Chapter Text
Shady Belle was quiet, aside from the accompaniment of nature's symphony decorating the camp in splendid tunes. The sun was setting over the Lemoyne marshes, and the camp was winding down for the evening. The previous day’s outing was an emotional (and physical for some) tax on everyone. The trees waved tremulously in the gentle breezes. The same breeze that made Arthur Morgan’s hair tickle his temples. He was resting at the campfire, drink in hand, amiably bantering with those such as Sean and Lenny as Javier strummed gently on his oak guitar to the comrades.
Arthur was having a fine night. It was nothing but calm. Jack was snuggling with Cain on an animal hide near the fire, as Abigail eyed Jack’s jacket tails to ensure the fire stayed where it was. He couldn’t help but notice something was missing. There was an air of insolidity that normally radiated from the large Indian man who would sit just off from the campfire, sharpening a knife or whittling. Charles.
Arthur let out a small grunt of thought. Nobody paid any mind. Charles was set to return from a hunt in the morning. He had gone out to the heartlands for some quiet, as well as to placate the insufferable Pearson’s complaints about their lack of provisions.
He repeated mantras to himself in his consciousness. Charles is going to be back in the morning. Possibly earlier if he was lucky. Lucky? What was Arthur talking about?
In the past months after Blackwater, Charles and Arthur had participated in more friendly activities together. Hunting, going into town, the works. Arthur had never had a distaste for the man in the first place. Far from it. The soft, masculine man was a sight for sore eyes to Arthur. He often found himself staring a little too long. Though he prayed that Charles never noticed, he always did. He let him stare.
In the mountains, Charles had graciously offered to teach Arthur to hunt proficiently using a bow. A bumbling mess of a hunter, Charles quickly whipped him into shape. It’s easy to learn when you have a good teacher. On these winter camping excursions, Arthur would watch as the man’s hands gracefully and intimately strung an arrow, attention fixated on a nearby doe. Such attributes were not fitting of a man of Charles’s size and age. Delicate.
After Morgan had snapped out of his daydreams back at Shady Belle, his reminiscing turned to worry. Charles had been gone for the better part of 4 days. Not unusual. Still, Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that it would be beneficial to search for him tomorrow, in the event that something did happen to him. He scratched his beard, which he noted was getting slightly too long for his taste. If Dutch had instilled one thing in him, it was a slight sense of vanity. Not enough to fret, but just enough to care. Arthur announced to the small campfire group that he was retiring to bed, with well wishes from the lot of them.
——
The morning rolled around quickly. His cot felt empty and cold in the misty sunrise that transcended the walls, as the house was practically in ruins. He wished he could’ve had someone to wake up next to. He would’ve asked Dutch or Hosea last night, but wasn’t thinking properly on account of the drinks, and felt that they needed some alone time after the mess of the past few days. Dutch was miserable. Arthur stretched, pulled off his union suit, and dressed in some nice work pants, adorned with a subtle grid pattern that hinted at intellectualism, or so the Saint Denis tailor had theorized. He didn’t listen to much that man had to say, anyway. After finishing buttoning his white shirt and purple vest, he stretched once more before slipping on his boots and ammo sashes. Arthur’s face felt still, somehow. His thinking was rigid. He didn’t want to acknowledge it, but he feared that laying sight upon Charles’ soft features and warm eyes would ease that tension. Last night, he intended to shave. And that he did. Nothing drastic, but enough to feel refreshed. Not so scraggly. After running his hands through his hair, which reached just above his shoulders, he firmly placed his gambler's hat atop his head and began the day.
Breakfast was a blend of the usual slop that Pearson concocted, which Arthur reluctantly consumed.. Arthur had a cup of coffee before tracking down Hosea and Dutch to tell them where he was going. Tracking suggests that it took effort. He concurred that the two were most likely still in bed. Hosea had for sure gotten up to pee, get dressed, eat, the works, but had ended up retreating back to their room to cradle his lover. Saying the word lover in his head jolted him slightly as he tromped back up the rickety steps of Shady Belle. It felt odd to Arthur. He wanted that. Once he had reached the couple’s room, he knocked once before entering. Not that the dilapidated walls provided much privacy. He heard an approving mumble from Hosea after quietly calling out who it was at the door.
The two lie there, near motionless, aside from the consistent undulations of their chests moving up and down. They didn’t quite sync up. It was comforting. It brought him back to the Old Guard days. Just him and his dads. As he approached the bed, careful not to entirely disturb their peace more than he already was, one of Hosea’s eyes flickered open, though his arms remained embracing Dutch from behind.
“I’m going out to find Charles. He’s been gone a little too long. I’ve also gotta stop in town for some bits and bobs. Be back in a few days at most.”
“Be safe, Arthur,” Hosea responded softly, in his usual light and slightly nasal voice, now gritted by sleep.
Arthur quietly stepped out, a small smile twinging the sides of his lips as he looked back at his fathers.
On the outskirts of camp, Arthur found Kieran brushing his shire. “Bodicea is temperamental today, mister Morgan” Kieran rattles, explaining how the horse had swatted him in the face with her tail multiple times, shat on his boots, and knocked him into the water trough with her neck. Arthur stifled a laugh at the horse girl of a man’s recounts of the morning, though he clearly had other things visible on his visage.
“Thank you, O’Drisco- Kieran. Kieran.” He had been working on the aforementioned habit. Arthur nodded towards Kieran as a wordless goodbye and mounted his black mare, trotting out of camp.
Out on the trail, Arthur appreciated the quiet. He was off to the location Charles suggested he would camp. Arthur let the vibrations of his raven-black mare’s footsteps resonate deep into his flesh. It was grounding. Elegant, yet powerful. It reminded him of Charles, though he wouldn’t admit it. He was merely off to affirm the safety of his friend. Not indulge in tantalizing fantasies of Charles, shrouded by the air of a comfortable silence. Because that’s all he was: a friend. He let this distracting mindset get the best of him, as Arthur was not watching where he was going. He veered off the path, with Bodicea seeming irritated but obedient. She ended up skidding to a rapid halt with a fallen log in front of her, which woke Arthur right up from his rationalizations. He cooed at his horse, slipping her a sweaty peppermint for not tripping and sending him crashing into the ground. It’s not like it hadn’t happened before.
He arrived in Rhodes not an hour later and promptly purchased some supplies. Some snacks for the road, an Apple for Boadicea, some pain killers if something went wrong, and a few other necessities. After he was done shopping, he quickly departed, heading west in hopes of finding Charles.
As he rode west, his thoughts began to spiral. Horror stories. What if he came across his camp and he was shot dead? Or trampled by the bison he was hunting? What if he- Arthur, noticed he was breathing rapidly. These thoughts were delusional. Charles was fine. He could take care of himself.
The sky darkened with each mile. Clouds gracefully danced above, obscuring the moon, just to move minutes later and allow the beams to caress Arthur and his horse. Surely Charles would be at his camp this late at night. After all, it had been an extra day since he was supposed to return. Arthur noted smoke in the distance and began galloping towards it. He had no idea what had suddenly compelled him to act this way. Nevertheless, he was.
Arthur rode up onto a grassy limestone shelf and was greeted with a small tent, Charles’ horse, Taima, and the man himself. Immediately, they locked eyes. A wave of relief washed over Arthur.
“Arthur,” Charles huffed, though it seemed strained. “What are you doing out here?”
Arthur shifted uncomfortably on his horse before dismounting and walking over to Charles.
“You’d been gone for longer than expected. I know you well enough to know that you’re a prompt man. I got worried.”
Charles sighed, but a small smile crept onto the sides of his lips.
“I suppose.”
Arthur sat down beside him. Not too close. Didn’t want to make it awkward, though he was tempted.
“Catch anything?” Arthur asked as he popped the top off a beer bottle with his knife.
Charles shifted, his weight rocking the log he was on. His actions felt uneasy and stiff.
“Nothing but a con man. Approached me, asking for spare change, then whipped out a gun and shot me in the leg. Tried to steal my horse. I’d pulled over, too.”
Arthur grunted a sympathetic noise while masking the concern that filled his entire body, making the back of his head feel warm.
“You’re a good man, Charles. Have y’dressed it yet? The wound.” Arthur motioned towards Charles’s lower half with his bottle. Charles had become less tense since Arthur rode up. Sprawled out more. Though clearly in pain, he had let his muscles become at ease. Arthur noticed this. Felt good to have another man truly trust him. Even if he hadn’t said it out loud.
“No. I was going to ride back in the morning. Have Grimshaw do it. It’ll probably become infected by that time, though. I was reeling.” Charles spoke softly, but confidently. He began unwrapping the wound. Charles had taken a clean shirt and tied it over his pants to stop the bleeding. This seemed odd to Arthur. Normally, Charles was very proactive in this sense. The shirt was stiff with dried blood on the outer layers, but the layers closer to the wound were still moist with a brighter red. Arthur eyed the wound carefully.
A warped, round lesion was presented to Arthur through the hole in Charles’ pants, on his upper haunches.
“Jesus! You kill the man?”
“No,” Charles states, wincing in pain at the with his fresh wound, “Taima got me outta there real quick.”
“Mm. No sense lettin’ that thing rot in there. Let me see.”
Arthur stood up to help Charles with his wound, and Charles looked away, trying to reject his assistance.
“It’ll be fine until we get back to camp.”
“If by fine, you mean I’ll have to carry you back with one leg, then sure. It’s a few days' ride back, let me help.”
Charles sighed in defeat and let Arthur come close. Arthur fumbled with his knife, but began cutting Charles's pant leg off so that he could have a clear view of the injury. Charles watched intently, listening to Arthur’s ragged breathing paired with the quiet tear of the fabric. Arthur discarded the bloodied fabric into the fire as he was met with a hole larger than he had previously thought. He muttered something discontented. It was bad. The wound had begun bleeding again from the tampering with the area.
Arthur sighed with a hushed concern he hoped only he could feel.
“This hurt?” Arthur questioned as he applied pressure to Charles' thigh.
Charles seethed through his teeth at the discomfort, though he mumbled a “no.” He felt weird. Arthur hadn’t come this close before. He hadn’t expressed the compassion or concern he felt before. Arthur looked up to find Charles gazing at him with his usual unreadable complexion. His soft brows furrowed. Their eyes met with an unusual intensity. Arthur was still pressing the wound. Charles looked away just as the scruffy man in front of him was doused in a cherry pink that infiltrated the skin on his cheekbones. This was ridiculous. He was simply playing doctor.
After the wound had stopped gushing, Arthur wiped his bloodied hands on his pants. He stood up, eyes still on Charles, though the large man was deep in Arthur’s eyes. Searching. Arthur didn’t know what for, but he didn’t comment; he wasn't bothered. He took a pot from Taima’s saddle and filled it with his canteen water. He then set to boiling the water.
While it began to bubble over the fire, Arthur dug through his satchel. He supposed it was a lucky coincidence he picked up those pain killers before the trip as given what he was about to put Charles through.
Charles took them gratefully, eyes set on Arthur. The man was coated in Charles’ blood, yet he seemed unbothered. Calmed, with a mild sense of worry.
Arthur took a clean cloth from his bag and poured whiskey on it to sanitize the wound. He began dabbing the affected area with the alcohol before handing the rest to Charles to drink.
“I gotta cauterize it, Charles. You gon’ be okay?”
“Yes.”
Arthur stood, beginning to heat his hunting knife in the flames while Charles sat a few feet away, preparing. Once the knife was a warm ombre of black, yellows, blues, and oranges from the fire, Arthur carefully plopped down next to Charles, who was leaning against the log.
“This is gonna hurt like hell.”
“Get it over with, Arthur,” Charles responded, though his words were not tainted with a negative disposition towards Arthur. Arthur nodded and wordlessly handed Charles a roll of cloth to bite on during the procedure, to muffle the screaming.
Arthur steadily pressed the knife to Charles’ wound, gripping his shoulder as Charles let out a blundering scream. The smell of the man’s burning flesh filled Arthur’s nostrils. He couldn’t stand being the one to cause Charles this pain. Every squirm or groan that escaped Charles caused him to cringe with guilt. He applied the knife to the wound once more as a drop of Charles’s sweat rolled from his forehead to his lip before landing on his own blue shirt.
“Yer gonna be okay, Charles.”
He spoke softly and tenderly, almost as he would to his horse. Charles was panting aggressively. The dark man removed the cloth to take another swig of the whiskey.
“Thank you, Arthur.”
“I’m not done yet,” Arthur chuckled, relieved Charles was responding. Arthur took out his needle and thread and began sewing Charles up. The small metal rod penetrating Charles' skin was nothing compared to the previous procedure. Charles leaned back, scooting closer to the fire and allowing his head to rest on the log as he raised his leg, allowing Arthur to tightly wrap it. Arthur’s fingers grazed Charles' thick leg. It felt intimate. It was just a friend helping another friend with an injury, or at least that’s what Arthur told himself. Charles had closed his eyes and rested his leg back down once the bandage had been tied. His arms were behind his head. He was obviously distressed and in pain, but he was making his best effort to relax. Arthur was here; everything was going to be okay.
“I appreciate it,” Charles said, his voice low and steady. Arthur had thought he was sleeping.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Come here,” Charles reached down from behind his head and patted the ground beside him, encouraging Arthur to sit by him, close to him. Arthur had been sitting upright by the fire, having another drink. Arthur didn't need convincing to sit near him. Charles reached his arm around Arthur and smiled, head still aimed towards the sky, against the log. Arthur leaned back, his carotid against Charles’s large arms. It was quiet and calm. Words could’ve been said. Arthur set his bottle down next to him and began to drift off. Charles noticed, looked a little.
Arthur took a hand from his stomach and placed it palm up on Charles' stomach. Charles looked away, clearly bashful at the man’s movement. His leg ached. Frankly, he doubted he could walk at this very moment. Come morning, he should be fine. Charles reached over for a blanket draped over the log and covered both of them.
“Good night, Arthur.”