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arthur has been woken in the middle of the night one too many times, and never once has it been for a good reason. most of the times he’s jolted awake in the night to the far off sound of gunshots and the reeking stench of gunpowder, others it’s the photographic memories of things he’d rather not have photographic memories of, rarely it’s mother nature calling to waken him up for a particularly long piss.
but it’s never been to the gentle, wobbly sounds of your baby snuffling and sobbing in the other room.
and you’ve started ignoring it, you suppose — not willingly, of course. but your body has. countless nights of attempting to sleep through endless temper tantrums and hysterical bawling fits, you’ve found that you often don’t waken until the screaming and wailing ensues, growing tough skin to the sputtery coughs and pitchy hiccups. sure, it’s probably not the safest of tolerances to build, especially not in terms of you bunking with a gang that you’re still less than familiar with, but it’s not exactly something you can manually undo.
however, thanks to his all-too-regular jumpy starts, arthur is your polar opposite. his eyes flicker open at the simplest creak of an olden floorboard, the lightest rustle of a bush outside the open window, whilst you remain with your head nestled into the pillows, sleeping like a log on the cramped mattress next to where he rests his head. and you need the rest, god and arthur know you do. and he can’t go back to sleep knowing that your little one’s wriggling about in her cot with watery eyes like saucers and pinked, chubby cheeks.
and so, he did what any rational person’d do. although he isn’t quite sure he’s doing it… right.
for starters, he had no idea how to hold a baby, but your girl wasn’t too fussy about being dragged into the cozy disaster of your sheets like a sack of potatoes in arthur’s embrace. and when he had slipped back into bed beside your exhausted frame, shushing the soft cooes of your agitated offspring and soothing back the thin locks atop her head that resembled yours to a tee, arthur had meekly offered the babbling critter an oatcake to try and soothe any potential hunger. he felt a little humiliated when he realized all she had were gums, put that to rest quick.
but in all honesty, it’s easy. real damn easy to feel sympathy for your little one and to want to rid the big tears on her little waterlines, but easy to… y’know. it comes as a natural to him, a second nature. he had never thought himself to be a father, never thought he’d have a paternal bone in his body. he was never fond of kids, of their snotty noses and croaky coughs and germs and bodily fluids, and he especially wasn’t fond after… after…
“shh, shh, atta girl,” arthur mumbles, grogginess apparent in his rumbly tone as he cradles the tot close to his broad chest, bouncing her ever so lightly, their difference in size looking frankly ridiculous in retrospect. regardless of reputation, it’s jarring to witness such a burly man be deduced to a gentle, cuddly, giant. but your little girl brings out that side of him easy, her trusting self clinging to him like a koala to a tree, sniffing against his sleep shirt and making the sweetest, stupidest sounds as she comes back to herself. “that’s it, i gotcha. no more tears, hm?”
he reaches up, a big hand dwarfing her puffed out cheeks, but before he touches them he draws back, a second thought rushing through his otherwise asleep brain. the outlaw’s hand reaches for the vanity beside your shared bed, picking up a handkerchief that smells faintly of that floral perfume you drown yourself in every morning, and dabbles at those doting, tearful eyes and the flushed flesh beneath them. the softness of the thin fabric far more soothing than the cruel sandpaper of arthur’s palms ever could be. “there we go, all cleaned up now. ‘s it, yeah? no more.”
she barely leans back to allow arthur to clean his face, and when she does, her face is immediately launched back into the fabric of his shirt, nestling close and nuzzling into the sanctity that his towering self brings with a sharp hiccup and a cut off whimper. she’s been hiccuping ever since arthur’d plucked her from her cot of strewn pillows and disorganized sheets, even more so since she’s been able to catch her breath. and slowly but surely, each and every one of them has been trailing you ever so gradually into consciousness, your eyes flickering open at what must be her fiftieth one.
laying on your back, all you have to do is tip your head to the side the slightly centimeter to see the abnormal sight of arthur cradling your little girl, lips light to the top of her head as he rumbles sweet, loving things, sheets rustling just the slightest as he bounces her in his lap, his movements controlled and words rehearsed as he comforts her just like a father would. and there’s part of your brain that wants to reach out, embarrassed and upstaged, and apologize profusely for her being arthur’s burden — for not wakening, for not rushing to her aid, for seeming like a horrible mother.
but thankfully, that part of your brain is not awake. your brain is barely awake enough to command your slackened lips up into a little, content grin before your eyes slip shut and the delightful mindlessless that is sleep calls your name.
and though you haven’t quite drifted off, the feeling of sandpaper on your cheek, cradling it, makes the sleep come to you that much easier.