornings.
He couldn’t lie to himself any further. He was terribly, unavoidably sweet on Charles Smith.
— — —
“Charles, can we talk?”
The question came in the morning, as coffee was brewed above the fireplace. Charles glanced back at Arthur, giving him a nod.
“Always. What’s on your mind?”
Arthur paused for a moment, opening and closing his mouth before scratching the stubble on his chin.
“It’s, ah… I’ve got somethin’ I wanna say, but I don’t got the words quite yet, y’see.” He huffed. In each breath he took, a small buzz remained, even after all these years. “Y’know I ain’t exactly the sentimental type,” Arthur grumbled.
Charles smiled in response, turning back to the pot. “And I also know that you’re a dirty liar.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Aye, now that ain’t fair!”
Charles chuckled. “We can agree to disagree. But, really, what is it?”
Arthur sighed heavily, sinking into his armchair to hide from his embarrassment as he asked.
“I- I dunno, Charles. Guess I’m just wonderin’ why you’ve stuck around all this time.”
Something flashed across Charles’ face, although Arthur didn’t see it, as he leaned down to check their brew. Charles frowned and didn’t turn around.
“… You want the truth?”
Arthur blinked. “‘Course.”
“… Guess I’m just sweet on you.” Charles murmured. “Have been. Since Saint Denis.”
Arthur felt his heart swell, the blood rushing to his head making him dizzy.
“All-“ He swallowed back the dryness in his throat, “- All this time?”
Charles sighed, keeping his back turned as he crouched to grab a log. “Sadie… She’s known since we camped at Dewberry. She’s the only one who ever caught on. Guess it’s part of why I left for so long after.”
A silence fell over the little room, both of them feeling some mix of panic and shame, it seemed. They both remembered — once Arthur was on his feet again, Charles had disappeared northward for close to a year. Neither of them liked talking about it, about the avoidance and distance caused by Arthur’s sickness, once upon a time. Charles quickly poured them their coffee, turning to give Arthur his mug without looking him in the eye.
“I’ll go feed the horses.” He muttered, needing some excuse to escape. Before he got far enough, Arthur grabbed his wrist.
“Charles, hold on.”
Just a touch was enough to stop him in his tracks, despite how much his fear became apparent by the minute. Arthur set his cup of coffee down on a little side table before he stood up with a quiet grunt. He was met with Charles facing him, his eyes betraying his posture of confidence.
“I don’t…” No, Arthur. Wrong words. He glanced down at his hand on Charles’ wrist, moving it slowly to his hand, almost if to not scare him away.
“I’m not… I’m not good. At this. Mary knew that. Eliza too.” He felt something choke him, making him swallow back some hesitance as he continued. “But if you think that I wouldn’t- that I wouldn’t love you, after all this, I-“
Love. What a word.
“- Maybe you’re more fool than me.”
He laughed, half out of embarrassment and half out of shock that the words were actually coming out of him.
Arthur raised his hand, clasping it over Charles’ with his other before daring to look him in the eye.
“You came back, Charles. And you stayed. I don’t wanna dare askin’ for anything more from you. Y’know I’m not a good man, more than most, but you…”
“You are good, Arthur.” Charles muttered in return. Arthur just let his head fall a little, shaking it.
“… You gave me somethin’ to live for again, Charles. That ain’t a debt I can repay.”
Charles pulled his hand away, slowly, from Arthur’s grasp. For a moment, the outlaw mourned the loss of it — before the younger man tipped his face upwards, meeting his eyes with fingers cautiously cradling his cheek. Arthur Morgan, a man once wanted dead or alive, beheld as something delicate and pure in the hands of a lover. His lover. Charles looked at him with familiar brown eyes. What a comfort, Arthur thought. The same kind he had felt in the presence of that brown-eyed buck on the edge of heaven, the same kindness. Some force of love and care, a lull into solace. Charles Smith was the closest thing Arthur had ever seen to a real and true angel.
As the buzz in his lungs sounded in rhythm with the rapid beat of his heart, Arthur let Charles lean forward, placing a gentle, cautious kiss on his lips. He didn’t know exactly what he expected — but a bloom in his chest, once a dreaded pain, sent an addictive warmth through every corner of his body. It was light, wanting and taking his breath away despite the hesitance. His lips were chapped from the outdoors, coffee still bitterly brewed and fresh on his breath.
Charles broke away, placing another on his cheek, before moving his head to Arthur’s shoulder. Arms wrapped around him, nearly holding him upright as the two finally smiled in each other’s arms. Arthur ran a hand through the other’s hair, now regrown after his near decade of healing, not unlike Charles once had on that fateful night at Dewberry Creek.
“I know. I’m a fool.” Charles whispered.
And there they stayed. Two fools, with fingers interlocked, sipping their coffee, on the carpet by the fire that burned bright like the love they now shared.